It was thus a rather disagreeable surprise suddenly to hear his voice immediately behind me, braying about the bottom line or the interface or something of that sort. Fearing that he might add me to his audience, I was careful not to turn my head. He was interrupted by an attractive baritone voice saying, “But Bursar, if you knew anything about economics—”
“As it happens,” said the Bursar, with an unspontaneous laugh which failed, or perhaps was not intended, to conceal the degree of offense taken, “I am the senior Economics Fellow of this College.”
“Yes, I know,” said the baritone voice cheerfully. “But that only explains why the students here don’t know anything about economics.”
Unable to resist observing the Bursar’s response to this, I risked a backward glance. I saw to my astonishment that the other party to the conversation was Geoffrey Bolton. Though admittedly I had seen him only once before, I did not think it possible that I could be mistaken; but what was he doing in the Library of St. George’s? And why had I heard no trace in his voice of the North Country accent on which all accounts of him had commented? The Scholar in pursuit of knowledge will make almost any sacrifice: with scarcely a moment’s hesitation I turned and greeted the Bursar.
Though his response was less than cordial, he could not well avoid effecting an introduction. I had not been mistaken — the owner of the attractive voice was indeed Geoffrey Bolton. I was able, however, to exchange no more than a few words with him before the Bursar, whispering furiously, “That’s not one of yours, Hilary, that’s one of mine,” led me away, more or less by force, to meet yet another eminent lawyer.
Still, I supposed that I had ample time to contrive another and more fruitful encounter, especially since I saw shortly afterwards that Bolton was engaged in conversation with our Romance Languages Fellow, Felicity Dorset, an amusing and attractive woman whom I regarded as a friend and ally. I could not imagine that a man of taste and judgement, having secured a place at her side, would relinquish it in less than twenty minutes: nothing would be easier, once I was able to conclude my present conversation, than to cross the room and join them.
My feelings need not be described — they will be all too easily imagined — at seeing, a mere five minutes later, that Felicity was talking to someone else, having nothing whatever to do with my investigation, and that Geoffrey Bolton was in the doorway, unmistakably making his farewells to the Warden.
This development took me entirely unawares: it had not occurred to me that a man who had come so far for such an occasion would not stay to the end. To attempt to speak to him now would be worse than useless: a breathless pursuit across the quad would not be a convincing prelude to an apparently casual conversation.
Moreover, the eminent lawyer was telling me what turned out to be a rather long story about his most recent forensic triumph: to leave him before he reached the climactic line would be the gravest discourtesy. I listened with increasing impatience, unreasonably vexed with him for not being Geoffrey Bolton. To have had so unexpected and promising an opportunity and been unable to profit by it was almost beyond enduring.
Eventually, it occurred to me that all might not be lost: if Bolton had thought it proper to offer the Warden any explanation for his early departure, he would almost of necessity have mentioned where he meant to spend the rest of the evening. But had the Warden been listening? An astronomer by training, he tends to pay little attention to his immediate surroundings. And even if he had, how long would he remember what he had been told? I felt that I could wait no longer for the eminent lawyer’s story to reach its climax.
“Dear me,” I said, “the Warden seems to want me urgently for something — what a pity, I’m afraid I shall have to leave you.”
The Warden said that Bolton had intended to take the next train to London. It was possible, as I knew all too well, that he was thinking of someone else, or of some other occasion, or of some quite different universe. Resolutely dismissing these possibilities from my mind, I hastened forth in search of a taxi.
By the time the clerk in the booking office handed me my ticket, the London train was already at the platform. I had no opportunity, before boarding it, to ascertain whether Bolton was among my fellow passengers. I began to wonder, as it drew out of the station, whether I had not been a little overprecipitate.
I had conscientiously — and, as it now seemed to me, improvidently — returned my keys to Timothy’s flat. If he did not happen to be at home, or if he did not consider it his duty, at quite such short notice, to provide his former tutor with a bed, I would be obliged to return to Oxford that night — by a slow train, almost certainly with no buffet car. Moreover, if I failed to find Geoffrey Bolton, I should have squandered in vain the return fare from Oxford to London.
By fortunate accident, rather than by design, I had entered the train at the foremost carriage: I would thus, without retracing my steps, be able to walk the length of it in search of him. By the time I was halfway along, however, I was feeling a little discouraged. This was partly, no doubt, because I remembered that the Warden habitually used the expression “London” to denote anywhere that was not Oxford; but I thought it might also be due to lack of food. I decided to fortify myself, when I reached the buffet car, with a sandwich and a glass of wine.
And there at the counter, amiably scolding the barman for the prices, was the man I had been seeking. I prepared to remind him who I was, but found there was no need.
“Professor Tamar, how splendid — I’d no idea you were taking this train. I don’t know if you’ll remember me — I’m Geoffrey Bolton. We were introduced about an hour ago by that pompous idiot — oh dear, I’m sorry, is he a friend of yours? No, of course he isn’t — look, why don’t you find us a table while I see to the drinks? What are you having? No, no, nonsense, Professor Tamar, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
High-handedness in such generous guise could be neither resented nor resisted. Having told him what I would like, I withdrew to the adjoining carriage to find a table — not, in truth, an onerous task, since it was almost empty.
Soon afterwards he joined me, bearing a bottle of wine and two plastic glasses.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so long — the barman couldn’t find his corkscrew. And I’m afraid he’s run out of sandwiches.” He sat down on the seat facing me and carefully filled the two glasses. “By the way, I hope I’m not imposing myself on you?” He spoke, however, with the cheerful confidence of a man accustomed to being liked.
I could well imagine that his company would not often prove unwelcome. It was not precisely a question of looks: his features, though of a style usually attractive to women, had not the perfection of regularity which provokes the resentment of men; his complexion was rather pale, accentuating the blackness of hair and eyelashes; his eyes very bright, of the colour generally called hazel; his mouth rather narrow, turning up at one corner and down at the other, as if in habitual scepticism. The attractiveness of his face lay rather in its expression — one of alertness and vitality, as if he expected life to be interesting and would encourage it, if necessary, with the occasional prod in the ribs, to come up to that expectation.
I myself, I confess, was already disposed to like the man: his liberality in the matter of the wine; his soundness of judgement in the matter of the Bursar; his presence on the train when I had almost despaired of it — these things combined could not fail to produce a favourable impression on me. I said with perfect sincerity that I was delighted to have his company.
We spent a pleasant few minutes exchanging, with sympathy and candour, our views on the character of the Bursar.
“He’s the sort of man,” said Bolton, “who somehow always makes me want to do the exact opposite of what he wants me to do. It’s rather a disadvantage in a fundraiser. As a matter of fact, I don’t in the least mind giving something for the upkeep of the Library or whatever it is, but I can’t stand him telling me it’s my duty. Why the devil should it be my duty?”
“The idea is,” I said, “that those who have benefited financially from an Oxford education have some sort of obligation to make repayment in kind. But perhaps you don’t feel that applies to you?”
The question seemed to amuse him, as if reminding him of some very private joke.
“As it happens, I could make out a fair case for saying that in my present circumstances, my Oxford education is a financial disadvantage.” He smiled and refilled my glass.
“You provoke my curiosity,” I said. “What are the present circumstances?”
“Well, if you’d like to hear about it I’ll tell you, but I must warn you, Professor Tamar, that it’s really a very simple story — you may find it tedious.”
I assured him that I would not.
“I must begin by explaining that I was born and brought up in Lancashire and educated at—” He named a grammar school well known to me for the excellence of its academic record. “Oh, you’ve heard of it? Yes, of course, we’ve always done rather well in the Oxford entrance exams. So you won’t find it at all surprising that in due course I got a scholarship to Oxford. I read PPE, concentrating on the Economics rather than the Philosophy or Politics. It was a bit of a toss-up between that and French and German — I’ve always had quite a good ear for languages — but my headmaster told me I could do those on my own and I took his advice.
“When I came up to Oxford, I spoke, as you’d expect, with a Lancashire accent. Of which, by the way, I wasn’t in the least ashamed — I didn’t make any conscious effort to lose it. But when I went home at the end of my first term, my mother nearly threw me out of the house for talking posh and giving myself airs. So after a while I got quite used to switching from one to the other — a Lancashire accent at home, and what southerners call an educated accent when I went back to Oxford.
“I began to be interested in the way people reacted to me, depending on which I was using. I wasn’t unduly surprised, of course, that they thought me better educated and of a higher social class when I was using my southern accent. What rather surprised me was that when I used the northern accent they were more inclined to trust me.”
Again he refilled my glass, brushing aside my protest that I was taking more than my fair share of the wine.
“After I graduated, I joined an investment bank which had its headquarters in Paris and for the next twenty years or so I mostly worked outside England — first there and later in New York. During that time, when I talked English it was with my southern accent — it came to me more naturally by that time, and the French and Americans can’t tell the difference anyway. But when I was dealing with the British, and wanted them to feel that I was a sensible, down-to-earth sort of chap who wouldn’t pull any fast ones, I used a rather mild version of my Lancashire accent.
“And then one day I was offered a job by an English company. I’d been involved in some negotiations with the Chairman and apparently he’d taken a liking to me. I was very keen to accept — it was a good job, and I wanted to get back to England. I never thought of there being a problem about the accent.”
I quite saw that if, when he first met the Chairman, he had spoken with one accent he could hardly, on taking up his new appointment, immediately begin speaking with another; but I would have supposed that over a period the northern accent could be imperceptibly eliminated.
“That’s what I meant to do. But I hadn’t realised, you see, how important it was to him — not the accent itself, but what he thought it signified. He assumed that someone who spoke with that accent couldn’t have been to University — not to Oxford or Cambridge, at any rate. I did mention that I’d been to grammar school, but he’s a public school man himself, of course — that simply made him think I was educationally deprived. He imagines me as a barefoot urchin walking the streets of Manchester, going without food to buy books and studying by candlelight after fourteen hours’ work in the mill.
“And he’d given the same idea to the people I was going to be working with, who happened to include a man I find rather irritating. He’s also a public-school man. He couldn’t resist sneering at me for being an ignorant working-class northerner and I couldn’t resist teasing him by living down to his expectations. So instead of toning down the accent, I found myself making it broader. And the worst of it was that I somehow developed a persona to match — I began to turn into a sort of caricature of the kind of person he assumed I was. I suppose I was trying to find out how far I could go before he realised I was teasing — but he never did. So the result is that I’ve turned myself into this appalling stereotypical northerner — I hate foreigners and I don’t hold with books and I probably beat my wife if she’s late getting my supper on the table. It’s like Jekyll and Hyde, and I simply don’t know how to get out of it.”
He did not appear, however, to be unduly cast down by the thought of this: indeed, he gave every sign of regarding it with the liveliest amusement. I reminded him that he had spoken of his Oxford education as a financial disadvantage.
“Well, it would be if the Chairman found out about it. You see how dangerous it would be to spoil his illusions. They’re not just illusions about me — they’re illusions about himself. He prides himself on having recognised my abilities in spite of my having no formal qualifications — it would take the gilt off the gingerbread if he ever discovered that I had quite a good degree from Oxford. Well, a First actually” He sighed. “If he found out, I don’t think he’d ever forgive me.”
He again refilled my glass. I protested again that he should not give me all the wine. I saw that his own glass, though he had not replenished it, was still three-quarters full.
“Oh, I can’t drink much this evening. I have an urgent meeting — with the Chairman, as it happens — first thing in the morning. It wouldn’t do to have a hangover. So you see what I mean when I say that my Oxford education, in my present circumstances, is a financial disadvantage rather than an asset? Absurd, isn’t it?”
“It would be going rather far to blame St. George’s.”
“Oh, certainly. Besides, St. George’s was not my College.”
“Wasn’t it?” I remembered a fragment of conversation reported by Ragwort. “I suppose you’re a Worcester man?”
“Yes, that’s right. How did you know? Oh, I was forgetting that you’re a detective.”
I was disconcerted, almost unpleasantly so. My renown in the field of criminal investigation is not so widespread that I could expect my name alone to be sufficient to inform him of my connection with it: I had supposed him to know nothing more of me than might have been gathered from our meeting and conversation that evening.
“I can lay no claim,” I said, “to any such description.”
“My dear Professor Tamar, you are too modest. Felicity has told me that you have successfully investigated several mysterious crimes.”
“Felicity?” I said, increasingly bewildered. “Do you mean Felicity Dorset?”
“Yes, of course.” He laughed. “Oh, perhaps you didn’t know, in spite of being a detective — I’m Felicity’s husband. That’s why I was at this evening’s do.”
I had known, certainly, that Felicity had a husband somewhere or other, whose name she did not use in her professional capacity; I must also have known, since I had imagined him to be American, that she had met him some years before while teaching at Columbia. The discovery that he was Geoffrey Bolton astonished me almost as much as the idea that Felicity was Bolton’s socially disadvantaged wife.
Bolton showed a flattering interest in what he termed my detective activities. He began to ask me about my previous investigations and whether I believed that there was any quality which all murderers had in common — whether there was such a thing as the homicidal character.
“Character is a myth invented by novelists for the sake of adding interest to the narrative. Human beings are not so different one from another as the authors of fiction would have us believe. Some people do kind things and are described as kind, but they are not i
ncapable of acts of cruelty. People who shrink from danger are described as cowardly, but they may be capable of acts of heroism. In real life almost anyone might do almost anything.”
“Do you mean that perfectly ordinary people whom one meets every day are capable of murder?”
“Why not? We know that in wartime most people are quite capable of killing other human beings.”
“Is there no common factor?”
“I think it’s a question of knowing what they most care about. It is always a dangerous thing to come between anyone and the thing they most desire.”
To my regret, I was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on what he was saying, even more so to answer with any degree of coherence. I seemed to be curiously disoriented by the movement of the train as it rattled and lurched through the night and the unfathomable darkness outside.
He seemed particularly interested in knowing whether I was currently engaged in any such investigation. These enquiries, which in other circumstances I would have found pleasantly flattering, were in these something of an embarrassment. I told him that at present I was engaged in nothing of that kind and that all my time and energies were required for my academic duties; but he gave me a smile which seemed to express a degree of disbelief.
My head ached and my perception of things seemed to be in some way slightly distorted. The reflection of Bolton’s face in the window beside him looked strangely different from the reality: the crooked smile that had seemed so attractive now had a slightly malicious, almost diabolical quality. It seemed important to persuade him that I was telling the truth when I said that I was not at present engaged in any investigation.
“My dear Professor Tamar,” he said with apparent concern, “you are very pale — are you feeling quite well?”
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