Chapter Nine #3
Gin tucked away her sadness lest he think her moping over a mere game.
But as she gathered her things, she noticed a small stack of books on the floor beside Neville’s chair.
In two ticks, they nestled inside Ginevra’s capacious handbag.
She passed Hobbs with her chin high, bumping the clipboard with her elbow, and relished his comical flailing as she turned in to the hall.
Ahead of her, Dr. Neville hurried toward the building’s exit, but it was the sight of Marion Kirk tugging his coat sleeve that made Gin stop in surprise.
He shook her off in an agitated manner and pushed through the door, and Kirk sulked off in a different direction.
But the moment was enough to make the wheels in Ginevra’s mind spin:
Kirk had been very protective of her sources for the paper—could Neville be one of them?
But if so, what sort of story could Kirk be writing that concerned him?
Or, Ginevra thought ruefully, the young woman was only badgering Neville about something regarding her studies, and she herself was grasping at straws searching for suspicious activity.
But Gin frowned, worrying at her lower lip.
No, the don’s irritation with Kirk had been distinct and familiar.
She had seen that look on her father’s face when MPs pestered him at parties, and she would have bet her favorite handbag the two knew each other beyond the confines of tutor and student.
And if there was a different connection between them, it also seemed a terrible coincidence that both should end up on Tolliver’s suspect list. Was it possible they could be working for the Soviets together?
With this alarming idea propelling her, Gin set off down the hall, determined to follow one of them.
Only it was then she noticed Braithwaite leaning against a pillar, staring her down.
He hadn’t bothered her since the night following Marion Kirk, and neglect had proven preferable.
Gin liked feeling responsible for her own actions and leaving him a record of her progress, though tedious, made her feel accomplished—especially without his acidic commentary.
But when he turned and exited into the courtyard, the set of his shoulders signaling a clear direction to follow, Gin braced herself.
She refused to let him poke and prod and find fault with her today.
Braithwaite crossed the courtyard and stopped beside a bench, lifting his shoe to retie the laces. Gin took a seat beside him.
“Well,” she said, injecting the monosyllable with vinegar, “how are you getting on?”
His eyes narrowed as though surprised by this reversal of roles. “It’s been three weeks, so I haven’t discovered much of anything. Have you?”
Gin shaded her eyes to look up at him. In close proximity, the faint freckles dusting his cheekbones were so charming that for a moment she forgot why she was vexed by his untimely appearance.
“Yes,” she said crisply. “Dr. Neville has visited the Soviet Union. I just learned that while playing chess with him.”
Braithwaite straightened, staring down at her incredulously. “Did you ask him outright? He might be a murderer.”
“He’s not going to murder me over a chessboard.” She sniffed. “And no, I didn’t ask him directly. I can follow directions.”
“But you were pressing him, weren’t you?” Braithwaite switched feet and leaned over to retie the other shoe, shifting closer to Ginevra. “I told you, you’ve got to come at this slowly. Move too fast, and you’ll show your hand.”
“Move too slowly, and you’ll never have a hand worth playing,” she retorted. “It took me two weeks to get a game against the man. I wasn’t about to throw away such a plummy opportunity to quiz him.”
His gray eyes met hers, cool with indifference. “Then I suppose we’ll see how that turns out for you. I look forward to more exciting revelations in your next report.”
Before Gin could muster a better self-defense, Braithwaite strode away across the courtyard.
It wasn’t until several hours later, burrowed within her blankets (and still fuming over Braithwaite’s critique), that Ginevra remembered Neville’s books.
She scampered for the handbag tossed upon the green wingback and resettled on the bed with her treasures: Highet’s The Classical Tradition, Liddell and Scott’s Greek-English lexicon, and a dog-eared copy of Julius Caesar, marked up through much use.
All rather mundane and expected for a man like Neville, she supposed, riffling through the pages.
Only from the Shakespeare, a faded, coffee-stained envelope slipped out. It contained a letter—a letter written in Russian with certain sentences blacked out.
Gin flew off the bed, tripping over the books she’d forgotten to tidy.
She grabbed a fresh piece of paper and a pencil and scrounged at the back of her bookcase for the pocket Russian dictionary she had picked up on a whim earlier that year.
As she set about translating, she couldn’t help but feel a weensy bit smug.
If Braithwaite wasn’t going to support her progress, she didn’t feel compelled to be so diligent in her reporting.
She could work alone as well as he, especially translating this letter.
And he would eat humble pie for doubting her.