A Matter of Trust

by Maxine Barry

  She grimaced as he rose to his feet, a big Adonis of a man, and felt her rage build. ‘You’re such a cold fish, Callum, did you know that?’ she said mockingly. ‘We could have had such a good time together, but no, you were all hands off. And even now, you’re giving off waves of haughty disdain as if you were somebody’s maiden aunt being shown something nasty in the woodpile. Why don’t you grow up and get a life?’

  Callum smiled grimly. ‘Thanks for the coffee, Rosemary,’ he said and walked to the door. But when he looked back at her, he suddenly felt a shaft of pity for her wash over him.

  She looked lonely, and just a little beleaguered.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked softly. ‘You have someone to talk to?’

  Rosemary shot him a furious look. ‘Of course! And of course!’ But if she was openly showing how vulnerable she felt to Callum Fielding of all people, she’d have to be careful!

  When her temporary bedmate had told her who’d been short listed for the Prize, she’d known instantly that Ngabe and Fielding had to be the front runners. She didn’t know Ngabe well, but had decided there might be something to gain by trying to con Callum Fielding. After all, if he could be persuaded to split even half the prize money with her, it would fund her own research project for another couple of years. It wasn’t going very well, and already there were rumblings at Truman’s that she might have to cut it short.

  But she should have known that Callum Fielding would have a knight-in-shining-armour attitude when it came to personal honour and integrity. Damn him.

  For a long, long while after he left, Rosemary Naismith stared at the wall in front of her, her face outwardly blank, her inner mind churning.

  Callum had been born into a staid, reasonably well-to-do upper middle class family. He’d always been able to take his privileges and his first-rate education for granted. What did he know of self-doubt?

  But she, Rosemary Naismith, had been the daughter of a small-town provincial solicitor. Her mother, when she wasn’t secretly drinking, had done nothing more civic-minded than chair the odd church committee. She’d been educated in a run-down, clapped out grammar school. She’d earned her undergraduate place at Oxford by sheer force of her own self-discipline, her grim and dogged willingness to study after school in the public library, and had even then only succeeded in gaining a place by the very skin of her teeth.

  There’d been no old-school tie sponsor in her background, smoothing the way. But she’d got her place. And even, again through sheer and unremitting slog, had managed to gain an upper second. Even so, she had to watch and burn with envy as others, far less hardworking students than herself, had somehow breezed their way to a first class degree and a guaranteed graduate place.

  She knew that, by comparison, she’d only been allowed to go on to get her B.Sc., because her tutors had backed her corner. Knowing that she didn’t have a first-class academic mind, they argued that her drive and hard work would make up for it.

  But she’d shown them all, and had got the B.Sc., and then scraped a two-year Research Fellowship on the basis of it. Enough to allow her to at least start on a D.Phil. thesis of her own. Nobody, though, had believed she’d get it. Not even, in the deepest, darkest part of her, herself. But if she’d wanted to stay in Oxford, if she was to become a full-fledged Oxford Don, she needed that D.Phil.

  Needed it badly.

  And Rosemary was determined not to leave Oxford. From the very first day she’d arrived to begin her undergraduate studies, the city had captivated her. Enthralled her. Boosted her. Back home, in that dull little Midlands town, she was a nothing and a nobody. But here, in Oxford, she was one of the elite. And as a Don, rather than a student, she could be one of the super-elite.

  Dining at High Table. Being invited to ceremonies at the Sheldonian Theatre. Striding to Schools, in the lush rich gown of full academic dress, seeing the sightseers watching her, having her picture taken by the tourists. Somebody noteworthy. Somebody important. Somebody other people in the street pointed to with admiration and respect.

  It was not surprising then, when she’d been assigned as Brian Aldernay’s supervisor, she’d been thrown into despair by the quickness and quality of his work. He’d made her feel totally inadequate, as she compared his progress towards earning a D.Phil. degree, and her own. Because her B.Sc. was in the same area as his own research, she’d been able to follow his line of thought faultlessly. And quickly realised that it was vastly superior to her own.

  Rosemary leaned forward in her chair now, rocking back and forth, her arms folded across her chest in a mute attempt at self-comfort. Her mind, however, sped back over the years.

  Brian had been a shy, uncommunicative sort of man, a typical academic, living in his own narrow world. She’d encouraged him not to discuss his work with others, mainly because she couldn’t bear to have others know how bright he was, in comparison with herself.

  As his supervisor, she’d made encouraging reports on his progress and work, without going into detail about it. So when, her own Research Fellowship having run out only a month before, Brian Aldernay had died before being assigned another supervisor, the plan had leapt straight into her head.

  She’d contacted his widow and learned that she was going back north with their young daughter. So there would be no opposition there, and no awkward questions coming from that quarter.

  She’d very cleverly represented herself to Brian’s widow as both his tutor and the university’s representative. Thus, acting as a go-between, she’d managed to make sure that nobody else from the university would ever have the opportunity to read Brian’s work.

  It was during that time that she’d copied down all of Brian’s work before handing it back to the grieving widow. Even then, Rosemary hadn’t been sure she would go through with it.

  And yet she’d found herself finishing his research, bringing it to a conclusive, clever resolution, something that was easy to do, since he’d already done all the hard work and thinking for her. And because their fields were so similar, and she’d been so purposely vague with her own supervisor about her work over the months, she was able to gradually incorporate Brian Aldernay’s work into her own and represent it as totally her own thinking.

  When she’d finally submitted the thesis, she’d half expected the heavens to open. For somebody—Brian Aldernay’s ghost, his widow maybe or the university authorities—somebody, to expose the sham, ruin her life and have her drummed out of Oxford in disgrace.

  But it had never happened.

  She’d been awarded the D.Phil, and been accepted by her own College as junior tutor in Experimental psychology.

  And if those in the know had, in private, expressed some surprise that the rather mediocre Rosemary should come up with such a brilliant thesis, most had put it down to her being a late-achiever.

  And over the years, she’d settled down, thinking about Brian Aldernay less and less, until his memory bothered her not at all. She rarely thought about the young man, killed when knocked off his bicycle by a drunk driver. Writing minor, thesis-related articles that were at least regularly published, she’d managed to weave her life into the fabric of Oxford, until she’d almost forgotten that she’d ever stolen someone else’s work in the first place.

  But things had not been going well for her for some time. She did not have an original mind. She needed to do something to put her back on top, which was why she’d been hoping to muscle in, through the back door, by getting her hands on some of the Kendal Prize money.

  And she still wasn’t finished with Callum Fielding yet. There was something about his aloofness that made her itch to shatter his armour of invulnerability.

  * * *

  Nesta Aldernay paced restlessly about the small bedsit she’d rented for herself in the suburb of Holywell, trying not to feel so helpless.

  It had been over a week since she’d first introduced herself, and her problem, to Sir Vivian, and the waiting was torture. But he was the kind of man who nee
ded time to do his research well and thoroughly, and only then would he act.

  He would simply have to. Dr Naismith had robbed her father of the credit for his life’s work and then cynically climbed to prominence off his back—she’d stolen his very thoughts, his brilliant conceptions and had blatantly plagiarised his theories, no doubt thinking that it would be safe for her to do so.

  As it had been, for so many years.

  Nesta knew that her father must have been barely months away from presenting his thesis when he died so suddenly and tragically. And with that degree under his belt he could have done anything he desired. Private practice. Teaching. Pure research. A glittering career could have stretched before him. How different all their lives would have been if only fate had been kinder. But instead of a life of promise, Brian Aldernay had died, and his family had ended up with no money, no home, and no prospects.

  After all, what did Brian Aldernay’s widow know about her husband’s brilliant theory in Experimental psychology? Nothing. Mavis Aldernay had been the daughter of a coal miner, perfectly content to do a dead-end job and be the family bread-winner, safe in the knowledge that eventually a glittering, professional lifestyle lay just around the corner for all of them.

  She’d been happy with her baby daughter, and working in the local branch of Mothercare until such time as Brian had finished his studies. It wasn’t hard to understand, then, that when he’d died so senselessly and catastrophically, she’d wanted to do nothing more than return to her home in Durham to lick her wounds, where her own mother and family could give her the support and loving care she had so desperately needed.

  Even if she’d given her husband’s papers a passing thought, she’d never have been able to understand them. Much less realise their true value and worth.

  But somebody else had understood them. And had stolen them. And only Nesta, uncannily following in her father’s footsteps in pursuing a career in psychology, had been qualified to understand what she was reading, when she’d stumbled on his academic papers in the attic all those years later.

  Nesta jumped as she heard a door slam just along the passage. One of her fellow tenants, no doubt, just on the way out for the evening.

  She was glad that she’d made some plans for the evening.

  Her lodgings were in the converted attics of a rabbit warren of a house, and came complete with a garrulous landlady and extremely bad plumbing. Although reassuringly cheap, it wasn’t the sort of place you hung around in when you could be somewhere else.

  Now she walked determinedly to her wardrobe (the doors of which didn’t quite meet in the centre) and pulled out her one good dress—a black satiny-looking creation with a square, lace-filled neckline and long, black lace sleeves. It fell to knee length in a no-nonsense cut, but with her bell-shaped red hair and large green eyes, the colour suited her perfectly.

  She was looking forward to this evening. Her father still had friends who remembered him in Oxford, and when she’d tentatively approached two of them, a married couple who’d both roomed with Brian way back when, they’d instantly invited her to Dinner. She hoped they’d remember something of what her father had been working on. When the monkey wrench was thrown into the works, she wanted to know that she had people who would stand by her.

  And more importantly, stand by her father.

  Not that she could tell them the whole story now, of course. Not after her promise to Sir Vivian. But she could feel out the lie of the land. In this town, she was sure, she was going to need all the friends she could get.

  She sighed and collected her bag, then switched off the light. The time was just gone seven o’clock when she let herself out of the building and got into her VW Beetle. As she turned on the rather noisy engine and indicated to pull out, she wondered what Dr Rosemary Naismith was doing right now. Had Sir Vivian approached her yet? And if he had, what had been her reaction?

  Unaccountably, she found herself shivering, just as if someone had just walked over her grave. A feeling of foreboding sent her hands trembling.

  ‘Damn it, Nesta, get a grip,’ she muttered angrily to herself. ‘Nothing that bad’s going to happen.’

  But she was wrong.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Callum Fielding checked his appearance in the mirror briefly. Normally on a Thursday night, he’d be dining at High Table, where a dark suit and tie would make him amongst the better dressed. But tonight was hardly any other Thursday night.

  The Kendall Prize Dinner started at eight, and he couldn’t afford to be late. The Prize was always held at St Bede’s, of course, since it had been George Kendall’s old college, but this was the first year for many a decade that a member of St Bede’s itself might also be in with a chance of winning it. With around forty colleges comprising the university though, Callum wasn’t holding his breath. No matter what Rosemary Naismith might have to say.

  Rosemary. Just what was she up to? He’d heard the rumours circulating around the university that her latest research wasn’t going well. Theirs was a small world, and filled with gossip, after all. But did she really think he’d collude with her to cheat the Kendall Foundation?

  He sighed, and checked his tie.

  He was wearing a black tuxedo with a pale electric-blue silk bow tie. He’d had the suit hand-tailored for him at one of Oxford’s best gentleman’s outfitters, simply because, being his height and impressive width, buying anything off the peg was all but impossible. With his silver-white hair and the colour of his tie making his eyes seem more sky-blue than sea-grey, he thought he looked passable.

  When he walked into the Dining Hall a few minutes later, however, the way all female eyes gravitated towards him could have told him that he looked downright spectacular, but Callum barely registered the interest.

  Instead, his eyes ran over the room, and with a brief smile he acknowledged both friends and colleagues, before reaching for a glass of red wine from one of the college’s scouts, who was walking around with a loaded tray.

  As he moved further into the room, he noticed a gaggle of men surrounding a female figure in the centre of the room, but his eyes were on a short woman in a bright orange and yellow African gown, with a matching turban. He’d never been much good at socialising, and preferred to use any occasion as a chance to talk psychology—especially in his own field.

  ‘Dr Ngabe, hello again. I read your paper . . .’ He began to converse with his colleague, and within minutes was listening intently to her reply. Hers was an astute mind, and the two of them had often spent hours discussing their various theories. He felt a presence hover at his elbow and turned to find Sir Vivian Dalrymple beside him.

  His face creased into a genuine smile of pleasure. ‘Vivian!’

  The old man had been his primary tutor during his undergraduate years, and he’d often felt he’d learned more from the great man than most of his other tutors put together.

  In the centre of the room, and surrounded by men, Markie Kendall found her eyes tracking a giant of a man as he walked into the room. The light hitting his ultra-fair hair caught her eye first, and then she’d felt her heartbeat pick up a beat as she took in the tall, muscled length of him. He might have been almost too handsome if he hadn’t also been very interesting to look at as well. He moved like an athlete, and seemed to be hardly aware that he was in the midst of a party. Something about his aloofness sparked a defiant challenge deep in her feminine psyche.

  His face as he listened to his companion talk was tight with concentration, and Markie knew she had to meet him, to have him look at her like that, and she gently eased herself from her circle of admirers and began to gravitate in his direction.

  Unfortunately, as she did so she got waylaid by the party bore. There was always one at every event, and this night it was Professor Michael Porter, a forty-something Fellow of Truman Hall, who obviously thought of himself as the university Casanova. He’d been trying to gawp down her dress from the moment they’d been introduced.

  ‘Marche
ta, let me get you a fresh drink.’

  Markie sighed, and glanced at her watch. In just a few minutes they’d be going in to dine and then she’d be limited to interact with whoever was in her immediate radius. If she was to inspect the intriguing fair giant close up, she’d better get cracking.

  She waited until Professor Porter turned to retrieve a fresh glass for her, and then slipped away towards her quarry. As she did so, an older, distinguished man joined the intently talking pair, and she wondered just what her opening gambit should be. In a room full of academics, she was feeling—most unusually for her—just a little bit intimidated.

  She heard the blond giant say, ‘Vivian,’ and then felt her elbow clamped by Professor Porter. She bit back a sigh of annoyance, and smiled.

  ‘Here you are. Old Sin Jun can usually be relied upon to provide some decent plonk. You’ve met the Principal, I expect?’ Professor Porter said smoothly.

  Markie nodded. ‘I’ve met Lord St John, yes.’ She had contacted the current Principal of her grandfather’s old college not long after arriving in Oxford, when they’d gone through the protocol for the Dinner and prize-giving.

  ‘Who’s that distinguished-looking old man?’ she asked craftily, pointing just beyond her. Surely, the Professor would then give her a run down on all three of them. The blond giant had his back to her and hadn’t yet seen her, and as she spoke, she noticed that the woman in the eye-catching African garb looked up at him with an expression of concern on her face.

  Callum returned Dr Ngabe’s look with one of his own. For it was now apparent to both of them that Sir Vivian Dalrymple was slightly the worse for drink. And in all the years that Callum had known him—which were many—he’d never seen the eminent man even mildly intoxicated before.

  ‘Are you feeling well, SirVivian?’ Dr Ngabe asked gently.

  Just beyond them, Professor Porter said, ‘Oh, that’s the great man himself. Well, one of them. Oxford is full of them. But this one won your family Prize many years ago now. Sir Vivian Dalrymple.’