by C F Dunn
Elena pouted her disappointment. “It is time you two made up and were friends.”
I toyed with the idea of telling her about Sam’s attempt at friendship before Christmas, of my resulting bleeding nose and his broken jaw. “And have you told Sam this?”
“Yes, I said that he is being so stupid and that it is time to be nice, like he used to be before…” she wavered.
“Before he met me, by any chance?” She looked apologetic. “And what did he say to that?”
“He did not say much, but he rubbed his chin like this – a lot.” She massaged her jaw in imitation.
“That figures,” I said tartly, regretting it as her expression lost its hopeful tenor.
She retrieved her kilim bag from the chair, stuffing the list back into it and slapping the flap back into place. “I do not understand why you are still angry with him. He accepts you are with Matthew now and he will not try anything again.”
I didn’t doubt it. After Matthew had broken his jaw, and I threatened him not to tell anyone, Sam wasn’t likely to risk another confrontation. Part of me wanted her to know what had happened, but I didn’t want the inevitable interrogation that would follow nor, it would seem, did I hate Sam enough to sully the friendship between them. “You’re right, Elena. It’s time to let bygones be bygones, but I still don’t want him at the party. Trust me, it’s not a good idea.”
“OK, let it be-gone. I have work to do, so I must go too.” She hoisted the heavy bag onto her shoulder and opened the door. “I forgot to say, the Dean was looking for you earlier. I did not think you wanted to talk to him so I said that you were still recovering and have to rest.”
I grinned. “Too right – thanks.”
She waved a hand over her shoulder. “You’re welcome,” and as the door began to close, “but, I do not think he believed me.”
I knew I shouldn’t be worried about Shotter, but that didn’t stop me brooding. Matthew suggested I contact Human Resources at Cambridge to make sure they were in receipt of all the facts, but as I laid out the details of Staahl’s attack, the trial, and subsequent cardiac arrest, the voice at the other end of the phone became increasingly reticent, and I sensed that I was not the first to have contacted him. By the time I replaced the receiver, it sounded like all I had offered was a list of excuses, and I felt more gloomy than when I began. Now Elena’s offhand comment confirmed my suspicions that the Dean had me in his sights; all I waited for was the fatal shot. And, if that wasn’t enough, Eckhart was becoming an increasingly frequent visitor to my tutor room.
“Ah, Professor!” He popped his head around my door, hair sticking out in a frenetic fuzz. He tumbled into the room in his brown velvet jacket and thick corduroy trousers looking like Mole before I could invite him in, and drew up a chair. He thumped a clipboard in front of me, knocking my iPod flying. I caught it before it hit the floor. “I have a list of delegates I thought you might like to se… see.” He had taken to discussing, in minute detail, every and any aspect of the conference. I rather suspected he found the responsibility of organizing it overwhelming, and his levels of anxiety steadily escalated the nearer to June we came. I, too, had plenty of things on my mind, and quite frankly, apart from my students’ role at the conference, the administration of it wasn’t one of them. But I found him totally benign and completely conscientious, so I hadn’t the heart to turn him away.
I smiled in welcome. “Good morning, Professor. How might I help you today?”
“The… the delegates?” he addressed the bookshelf over my shoulder.
I skimmed down the list; there were some pretty impressive names and I questioned, not for the first time, my wisdom in placing my four untried MA students so publicly in the limelight.
“Professor, does the Dean know you and I discuss the conference?”
Using a stubby finger with the nail bitten flush, he pushed his glasses further up his nose. “N… no, but I’m certain he would be delighted.”
I wasn’t so sure. “Is there anything you would like me to comment on specifically?”
He blinked, owl-like. “There!” He poked at a name in triumph.
It hadn’t registered. “Oh, Antony Burridge.” The plagiaristic self-publicist. “That’s quite a coup. Gosh… yes. Well done.”
He beamed. “I knew you would be pleased. He’s just brought out another book. Per… perhaps you’ve seen it?”
Seen it. Read it. Identified a lot of it. “Yes, I have.”
“Quite brilliant,” he enthused, arms flailing. “Refreshingly different, I thought – very well researched.”
“Thanks,” I murmured, making a grab for my desk lamp as it toppled near the edge. Eckhart’s attention wavered. “Professor?”
His eyes tracked my hand and I hid it self-consciously. He refocused, fumbling in an inside pocket of his jacket and producing a small box from which he pulled a peculiar eyepiece. Through the lens, his eye bulged alarmingly. “Ma… may I?” he said, holding out his hand expectantly and, when I looked at him nonplussed and a little apprehensive, he blinked in the direction of my ring.
I removed it reluctantly and he took it without a word, examining it from every angle. Then he looked at me directly for once. “Where did you get this?”
“It’s my engagement ring…”
“Yes, yes…” he said impatiently, “but where did you get it?”
Taken aback, I shuffled in my chair. “Why? Does it matter where it came from?”
Eckhart rotated the ring in the light from my desk lamp with an expression of complete absorption. His lips moved continuously but without making a sound, until I worked out he said “provenance, provenance, provenance” repeatedly. “Provenance,” he said out loud, fixing me with a giant orb.
“I really couldn’t say. Why do you ask?”
“This,” he said, holding my precious ring between finger and thumb as if making an accusation, “belongs in a museum.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I said quickly, taking it from his surprised hand, “it belongs on my finger.”
“It’s remarkable, very fine. You can see the transition between the Gothic and the Renaissance… and the stone…” he gazed longingly towards it, “… signifies constancy, wards off sadness, counteracts poison – cut like a… an elongated octagonal bezel – very hard to cut at this date – almost impossible, in fact. And the clarity… yes, yes, and an exceptional colour. The workmanship of these lion heads is outstanding. And open at the back, see? To allow contact with the skin to… to focus the power of the stars into the wearer to heal, to protect. Possibly influenced by Simon Forman’s theories – it’s the right date. If so, it’s a rare jewel indeed. Very rare.” He removed the lens, fumbling slightly as he folded it and slipped it back into its box. “But I haven’t seen this ring before,” he said, almost to himself. “It’s not from a known collection and I know all the collections – all of them, you understand. Per… perhaps you will permit me to do some research…?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary, but thank you.”
“Ah, well, pity, pity. If you should change your mind…”
“Then I’ll be sure to ask you, Professor.”
Pondering Eckhart’s comments on my way to meet Matthew at the lab, I caught sight of Shotter’s bulbous form making its way towards the history faculty across the quad. I darted behind a group of students and used them as cover until I made the safety of the medical building, and slid in through the doors. Matthew waited by the reception desk, reading loose notes in a file.
“Hallo,” I said, checking over my shoulder. “Can we go now?”
“Thank you.” He handed the notes back to the receptionist who had adopted a coquettish stance in vain. He noted my flushed face. “Problem?” he asked, as I threw another look at the doors when they whisked open.
“No, no. Can we go the long way round? I need a walk; it’s a lovely day.”
He surveyed the graphite sky. “Who are you trying to avoid – it’s not Sam agai
n, is it?”
“No, I haven’t seen him in ages. It’s Shotter. I think he’s on the warpath.”
Matthew smiled without mirth. “Then he better not cross mine. I won’t allow him to bully you, Emma; no job is worth that. I’m happy to go and see him with you if you want me to, and get this sorted out.”
The coward in me thought it was exactly what I would like, but I had my pride. Besides, I’d faced bullies successfully before, and the Dean should be no different. If the worst he could do was to rap me over the knuckles for the amount of time I’d had off over the last two terms – whatever the cause – then I could weather it and put it down to experience. Seen in that light, it wasn’t so bad.
“I’ll be fine,” I reassured him. “We’re both grown-ups. What could possibly go wrong?”
I managed to avoid Shotter for the next few days, but I only forestalled the inevitable. I was halfway down the cloister mulling over the joint problem of Hannah’s lecture notes and a birthday present for Harry, when I heard someone calling my name. I turned around to find the bursar hurrying towards me.
“Professor D’Eresby, if you have a moment.” I waited for him to catch his breath. He blotted his neck with a neatly pressed hanky. “I’m not as fit as I should be.” He looked closely at me. “You’re looking very well, Professor, I must say – much better than I would have expected. How are you?”
“Quite recovered, thanks,” I said, curious to know what it was that had him chasing after me. “Did you want to speak to me?”
“No – yes, rather the Dean would like to see you, if you can spare the time.”
Blow, I wasn’t ready for this. “When?”
“Now, if you wouldn’t mind.” From the way he said it I didn’t have much say in the matter. I liked the bursar; he came across as being a straightforward, no-nonsense type of man with a kind streak that softened his businesslike approach to matters. I always thought he felt uncomfortable in the presence of the Dean, or rather, that he didn’t share his perspective on life. Now, from the expression on his face, he would rather not be delivering this message.
“I see – of course. Is the Dean in his study?”
Despite the brisk nod, I saw regret in his eyes as I held them momentarily. He didn’t need to say why I was being summoned, the only question being what excuse Shotter would use to reprimand me. It seemed worse than being sent to the Head’s study after the unfortunate incident at school. Dad had been furious, Mum disappointed, and I narrowly avoided expulsion largely on the grounds of being a scholar and the Head also having red hair and therefore inclined to understand my reaction. The bursar held out his hand to show me the way as if I didn’t know already.
Shotter must have been waiting by the door because he opened it almost immediately. “Ah, Professor D’Eresby, please come in and sit down. I would like us to have a little chat.” The bursar turned to go. “Bursar, if you would be kind enough to stay.”
I sat on the edge of the sofa as Shotter settled his frame in his chair. Buttons on his waistcoat strained; his short, thick neck barely cleared his collar, making his resemblance to a toad all the greater. Little time had passed since I last sat opposite him in those initial days at the college. Not much time in terms of hours and days, weeks and months, but eons in how my life had changed since then. I had been so certain of my future – a different future – one filled with the journal and books and learning. A different hope, a different fulfilment.
The Dean interlaced his fingers across his stomach. “I hadn’t anticipated us having this conversation quite so soon, my dear, but you seem to have made a remarkable recovery.” I heard the insinuation. I didn’t bother responding – I saw no point – we both knew why I was there. “However,” he continued, “I have been advised that in the circumstances, a period of recuperation is necessary to ensure a complete recovery…”
“How long?” I interjected.
The Dean didn’t like being interrupted. He fixed me with small, ice-pick eyes. “To avoid the risk of complications I believe at least three months is recommended, followed by a further three months of light duties.”
Risk of complications? For whom?
“Three months would mean I couldn’t supervise my students’ work.”
His smile became smug. “Professor Eckhart would be pleased to take on the duty for you.”
“Eckhart?” I said too loudly. “It’s not his area of expertise, Dean, and I’m perfectly well enough to carry on my teaching duties.” That wasn’t the point, was it? I’d been such a blasted nuisance since I’d arrived he couldn’t wait to be shot of me. But my students were a different matter; no one else at the university specialized in my area and a change of tutor this late in the day would endanger everything we had worked towards. Even if they could find someone else to take my place at such short notice, my group wouldn’t be able to present their papers at the conference. Our plans would be scuppered, drowned in their infancy.
Shotter leaned back in his chair, the gold watch chain slung taut across his waistcoat like a rope-bridge. “Professor Eckhart is very experienced, my dear, and complete rest has been recommended.”
“By whom?”
The bursar coughed uncomfortably and the Dean’s eyes hardened. “I have taken medical advice on the matter.” Behind Shotter’s head, the row of academics’ portraits gazed deadpan from their positions on the wall. Staahl’s had been replaced by the glacial beauty who had pursued Matthew at the New Year party, and mine was still there, hanging on in; but for how much longer?
“Dr Lynes is the most senior medical member of staff on campus, isn’t he?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“He is,” the bursar confirmed before Shotter replied.
“Shouldn’t you ask his advice?” I tried as a long shot.
His voice dropped. “This is not just a matter of your health, my dear, it is also a question of reputation.”
At last, the truth. “Whose?” I asked, caustically.
Shotter’s jowls multiplied as he lowered his head and focused on me with his blue-coloured splinters. “This college has a reputation to maintain. Your unfortunate accident brought unsavoury details to light that migh…”
“Accident?” I jumped to my feet. “I was attacked by one of this college’s senior academics. It was no accident…”
“… unsavoury details that might bring this college into disrepute, which I cannot allow. It is for the best that you take medical leave of absence until the end of the semester, when you will return to your own university and no more need be said on the matter.”
Like heck I would. “And if I choose not to?” I challenged.
The Dean’s tone became menacing. “I can make life difficult for you. You might find the opportunities you enjoyed at Cambridge not as forthcoming as they once were. I would advise you to take care of what you say, my dear; we don’t want things getting out of hand and damaging your career. If you decide that an extended period of sick leave is preferable, however, I’m sure I will be able to recommend your work most highly.” As I weighed the threat behind his words, a haze developed around him: angry hues of dark greys and reds like tumescent clouds of volcanic ash. But if he was angry, I was furious.
“And I’m expendable, is that it? And my students? Hang the truth, damn justice – they are no more than inconveniences where the reputation of the college is concerned.” I grabbed my bag. “There are men like you scattered like flies throughout history, Dean, breeding maggots of expediency at the expense of truth.”
Shotter heaved to his feet. Short, fleshy fingers gripped my arm. “I strongly advise you not to do anything rash. Take your time to think about what I have said, but don’t take too long.”
Once outside, I wiped my arm free of the feel of him, quelling the nausea of anger, loathing, and dread. It didn’t matter, it shouldn’t matter, but I had striven all my life to build my reputation as a historian and I was damned if I had survived Staahl and the trial only to have that loathsom
e man destroy me. I became aware that a young couple were watching me curiously, and I hid my shaking hands behind my back, determined that no one – no one would threaten me ever again.
I was still outraged when Elena came to see me before the party.
“So what are you going to do?” she asked when I could contain myself no longer and told her the whole story.
“I don’t know.” I whacked my mug into the sink and washed it roughly. “It’s so unfair; I knew he would have a go at me, but I didn’t think he would get rid of me.” The mug chinked ominously as I all but threw it in the cupboard and slammed the door. “It’s not that I need the job, but I want one, and it’s the fact he’s prepared to damage my reputation unless I do what he wants.”
“Can he do that?”
“I think he’s already started. The HR at Cambridge sounded dodgy when I spoke to them. Another phone call from Shotter could really sink me.” I looked at her in despair. “You know what academia is like, Elena. Gossip spreads like wildfire and before you know it, no one will touch me with a barge pole.” Her forehead drew into a puzzled frown. “I’ll be unemployable,” I clarified.
Elena’s dark eyes grew round. “You cannot let this happen. You must do what he says. It does not matter if you take leave of sickness now; you will still be paid and it is only a few weeks and you will be married…”
“But it does matter. A lot. First,” I counted on my fingers, “Eckhart isn’t up to speed on my group’s theses and he’s not a specialist in my field. Secondly, my students and I have something planned for the conference which he doesn’t need to know about but which is really important for their futures.” Elena raised an inquisitive eyebrow and I hurriedly went on before she asked. “Thirdly, he’s… well, he’s Eckhart…” – she nodded in tacit understanding – “and fourthly, blast it, Elena, they’re my students. I’ve let them down enough as it is and I want to see them through to the end of the year.”
