Chapter Eighteen
Sidney leaned against the bursar’s desk with the phone cradled between his shoulder and jaw, waiting for the operator to connect his call.
He still had a touch of adrenaline churning his blood from their escapade in Neville’s office the night before, and revision had felt impossible.
Instead of staring out the window, pencil tapping the page, he’d decided to take Felix’s advice and call their parents.
Mr. Jarrod had directed Sidney inside when he requested to use his phone, the old man kindly absenting himself for an afternoon constitutional.
Sidney had assumed the bursar took pity on him as a fellow injured ex-serviceman when he’d first asked to earn pocket money with odd jobs.
But the accumulation of work requests on Jarrod’s noticeboard since Sidney had stopped helping that term surprised him.
Perhaps he was of more use around the college than he realized.
On the third ring, there was an answer. “Hallo, Braithwaite residence.”
“Hi, Mum.”
“Sidney!” Warmth flooded her soft voice. “So good to hear from you, dearie.”
“How is everything?”
“Fine, dearie, just fine. I found yet another box I didn’t unpack last year, and I’ve half a mind to donate it to the charity shop. Surely, I won’t miss whatever’s in there that much.” There was a slight hesitation. “How’s it gan?”
“Fine.” It was the same pattern of pleasant mimicry for all conversations with his parents, and Sidney cleared his throat. “I mean, I’m tired. Busy revising.”
“Of course you are, poor lamb. Mary Beth’s boy is also at Oxford, and she told me—” His mother launched into a winding tale about some hapless youth in Balliol who had been rusticated, but it had impressed upon her how strenuous Sidney’s workload must be.
“I understand now, love, why you canna spend much time at home. You do what you must, and know your father and I are proud of thee.”
Sidney twisted the phone cord round his finger until it hurt.
“I know, Mum.” He hesitated, struggling to form the words: Home wasn’t the problem; it was him.
Only every time he tried to apologize for all the nightmares that had woken up his parents, any explanation threatened to ruin the delicate peace he’d found at Oxford.
The less he thought about the years right after the war, the better.
But his mother’s lilting voice pressed on in her cheery manner. “Do you want to speak to your father? He’s in the garden, let me fetch him.”
Without waiting for Sidney’s reply, there was the soft plunk of the receiver dropping onto the kitchen counter, the creak of the back door, and a muffled shout of, “Jim, Sidney’s called.”
Sidney counted down the seconds: his father easing up from the wicker chair he’d set in the front garden to watch birds, the stiff walk along the shell-lined path, changing his shoes for slippers at the door, then shuffling across the faded yellow linoleum.
There was a gravelly cough, and his father’s voice said, “Sidney, lad. Good of thee to call.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine, lad, just fine.”
Sidney sent up a silent prayer for patience.
James Braithwaite had given up the Cumberland mines only after the doctor said his lungs wouldn’t carry on another five years in such conditions, but Devon had been a hard adjustment for a man as craggy as the northeast coastline.
Sidney’s mother, however, was flourishing in the change of scenery.
Felix was like her in that regard, a greenhouse plant happy anywhere with food and sunshine.
There was an indistinct mumble in the background, and his father’s voice grew thin as though addressing someone else. “Sarah, love, Mary Beth wants a word about that rosebush leaning on the fence if you’ll placate her.”
The door creaked again in the background, and his father sighed. “We are fine, lad, truly. Only your mother is pining away for a glimpse of thee.” He coughed. “And you missed her birthday.”
Sidney turned the phone into his shoulder to muffle a curse.
It was the day he’d slept off the drink, the day of the debate—the day Tolliver died.
And he had absolutely forgotten her birthday.
“I’m sorry. It was—a terrible day, and I did.
I’ll make it up to her—soon. I could visit during the summer vacation and help around the house.
Aye?” Alarm fluttered in his stomach, surprised at himself, but he wrestled it down. A short visit would be fine.
“That’d be grand, son. She’ll be delighted.” There was a warm rumble of satisfaction. “Now, tell me what you’ve been studying…”
Sidney returned to his room in the hall of residence with his spirit lighter than it had been all year and tried again to apply himself to revision.
He’d been foolish to put off the phone call this long, and for once he was grateful for Felix’s interference.
The year away from Oxford, moving his parents from Cumberland to Devon, had been hard.
There’d been too much time for brooding, and splinters from the war had reemerged in his soul.
Sidney had taken to drink every night, enough to cloud over Amélie’s face, and his parents’ worried looks had only made it worse.
Going home even briefly had felt potentially disastrous this year when he’d only just regained his footing at Oxford.
But loath as he was to admit it, working with Ginevra had improved his mental balance that term.
It was as unpredictable as he had imagined, true, but it wasn’t annoying him as much as he’d anticipated.
Ginevra’s enthusiasm for the job was infectious, particularly the way her eyes shifted through different shades of green with her moods: emerald intensity to jade calm, and speckled with starlight when merry.
And the way her skin had felt brushing against his cheek—
Sidney scrubbed both hands through his hair. He had to stop thinking about green eyes and soft skin. Or this investigation was going to go completely awry.
There was a smart rap at the door, and Harold burst inside. “Sidney! Look what I just received. You’ll never guess.” He tossed a piece of creamy stationery across Sidney’s desk, scattering his things. “Sorry, old boy. But read it!”
The paper was moist and slightly curling as though Harold had been turning it over and over, and it took Sidney a moment to make sense of what he was reading. “‘The Damocles Club invites you—’” He stopped and raised an eyebrow. “It’s an invitation to a gala in honor of the club’s centennial?”
“Donald Craddock told me they decided to use my idea and throw open the doors!” Harold made a small punch of joy into the air. “They’ve invited nearly everyone, I think, but the important part is that we prospective members finally have a chance to get in there and rub some elbows.”
Damage control, no doubt. The protest had emboldened some students to voice their displeasure with the club’s notorious exclusivity.
Just that morning, Sidney had passed a group in the courtyard discussing how best to discourage men from applying for membership—shunning them was the suggestion he overheard.
Even as someone who deeply disliked the club and what it represented, it felt harsh.
There were plenty of interested lads, like Harold, who were decent.
But a party of this size would be a monstrous thing, on scale with the May Balls if they were inviting so many people. Only as Sidney read the final line of the page, he realized it wasn’t being held in Oxford.
“Foxley Hall,” he read. “Where’s that?”
“About a half hour’s drive into Wiltshire. I’ve always wanted to see it,” Harold said. “I’ve heard it’s a fine old place.” He gripped Sidney’s shoulders and gave him a playful shake. “This will be my chance, Sid. I can feel it!”
“I hope so,” Sidney muttered, “if only so you’ll stop obsessing.”
But Harold had already spotted someone passing Sidney’s door with whom he wished to share the joyous news. “It’s a pity we have to wait a whole week,” he called, backing out of the room. “I shall get nothing done!”
It was a mercy it was only a week, or Sidney would get nothing done with Harold’s excitement so frothing. He returned to his books and sighed.
There was a soft plink against the window, and Sidney frowned over his shoulder. Another plink, but this time he spotted the small pebble hitting the glass. He crossed the room in two steps and peered down into the courtyard.
The glimmer of auburn hair among the trees was all he needed to fly down the stairs.
He found Gin pacing the garden as though to wear down a new path. “What’s wrong?”
She shoved a note card into his hands. “We missed something—the Rook missed something. Something very big indeed.”
Sidney read the scribbled address and frowned. “Patricia Crowne?”
“In Shropshire,” Gin emphasized. “And Marion is going to live with her.”
“Then Marion might be related to Robert if it’s the same family,” Sidney murmured. “Shite.”
“Indeed.” Gin pinched her brow. “I was heading over to her flat to deliver a book left behind at The Blue, and now I don’t know what to think. Do we call the Rook again?”
“He wasn’t in when I called last night. His secretary said he’d be in touch later…” Sidney tapped the card against his hand. “I say we go to Marion’s now if there’s a chance of catching her before she leaves town. I think we can handle her together, just for a chat.”
An hour later, Sidney realized he might have underestimated Ginevra’s reports of the draconic landlady.
“You again?” Mrs. McKibbin narrowed her eyes at them. “I’m sorry, but Miss Kirk no longer resides on these premises.” She sniffed. “There was an incident at the university.”
“I see.” Gin hesitated, worrying at her lip. “Could I speak with Miss Tuttle instead?”