Chapter Twelve #2
“I think a lot of people and places served as they were needed. At one point, part of my home was requisitioned for a recovery ward.” Bishop set the picture aside with a small frown and picked up the next item.
This was a list of names abbreviated to their first initial and surname, Neville among them, and Bishop identified this as the results of the 1948 World Chess Championship in Moscow.
“He said he watched Botvinnik play,” Bishop said.
“He didn’t mention playing in the tournament himself though. Golly.”
“So he’s strategic, and good at thinking several moves ahead.”
“Indeed.” Bishop wrinkled her nose. “If I had known whom I was up against, I would have concentrated better.”
Next was a recent excerpt from a student publication, citing Lewis Hughes’s addition to the dramatic society.
This performance of Julius Caesar promises to be less tedious than previous turns upon the boards.
After John Armentrout took a bad fall in the Steeplechase, American Lewis Hughes has assumed the role of Caesar.
Though this correspondent is dubious about his accent, it can’t be worse than Armentrout’s interpretation of Puck in the most appalling transgression of Shakespeare ever reviewed by this paper.
“So, Hughes is also a thespian,” Bishop mused. “Well, well…” She stopped, frozen over the last clipping, and snatched it closer to the torch. “I saw this article in Marion Kirk’s room, I’m sure of it. She had dozens of them, but this one seemed important.”
Sidney peered closer over her shoulder.
CHRIST CHURCH IN MOURNING
Quintin Jones of Christ Church College was found dead in Hollywell Cemetery after a mishap involving a handful of students.
Disciplinary action has been taken against the instigator, and Dean Honeywell is expected to address further repercussions.
A private funeral will be held by the family in Sussex.
“That’s quite grim,” Bishop murmured.
“But why is it in this box?”
“According to a friend who lives in that boardinghouse, Mr. Tolliver visited Marion’s room under the pretense of fetching a library book.
He must have tracked down this article after he saw it on her wall.
” Bishop wrinkled her brow. “It looks like it came from one of the student papers. I can’t tell if it’s The Blue, but I’m writing an article for them right now and can use that excuse to dig through past issues. ”
Sidney sank back on his heels. “What sort of article?”
“A human-interest piece on the price of stockings.” Bishop wrinkled her nose and scooped up the newspaper clippings. “It’s my punishment for blundering in there to snoop on Marion Kirk, I suppose.”
“You’ve gone to both the paper and her room? You should have run that by me first. Do you remember the part where the Rook wanted us to work together, primarily for your safety?”
“And do you remember the part where we agreed you wouldn’t nanny me?”
“And yet here you are, breaking into people’s houses after I told you not to repeat your stunt at Olenev’s.”
“The pot,” she drawled, “doth call the kettle black.”
She stared at him coolly, and Sidney stared back, despite the discomfiting warmth growing in his chest: He was a stubborn enough man, but he doubted he could best her in a staring contest.
“Fine,” he ground out, dropping the lid on the box. “I’ll get this to the Rook.”
“I can do it.” Bishop tried to take the box from him, but he tucked it under his arm and rose.
“It will be safer with me. Your friends seem like the type to barge in without knocking.”
“Well, yes,” she said testily, rising after him, “but I know how to lock the door. Do you not have friends always popping in?”
Sidney hadn’t considered how pathetic his logic sounded when cast in that light. “Not unless you count Harold Webb. But he’s more likely to lounge about and complain about cricket than nose into my business. He’s not a curious sort of person.”
“That sounds very lonely—” Bishop stopped, her eyes closing with a wince. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
Regardless of her intentions, the blunt observation made Sidney turn on his heel toward the door. “We should go.”
He returned to the bathroom and retrieved his boots and coat, ignoring her soft glide behind him.
Sidney had never considered himself a lonely person, mostly because he liked being alone.
But Bishop’s remark made him realize how often he felt isolated even around other people.
The previous year, he’d thought it only a problem around his parents, caught as the third wheel on endless evenings beside the hearth and wireless.
The things he wanted to say sometimes got buried beneath everything he couldn’t, and the result often made him a foul conversationalist, as he well knew.
Bishop followed him outside, relocking the door with a spare key from the kitchen. “Since you’re so keen on my safety, would you give me a boost back into St. M’s?”
Sidney realized then how much time had elapsed while perusing Tolliver’s hidden box and ground a curse between his teeth. He would have to climb the ivy over Swithun’s walls or find a bench himself. “Yes, all right,” he said. “Let’s go.”
He hurried on, flipping up his coat collar against the raindrops, but Bishop drew close underneath a large brolly that she’d produced from thin air.
“Here, we can share.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re difficult,” she said tartly. “Share the umbrella.”
Sidney ducked to join her. He ought to have carried it and added a few inches of coverage, but Bishop ignored his attempts to take the ivory handle from her, forcing him to hover near her face.
“So,” she began briskly, leaning toward him, “why did the Rook send you to Tolliver’s?”
There was a slight undercurrent of why you and not me?
in her tone that made Sidney roll his eyes.
He didn’t feel much like talking, but it was a better distraction from the growing darkness inside him than breathing Bishop’s perfume.
“I saw the American snooping outside the cottage earlier today.” He hesitated a moment, before adding, “I followed him here from Grigor Olenev’s. He was also watching the shop.”
“You went back to Olenev’s?” Bishop exclaimed. “Hypocrite.”
“Enough time had passed, and I wasn’t crawling through windows.”
“Not there, you mean.”
Sidney ignored the sarcasm. “I saw Watkins and Neville both go inside, so it was worth it.”
“We already knew they visit the bookstore. The Rook told us that was criteria for this list of suspects.”
“And I like to verify. What if they only want to browse in peace, far away from students?”
“And do they?”
Sidney hesitated. “I can’t answer that yet. Both slipped in and out pretty quickly, though.”
Bishop’s dark lashes fluttered in dismissal, and Sidney decided to return fire.
“So, did you find something worth telling the Rook or not? Your message wasn’t clear.”
Bishop’s attention became riveted upon the wet pavement. “I’m still working that out.” After a few beats of strained silence, she added stiffly, “Can you translate Russian?”
Sidney stopped and stared down at her, heedless of the rain streaming down his collar. “What exactly did you find?”
“A letter,” she began, her brow knitting together, “in one of Dr. Neville’s books. Though he mentioned Russian chess partners when we played, so perhaps it’s merely from a friend.”
“He’s got a foreign pen pal, and you didn’t tell me?”
“It doesn’t read like anything important,” Bishop protested. “The parts I have translated seem like an account of the weather and what’s growing in the garden.”
Sidney bristled with irritation and resumed walking, leaving Bishop and the umbrella behind. He was trying his best not to scowl, he really was, but for someone so eager to take on this job, her lack of discipline was going to drive him mad. The least she could do was follow simple directions.
Bishop forced herself back to his side, and Sidney gritted his teeth. “What were you expecting to find?” he asked. “Thanks for all the confidential information you’ve passed? Codes aren’t always strings of gibberish.”
“I know that.” Bishop’s chest heaved with indignation. “Which is why I asked for the Rook’s number.”
“You didn’t ask,” Sidney retorted. “You gave me a hypothetical.”
Bishop’s eyes flashed with an anger darker than the rain-drenched night. “Then please forgive me for a weak attempt at humor to soften the humiliation. It is very difficult to ask for help from someone who doesn’t want to offer it—”
A faint crack on the path behind them made Sidney’s neck prickle. He half turned, brushing Bishop’s shoulders as though dispelling raindrops, and caught a faint smudge of movement on the edge of the lamplight. Someone had stopped walking.
“I think we’re being followed,” he said quietly.
Bishop stiffened, but he felt her resist the urge to turn around. “For how long?”
“I don’t know. I only just now heard them.”
“So they might have seen us leave Tolliver’s.” Bishop cursed under her breath. “Right, this way.”
She led him around the high wall encircling St. Mildred’s that looked daunting for an after-hours climb compared with Swithun’s obliging ivy-covered exterior.
But a brisk walk brought them to an orchard adjacent to the college where the wall’s texture changed.
Instead of the high, smooth masonry near the front gate, thick stones were stacked and mortared like loaves of bread.
“Much easier to get a foothold here,” Bishop said, “but it helps to have someone boost you up—and catch you, of course, in case of disaster. Do you think our tail is still watching?”
Sidney knelt and retied his shoe, surveying the shadowy grove. There were too many places to hide—but then he saw it. A streetlamp on the main road reached far enough to cast a perfect outline against the wall: Someone hid behind a tree only twenty paces away.
“Seven o’clock,” he whispered, rising.
“How am I supposed to know which direction is twelve? I’ll never spot them that way.” Bishop exhaled in exasperation. “Right. Hold still.”