The London Restoration

by Rachel McMillan

  Diana knew Brent didn’t expect that role of her. Yet she couldn’t imagine lowering her nose to the crease of a textbook and many late nights with too many pots of tea formulating a new thesis. It was what Brent wanted for her. It was what she should have wanted too.

  Especially because her life needed fulfillment beyond Simon’s perplexing puzzles.

  Alone in the apartment, Diana was riddled by the absence of sound: of telephones and telegrams, of typing fingers and a rickety radiator. There was the occasional lorry rumbling outside the window with a loose tailgate and often the sound of hammers restoring the shingles and rooftops on the nearby houses that hadn’t been spared as hers had.

  Mostly, she was aware of the absence of music. She turned the knob on the wireless until a BBC program filled the flat with Fisher’s music. She closed her eyes and imagined Fisher sitting across from her.

  Diana perused the bookshelves absently. So many of Brent’s long treatises on theology, a Greek and Hebrew dictionary. One of her favorite letters from Brent’s time at the Oxfordshire Barracks explained ludus to her, playful love, another Greek form of the word. In it, amidst sketches of churches and houses and a family of bunnies with a burrow near camp, he had listed some of the things he planned to do with her when he got home, worthy of the word. Taking her to a carnival and to Cambridge to row on the rambling river near his uncle’s parsonage. Chaplin movies and tea and ridiculously fancy cakes at a tea emporium off of Leicester Square.

  Diana ran her finger over the spines of the books on the shelf and stopped at the Ditchfield, then pulled it from the shelf. It was the book she had taken to Bletchley, tucking sketches and Brent’s letters inside. It was the book she had taken into the Tube shelter on her wedding night.

  She returned to the dining table and opened it. She smiled at the inscription in her father’s handwriting. She brushed her palm over the worn edges and the endpaper of the cover. She flipped through the pages. Stopped on Poet’s Corner and blushed as she remembered how she suggested naming her children from the gravestones in Westminster Abbey. A home. Children.

  Diana set it aside in favor of an open notebook where she smoothed a fresh sheet. She listed all of the churches she and Brent had visited since her return. The churches that sewed up the course of her history. It was almost coincidental the way the churches she’d visited in hopes of helping Simon were notches and marks in the line of her life with Brent. Coincidental, maybe.

  Most of the churches they visited were blessed by music or featured music. Maybe the promise was tied to music.

  If Fisher saw churches only as buildings—as vessels for the music he loved . . . for Mozart—then perhaps that was a starting point.

  Fisher. Diana always supposed he was superior to her. Inasmuch as she asked him for help. Inasmuch as she turned to him, assuming that everything he decoded or scribbled was truth. What if she gave him too much credit? They did the same job. They were, for all intents and purposes, equal in their work.

  Maybe Fisher was just trying to do the best he could in a confusing situation. Silas said the war would be won by those who saw the world in a different way. Maybe Simon’s war would be won by those who saw the world the same way.

  Chapter 21

  Many would say considering his experience that little could surprise Brent. Keeping his wife’s hairpin in his breast pocket in hopes of breaking and entering a colleague’s office at King’s, however, was a new experience.

  The days at King’s blurred one into the next, often denoted only by the variance of his worry. He worried about Diana in a new way now that she had joined him at home, knowing what was expected of her given her association with Simon. Previously, it was the worry about where she was while he was back in his office and she honoring a promise. A friend. A favor.

  Brent rubbed at the back of his neck, sore from another night on the sofa. Tired from another lecture where he couldn’t shake the feeling he had slipped from conviction into recitation.

  He was more social than usual too. Brent was never anti-social so much as he preferred escaping the small talk in hopes of finding a quiet nook with his sketch pad. But now he had far more than academic integrity in common with professors of various subjects. He had the war. It gave them all a conversational starting point. He spent his lunch hours in the cafeteria and his tea breaks in the lounge. He listened to theologies and philosophies and the perspective of men in fields completely different from his own in hopes of finding a similar rhetoric to that of Rick’s pamphlets.

  Most men were unified by service. But nothing he had heard or interpreted as a possible lead compared to Mariner’s obvious association. If Rick wasn’t about to open up, Brent would pick a lock and shove open the door.

  Perhaps this would be the most important contribution since Brent’s return. For try as he might, he couldn’t recognize the Brent Somerville once renowned as being young and bright and a rising star to watch. He began writing abstracts for possible books and lectures with even the possibility of guest appointments, but he’d lost his ability to judge whether his output was any good.

  Now he was a man not an hour from breaking into a colleague’s office. Mariner had been spending far more time at the college than usual. While Brent had always enjoyed late-night sessions if it meant a clean slate to begin fresh work the next day, Rick’s tenure and his father’s monetary contribution allowed him to keep more casual hours. Brent banked on the latter for stretching out the hairpin and turning the lock.

  To make it worse, he had long given up feeling like a heel for preferring cafeteria food to Diana’s cooking. And while it was standard fare and a little bland, it hadn’t been scorched. They always doled out extra portions to him on account of his clean-cut looks.

  He had just tossed an apple core in the bin next to his desk when student Sam Hunt appeared at his doorway. He waited while Brent looked over some initial notes.

  “Well, your research is exceptional.” Brent held the paper at arm’s length. “And surprisingly familiar.” He narrowed in on a reference. “Hunt, I’m not going to be on the committee approving your graduate thesis; you don’t need to cite me.”

  “I read your doctoral thesis. From Cambridge. And most of your articles.”

  “That seems like a thousand years ago. As old as Paul.”

  “I’d never read anything about that verse on submission before. It was the only source that worked here.” Sam pointed to a subsequent paragraph on the paper in which Brent interpreted Ephesians 5:22.

  “It’s quite dull of women just to submit to men all of the time, isn’t it? Moreover, I don’t think it’s what St. Paul was trying to say.” Brent smiled. “My wife’s indubitably smarter than I am and Paul proceeds to say that husbands should love their wives as Christ loves His church, which is a submission of absolutely everything and all besides.” Brent cocked his head to the side and studied Sam. “If you have a sweetheart who is scripturally inclined—”

  “A fiancée.”

  “Just make sure you actually live it. I was a world-class idiot about it with my wife, but you seem sincere enough.”

  “Can I ask you something that has nothing to do with my thesis?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “When you saw your wife again, was it the same?”

  Brent cleared his throat and shifted, playing with a button on his vest. He used to revel in the appearance of students at his office door. It spoke to their investment and their dedication. It often resulted in the most interesting conversations. Yet now? He was a stranger behind a lectern and now sat across the desk from an eager young man as changed as he.

  Finally, Brent said, “Are any of us the same, Hunt? Are you the same?”

  The young man had a walking stick—of course he was not. A weary knowledge was invisibly stamped on the countenances of all those who had served. Brent had immediately recognized it the moment he met Sam in class.

  “No. But I thought with her being here I would return to something fa
miliar.”

  “But your fiancée was here amidst all of the bombs and the poverty, hearing the worst on the wireless every day. Worrying about you every moment. You might not even hear the whole of her story.” Brent heard himself and stopped. “All the nightmares you have. All you’ve seen. She can’t experience that, but I’ll bet she would have imagined.”

  When Sam spoke again, Brent was so lost it took the student’s second mention of his name for Brent to look up. “So, if I have a preliminary draft for you by Monday, then? Just a prospective?”

  “Hmm? Yes, oh, that’s fine. Monday’s perfect.”

  Brent tucked his papers into his satchel and retrieved Diana’s hairpin from his pocket. Part of him that still reveled in the adventure comics he had read tucked into his uncle’s attic as a boy relished the thought of breaking into an office. Part of him wondered why he still held on to a job and a world that were so clearly behind him.

  The sound of his shoes on the corridor’s waxed and polished floor echoed in exclamation of no other occupant in his familiar space.

  Brent took the halls at a slow pace. He approached Mariner’s closed door slowly. Then he stretched out the wire of Diana’s hairpin into a straight line, slid it into the keyhole, and turned. Every click ricocheted through him until the lock gave way and the door budged with the press of his palm. Feeling a surge of pride, Brent stood back with a smile. He was better at this than he thought.

  There amidst the showy display of artifacts, certificates, and even an honorary degree from a university Brent hadn’t heard of before were pictures of Rick in full Phrygian cap and regalia posing with students, posing by himself. Brent chuckled. This man gnawed at him. There on the shelf was the portrait of St. Boniface, the saint carrying a staff that bore an infinity cross. Its religious meaning signaled the everlasting love of God. Its appearance in atheist Rick’s office would have been ironic if Brent didn’t know Simon looked at it as a calling card. A symbol linking sympathizers. The painting must have been what drew Diana’s attention that first day.

  Brent was careful with the history around him. Fascinated by it. Moving carefully among it.

  There were only the night cleaners around, so he had no qualms about turning on the light. They wouldn’t be able to tell which professor was which. He approached the shelf by the window where Rick had first held oleum medicina up to the light, feeling prickles over his neck and down his spine. The feeling of premonition cultivated during the war spread through him, and he froze at the sound of footsteps behind him. Too slow and intentional. Brent slowly looked over his shoulder.

  Not the cleaning staff or even an irate Rick.

  He didn’t prepare for the figure to be so quick on the draw until he was pulled into a headlock, a tight metallic cord cutting deeply into his neck. He straightened and strained. He kicked and shuffled.

  The wire cut into his neck and spots blurred in front of his eyes. Brent heaved a few panicked breaths. Suffocating, he coughed, swearing he could feel the dirt and debris of the battlefield all over again.

  Brent had something to go home to. He had her to go home to.

  He squeezed the assailant’s wrists. The man yelped behind him and Brent tightened his grip until their roles were reversed. He got the upper hand and turned to face a medium-sized, nondescript man, features twisted in pain from Brent’s force.

  Brent gave the last surge of strength in him and shoved the man into Rick’s desk, upsetting several papers and a few paperweights.

  Providentially, Rick barged in. “Stop that! Desist!” The man sagged away from Brent and dropped the wire. “What is this all about? Somerville!”

  The man swerved to Rick and wheezed, “Richard. Who is this?”

  “Brent Somerville. He teaches theology. He is not part of any of this.”

  The man took him in as if for the first time. Staring at him long and hard. Brent felt the intensity of his eyes, as cutting as the wire. The man fell back, eyes still locked on Brent.

  Brent gulped a few breaths and tugged at his collar. He didn’t imagine the flicker of recognition and the puzzle on the man’s face.

  The man turned to Rick, rubbing at the wrists Brent had squeezed.

  “I don’t fancy men half strangling faculty members. Kindly leave my office.”

  “Richard . . . we agreed.”

  “Kindly leave. Now.”

  Brent blinked in surprise. “W-we should call the police.” He heaved a breath. “You know that man?”

  Rick extended his hand to help Brent from where he was half bent over. Brent gripped it and straightened.

  “What are you doing here? Did you break into my office? Pathetic, Somerville. I know you hate me—”

  “I don’t hate you.”

  Rick raised a shoulder. “If we call the police, it would be to report you. I was supposed to be meeting with that man tonight. He didn’t break into my office. How did you . . . ?”

  Brent showed him the hairpin.

  “Oh. Someone didn’t miss their Boys’ Own Adventure Stories.”

  “I wanted m-more information about that relic.” Brent sputtered the first lie that came to his mind. “For Diana’s church consultations.”

  “Still on that?” Rick’s furtive glance toward the desk drawer gave away the vial’s location like the Sherlock Holmes story where a false cry of fire had a woman looking toward the thing most valuable to her. At the sense of danger or intrusion, even Rick Mariner couldn’t keep a poker face.

  “Thank you,” Brent said sincerely after a moment, feeling at the garrote line on his neck. He slumped against the desk. “But I still am not going to leave my wife to you in my will.” He flexed his fingers.

  “You held your own. You’re stronger than I would’ve thought.”

  “Years of rowing. Hoisting people over battlefields.”

  “Makes me want to avoid a row with you.”

  Brent cracked a smile he didn’t feel. This was what Diana had felt when he almost broke her wrists with his grip. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment until a wave of dizziness passed.

  “About that man, Somerville. He’s an old friend. He has some interesting philosophical ideas. We were supposed to be talking about—”

  “Oleum medicina. Are you a Communist, Mariner?”

  “I don’t have time for politics.”

  “I found Soviet propaganda in your library and a man just tried to strangle me. Someone who is a notable member of Soviet sympathizers. No, don’t ask me how I know that. I just do. Something is happening. You had that pamphlet in your home library. The St. Boniface painting when the last person in the world who cares about a saint is you. There is a man called Eternity . . .”

  “What are you then, Brent? A spy?”

  “I’m a ginger-haired professor of theology and you never let me forget it.” Brent hoped his flippancy distracted Rick.

  “Well, I was hoping the man could help me with a few transactions.”

  “What sort of transactions?”

  “I like antiquities, as you know.” Rick stared at Brent intently. “He was always trying to get me involved. In his life. In his ideologies. I’m the first to say that they’ve intensified since the time we were graduate students.” Mariner stretched out his arms. “But you don’t need any of that, do you? You’re settled.”

  “Settled? What does settled have to do with anything?”

  “I had a plan, Somerville. To make my father proud. Family. Heir. The whole lot.”

  “You can’t possibly think that—You’re talking about Diana, aren’t you? What does she have to do with your association with a Communist sympathizer?”

  “I’m used to getting what I want. Planning it in a straight line. And I didn’t get the girl. I didn’t go to war. I needed something to do.”

  Brent chuckled. It hurt. “I did get the girl, you’re right. But she’s not a girl, Rick. Diana is a woman. A strong and capable woman.”

  “Because I didn’t fight when you did. And I shou
ld have.”

  “Now is not the time. As you said, I was half strangled.”

  “My entire life might have been different, you know? You meet a girl like that . . .”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Rick. You did just save my life so I’ll humor you. I didn’t steal her from you because I didn’t know she was yours. I simply sat down in a churchyard.” Brent rolled his shoulders. “Love and lust are two different things, and you don’t love her.” Brent nodded toward the painting of St. Boniface. “You love relics and history.”

  “And Diana.”

  “I can’t help you there,” Brent said quietly. “But as much as you annoy me, I don’t want you to get caught up in all of this. That man is dangerous. He’s killed men, Mariner. I know you don’t like me, but trust me. Find somewhere else to get your fancy artifacts.”

  Rick nudged at his disrupted carpet with the toe of his shoe. “I should rat you out to the dean for breaking into my office.”

  “You should. But now you know I have a very good grip.”

  * * *

  An unfamiliar sleek black car was parked across the road from the Clerkenwell flat when Brent approached. Seeing Simon Barre step out of it, he startled and closed the remaining distance with a quick stride. “What are you doing here? Is Diana alright? She said she was staying in.”

  He studied Brent under a streetlight, then narrowed his eye on his open collar. “You look a little worse for wear.”

  “I was attacked tonight. By a stranger trying to garrote me.”

  “Blast!” Simon exclaimed. It was the first moment of genuine emotion Brent had seen in the man. “Are you alright?”

  “I’ll live. I’d rather not make a larger deal of it to Diana than necessary, if you don’t mind.”