Chapter Ten
“Mr. Braithwaite?”
Sidney straightened, refocusing on his advisor behind the mammoth desk.
Dickinson was a short, reedy man with a bristle of gray hair and a penchant for lecturing on the dangers of alcohol and idleness, which made him a consistent favorite for students’ caricatures.
The oversize office furniture made him appear even more comically petite, but the don clearly thought it lent him a gravitas denied by his stature.
“Sorry, sir.” Sidney shifted forward, clasped hands drooping between his knees.
“I’m listening.” He was listening, but not to Dickinson’s customary admonitions at their weekly meeting.
His mind would not stop replaying Ginevra Bishop’s scathing words from earlier that week: Move too slowly, and you’ll never have a hand worth playing.
He was the one with field experience; she ought to be listening to him.
He had run two years of successful missions for the Rook before Amélie, surveilling troop movements, intercepting messages between the Germans, and even working at a café run by Nazi sympathizers who were loose-lipped with confidential information.
“Your attention,” Dickinson said, “is why I called you in here.” He peered at Sidney as though he were a specimen under a microscope. “Dr. Foster and Mr. Graham say you seem uninterested in your tutorials. Are you well?”
“I’ve not been sleeping much, that’s all.” Sidney wriggled his fingernail into a crevice in the massive desk, avoiding his tutor’s gaze. “I’m keeping up with my reading, though. Foster seemed pleased enough last week, sir.”
“He said your responses were excellent, but your general manner was one of—and I quote—distinct apathy.” Dickinson folded his hands upon the table and made a throaty rumble of disapprobation.
“Many would be delighted to be in your place, Braithwaite—a second chance after a year off, your grant graciously extended due to familial circumstances. This sort of attitude toward one’s studies does not reflect well upon you, your college, or the university. ”
Sidney’s jaw tightened. That public school lads like Craddock committed all sorts of chicanery with impunity while he was scolded for being taciturn but well-prepared felt like an injustice.
And yet, what could he say? Any defense, especially one that pointed out this inequity, would only fuel Dickinson’s displeasure. “Yes, sir,” he said stiffly.
“Dr. Watkins also tells me you’ve joined her Roman historians seminar. I’m not sure this is the best idea under the circumstances. Perhaps if I have a better report at the end of term, you could join her next year?”
“Oh, no, sir.” Sidney straightened, jerking his nail free. “I’m very interested in the Suetonius they’re discussing right now. I promise I can keep up with everything. I told the bursar I wouldn’t work this term.”
At this, Dickinson looked slightly mollified, for he’d grumbled all year about a student doing manual labor around the college, complaints Sidney had deflected with stony nonchalance.
But his skin began to crawl before his advisor’s assessing gaze.
If Dickinson told Watkins to dismiss him, then he’d be back to square one.
And he was not about to let Ginevra Bishop pass him up.
Dickinson drummed his fingers on the table and gave a long exhale. “If either Dr. Foster or Mr. Graham say your work is still suffering, then we’ll revisit the matter. Don’t force my hand, Braithwaite.”
“Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Sidney escaped before Dickinson could find something else over which to scold him.
The air outside was warm and heavy, the sky a sickly gray that promised rain later that evening.
Sidney stripped off his gown and jacket and slung both over his arm, loosening his tie and collar with the other hand.
The threat of Dickinson removing him from the seminar made Sidney uneasy, highlighting the folly of putting all his eggs in one basket.
He needed an alternative way to regularly access Watkins and Hughes, or find a way to monitor their movements without excessive loitering round their respective colleges.
How Bishop had managed to work out Kirk and Neville’s schedules so quickly was admirable, if maddening. No one could be in two places at once.
But as Sidney passed the bus stop, a better idea occurred to him.
He’d advised staying away from Olenev’s in case the KGB man had noticed anything amiss.
But with only four people of interest, it should be easier to observe any of their visits to the bookshop and note anything unusual.
All it would take was patience, and that was one area in which Bishop would certainly not best him.
With a fresh spring in his step, Sidney boarded the next southbound bus.
Surveilling the bookshop was indeed as tedious as Sidney expected, even worse than their first trip, knowing he was watching for particular people rather than cataloging every visitor.
He spent the next few days pretending to read on benches or smoke in the rear car park, but the monotony proved steadying.
He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed this part of the job, forced to focus on one thing for extended periods of time.
He had feared the exclusion of distractions would allow unwelcome memories from France to creep up on him, but instead they lay dormant, lulled by silence. And that relieved him.
On the fourth day of observation, Sidney was slouched behind a newspaper when the click of heels on the pavement drew his attention. He folded down the edge to survey the street and did a double take. Dr. Watkins was entering the bookstore.
Hastily, Sidney snapped back up the paper’s edge. After a count to thirty, turning pages as though nothing was amiss, he folded the paper and crossed his arms. Entering while the don was present was risky. But what were the odds of catching her there again?
Move too slowly, and you’ll never have a hand worth playing.
With taunting green eyes foremost in his mind, Sidney sauntered down the street.
A small bell rang overhead as he entered the shop.
Despite the day’s sunshine, shadows hung heavy upon the shelves, and Sidney squinted to orient himself.
It was a wide, shallow room, and at one end stood the counter where a thickset, mustachioed gentleman was ringing up the cash register.
Watkins stood before him, nails clicking against the wooden counter, but she looked over her shoulder at Sidney’s entrance.
“Mr. Braithwaite,” she said, surprised.
There was no slipping in unawares now. Sidney ambled to the back of the store and tipped his hat. “Dr. Watkins.”
The gentleman closed the register. “Can I help you?” he asked Sidney. His accent was more Manchester than Moscow, though if the Rook’s information was correct, Grigor Olenev had lived in England long enough to cast off anything reminiscent of his homeland.
“Do you have any Quintilian?” Sidney asked, but the Russian only stared at him. “Cicero? Roman authors.”
Olenev grunted toward the left wall. “Try the bottom shelf. Will that be all for you today, ma’am?” he asked, turning back to Watkins.
“Er—yes,” the don said quickly. “Thank you.”
Olenev carried a stack of medical books farther down the counter, and Watkins turned toward Sidney. “Will you continue reading Suetonius with us? I know Dr. Dickinson expressed some concern.”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. You’re a welcome addition. I wish I could get everyone to join in the discussion with such gusto.” Watkins offered a fleeting smile and backed toward the door. “I must be off. Till Thursday, then.”
Sidney nodded in farewell and found the shelf Olenev had indicated as Watkins exited.
The shopkeeper continued his work in silence, but a cold stare bored into Sidney’s shoulder blades as he pretended to peruse the books.
Watkins was usually so affable that the subtle stiffness in her manner felt significant.
Then again, seeing dons outside the classroom was always awkward.
Sidney had once walked an entire block in the wrong direction to avoid passing a professor dining alfresco outside a pub with a woman he knew wasn’t the man’s wife.
Sidney’s sham search through the books was soon derailed by real confusion.
It was a peculiar collection for any bookseller, with little organization.
Detective fiction was lumped with gardening manuals, and romance with reference books.
And from the names scrawled inside covers, most of the stock was bought secondhand, including from professors Sidney recognized.
A used bookseller was good cover for a drop location, he mused, tucking a random volume under his arm.
People brought inconspicuous bundles in all the time.
Sidney returned to the counter and laid down his book.
“Find what you wanted?” Olenev asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
Olenev glanced up, bemused, and Sidney struggled to keep a straight face as he finally read the title. Caring for Your Infant: From Bottles to Nappies and Everything In Between! He paid the man and grabbed the brown paper bag, murmuring his thanks as he slunk toward the exit.
Watkins, he then realized, had not held a paper bag when she left.
After a few more days idling near the bookstore rather than revising for exams, luck turned Sidney’s way again.
Dr. Neville appeared on Friday afternoon but slipped in and out faster than Sidney could approach.
He watched the don hurry to catch a passing bus, cursing his decision to hide in a farther alleyway rather than the one across from the store.
Such a short visit was certainly not a shopping excursion.
Sidney scuffed the pavement and started to leave, but he hadn’t made it three paces when he noticed another figure on the pavement outside Olenev’s.