Lessons for Survivors

by Charlie Cochrane

  “Though I never thought I’d ever say it, I suspect I preferred going over the top to facing this.” Orlando looked around at the mass of people, all there in honour of him and his new position. He lowered his voice. “I couldn’t have faced it if you hadn’t been here.”

  “Oh hush,” Jonty whispered, secretly delighted. For all his teasing, he liked the shy and reticent part of his lover’s personality; thank God that hadn’t disappeared during the months at the front. However much a hero Orlando had been out in France, he would never boast of what he’d done. Both of them kept their medals hidden away for secret appreciation. “And here’s Dr. Sheridan.”

  The master of St. Bride’s topped Orlando by a couple of inches; he was tall, thin, and handsome with a Puckish twinkle in his eye that sometimes flared and caught anyone who didn’t know him well enough totally by surprise. Dr. Sheridan had astounded everyone by being given the post of master in the first place, not being a St. Bride’s man, but he was proving to be more than able. Jonty envied nobody the job. The master had to be diplomat and arbiter when the situation required, rigorous academic and scholar if that was expected, and Sheridan had filled every role.

  The fact that he was the loving husband to the sister of the previous master, and that their late-flowering love had filled the college with its joy, was a bonus.

  “Gentlemen. This is a great occasion for St. Bride’s and a greater occasion for you.” Sheridan shook Orlando’s hand for at least the third time that day, and then cuffed Jonty on the arm. “Mrs. Sheridan is furious, of course, not to have been allowed to come—although she understands the constraints placed upon us at such times. She looks forward very much to your inaugural lecture and hopes that she will understand at least part of it.”

  “I suspect she’ll understand every word and pick me up on where I go wrong.” Orlando smiled. “Please give her my very best wishes and thanks for her kind words.”

  “We could give her a blow-by-blow account of what’s happened if she wishes. With all the speeches and actions.” Jonty grinned. “If she can’t wait until the dinner party, I’ll drop into the lodge and give an impression of Dr. Coppersmith, when he was still a mere doctor and not yet professorified, trying to look dignified and not like a seven-year-old boy with a new kite.”

  Orlando was evidently trying not to look like a seven-year-old boy who wanted to murder his best friend. “I’m sure she’d prefer to hear a truthful description of the occasion from me, rather than your exaggerations.”

  “Gentlemen.” Sheridan held up his hand like a referee intervening in a nasty set-to around a ruck at Old Deer Park. “You’ll both be superfluous, as I’ll be giving the full story the moment I walk through the lodge door. I won’t be allowed to get my coat off until I’ve at least begun, anyway. You can repeat the tale over dinner, but your thunder will have been stolen.”

  The arrival in their midst of an emeritus professor of divinity from an obscure London college interrupted the laughter ensuing on the master’s comments, and Jonty started to count down the minutes until they could make their escape with dignity.

  Orlando’s study at St. Bride’s had never looked so welcoming. Despite aching legs from standing on their feet and being sociable for so long, he and Jonty threw caution to the wind and almost bounded up the stairs, then slumped into the armchairs, only stopping en route for two glasses and the decanter.

  The sherry was very welcome. Orlando worried at times that taking to the bottle was becoming a bit too habitual for comfort, but Mrs. Stewart had always sworn that a small sherry—especially a sweet one at times of trial—practically counted as medicine. He felt as though he needed something therapeutic now, having been sustained after the ceremony by nothing stronger than milky tea and a few sandwiches. He and Jonty hadn’t been able to make it as far as the porters’ lodge, let alone all the way back to Forsythia Cottage, without nipping in to make use of what lurked in Orlando’s study. Port felt too decadent for five o’clock in the afternoon, so sherry it had to be, and very welcome it was.

  Jonty slumped into a chair with his drink and immediately loosened his collar and tie. “You were magnificent. Absolutely looked the part of the austere mathematical man.” He took a swig of sherry and let out a huge sigh. “If only they all knew what you were really like. They’d have to be administered sal volatile at the very least.”

  “Oh, hush.” Orlando wasn’t displeased; he quite liked people supposing he was stern and logically minded. Really he was an old romantic—at least where Jonty was concerned—and a positive lion in bed. He didn’t want people knowing that, though. He and Jonty might have a reputation throughout the university as two singular and rather eccentric men who had to share a house as no one else would put up with either of them, but what if someone put two and two together?

  “And don’t think I missed the ‘like you’ remark," he added, glancing at Jonty. "Am I really old-fashioned and a bit stuffy?”

  “Don’t forget the bit about being out of touch with the times. Yes, you have the capacity to be all of those, but you also said that Cambridge was wonderful.” Jonty leaned forward and tapped Orlando’s knee. “You’re that as well.”

  “Hm,” Orlando snorted, deliberately ignoring the compliment. “I’ll have you know, I’m regarded as one of the most forward-thinking men in my department.”

  “Yes, well, given what I saw today of the great and good from your department, I wouldn’t use that as any self-advertisement. I’m surprised half of them aren’t on display with the iguanodon down at the museum. You’ll be a breath of fresh air to them.” Jonty leaned back again in his chair. “Been a bit of a strain for both of us today, hasn’t it? I feel like the father of the bride or something.”

  “That makes me the bride, I suppose.” Orlando grimaced. “Still, I hope that’s the hard bit done. Even delivering that inaugural lecture can’t be as daunting.” He looked at Jonty for reassurance. “Can it?”

  “I always think, with public speaking, that the best thing to do is imagine all your audience is naked. Takes away your nerves entirely, even if it gives you the collywobbles.” Jonty knocked back the rest of his sherry; it had been a hard day. “Only maybe don’t imagine Lavinia in her birthday suit, as Ralph will be round to thump you one. He has the capacity to read minds, I believe.”

  “I can’t think of anything more ghastly than imagining the vice-chancellor and all the other great men of the university wandering round in nothing but their academic gowns and hoods.” Orlando reached for the decanter and topped both of their glasses up. This was a ‘take two doses of medicine’ day. “We mustn’t forget to take our post back home. What was so important about those two letters, anyway?”

  “Which two letters? Oh.” Jonty patted his jacket. “I’d forgotten about them. One’s from Lavinia, although that’s just family matters. Thought I’d take it with me so the old girl would be represented at your ‘do,’ figuratively if not literally. Seemed right.”

  “And the other one?”

  “Oh, that’s your reward for smiling so angelically today.” Jonty took out his spectacles, slipped them on, and then caressed the envelope affectionately. “What you’d refer to as a professional enquiry. Someone wants to know if he can consult us. A case. Not one you pack your shirts in. Hey!” Jonty pulled away his fingers, which had come between Orlando’s viselike grip and the letter. “Were you never told not to snatch?”

  “And were you never told not to tease? You’ve had wind of a case all day and you hesitated to share it.” Orlando held out his hand and tried to look appealing. “Please?”

  Jonty passed the letter over. “See, all you had to do was ask nicely. We shouldn’t run into taking it, though, just because it’s come at what feels like the right time.” In the run-up to the war, they’d been able to pick and choose what they took on, rather like Sherlock Holmes had done in the Conan Doyle stories that Jonty’s father had so loved and Orlando completely detested. Even now, if anybody made the comparison bet
ween the two pairs of detectives, Orlando was at pains to point out that Jonty was far more intelligent than the Watson of the stories. Even if Jonty himself argued that Watson as narrator was probably downplaying his own skills while promoting his friend’s.

  The last few years, Orlando’d had the growing suspicion that Jonty was doing exactly the same thing.

  “Would you care to give me the salient points while I peruse this?” Orlando held up the letter.

  “No, that would take away all the fun. You read while I shut my eyes and think for two minutes.”

  “Think? You’ll be having a crafty forty winks if I know . . . Ow!” Orlando rubbed his shin. It seemed to have a permanent bruise there at times, being one of Jonty’s favourite kick-you-for-being-cheeky-or-not-paying-attention spots. He wished he’d had the foresight to move the armchairs farther apart, or to have worn shin guards. “Perhaps I should save reading this until you’ve had your nap. In deference to your slowing down with age.”

  “Slowing down, am I? By heavens, if you still kept a set of rooms here, rather than just this study, I’d have you over the bed and show you who’s displaying no signs whatsoever of slowing down. Ow!”

  “Taste of your own medicine.” Orlando grinned at having managed to get a pretty sharp blow in. Jonty was usually on his guard and ready to shift his leg out of the way; perhaps this was further evidence of him showing his age. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking. Maybe we shouldn’t take on anything before my lecture’s done.”

  “What?” Jonty almost shot out of his armchair. “Where’s all the enthusiasm from earlier on?”

  “I just want to savour anything we get involved with solving.” Orlando smoothed the letter in his hands. “Too often in the past, the investigation’s all been a dreadful rush, and that’s half the fun taken away.”

  “I suppose so. This one’s got a pretty tight deadline attached, although the thought of that always seems to galvanise you. Still, if the timing’s wrong, then maybe we’ll just have to give this one a miss . . .” Jonty slowly took off his spectacles and put them away again. “I’ll send the Reverend Bresnan a reply along the lines of us not having sufficient time at present.” He reached out and took the letter.

  “How long a deadline?” Orlando felt the words come out of his mouth, although he’d only intended to think them. For all his reticence, he did like solving a conundrum while the sands were running out of the hourglass, no matter how much he protested. It was like eating very spicy food—both a pleasure and a pain. And he wanted to prove they could still cut the investigational mustard.

  “A month. So by your reckoning, we definitely haven’t got time.” Jonty made to throw the letter on the fire, although his grip on the piece of paper remained firm.

  Little bugger, he knows I can’t resist for long. He’s playing me like a fish. Orlando stood his ground. “A month? It would be very easy to use up that much time without achieving very much. We’d have to be consulted pretty quickly, for a start, or the sands of time would already be trickling through our fingers.” In that short a time, they might just fail too, which was untenable.

  “Well, as a matter of fact—a splendidly convenient fact—that’s not going to be a problem, as the writer is coming up to Cambridge on Thursday. But that wouldn’t be any use, would it? We shouldn’t tempt ourselves.” Jonty made a show of putting the letter away, but it still didn’t leave his hand.

  “Where’s he staying?” Orlando sighed, half-defeated.

  “He’ll be at the University Arms and we could leave a message there, assuming he starts out from home before I can telephone him.” Jonty folded the letter up carefully.

  “Starts out? Where’s he coming from, the Pyrenees?”

  “Almost. Deepest, darkest Gloucestershire, which is almost as remote and certainly as cold.” Jonty looked particularly innocent, a sure sign he was winning the fight and knew it. “I could ring him as soon as we get home, if you want.”

  Orlando sat back, conquered. A lecture to write and give, new duties to assume in the department (another change Cambridge had seen that he didn’t entirely approve of), newly arrived dunderheads to be licked into some sort of shape, this plagiarism case to be opened and (he hoped) swiftly shut. He didn’t have the capacity for an investigation, especially one with time pressures. But to give up now, through fear of failure, would be an act of cowardice.

  “We’ll see him over lunch on Thursday, if that’s convenient.”

  “Good man.” Jonty returned the letter to his pocket, blissfully and blatantly triumphant. Orlando tried to console himself not only with the thought of a mystery to solve, but the prospect of trying to replicate that blissful look on his lover’s face in bed that night.

  Jonty rang the Reverend Ian Bresnan, reporting to Orlando that an appointment over Thursday lunch had apparently proved to be, “Alas, already spoken for.” He’d promised he’d be free later in the afternoon, so a mutually agreeable time was found when tea, biscuits, and investigation could be on offer in Jonty’s study at St. Bride’s.

  Not Orlando’s study this time, even though it had been the setting for many such discussions of mysteries. He’d become even more crabby about who was allowed in there than in his pre-Jonty days. It was, according to his lover, one of the developing (although still somewhat endearing) peculiarities of character, as much a hangover from the war as the diminution in his confidence and the huge scar across his chest. Jonty’s study was messy, welcoming, and a place of refuge for the cares of the world. Orlando would have to explain at some point why the departmental meeting hadn’t gone as well as anticipated, but for the moment, he’d put on a brave face.

  Jonty had arranged for the college kitchens to send up tea for him and his guests. The refreshments arrived at almost the same time Thursday afternoon as Bresnan himself. The reverend was escorted in regal state through the college by Tait, who dropped him off at Jonty’s study door like a proud father presenting his son with a view to admission. Ian Bresnan looked almost as nervous as any prospective student might have been.

  The reverend was tall, slim, and extremely handsome for his age, which Orlando put at rising sixty. Despite the obvious nerves, there was something almost monastic about his appearance—pious, yet full of the milk of human kindness. The sort of rector any parish would truly welcome, if the man’s outward appearance matched his character. Orlando wondered if he was married or widowed, and whether—if the former case was negative or the latter positive—the ladies of the parish made a beeline for him. Certainly, if he was the recipient of a stream of cakes and homemade jams, he either didn’t indulge much in them or had a remarkable metabolism. As slim as a reed, he even made Orlando look tubby.

  They quickly dealt with the formalities, shaking hands and offering their guest a seat and a cup of tea, both of which he accepted with alacrity. “Thank you for seeing me. I realise that you must be extremely busy, with Dr. Coppersmith’s—sorry, Professor Coppersmith’s—recent inauguration and his lecture to come. Such exciting times for the college.”

  “Exciting times for all of us. But we’re not so busy that we couldn’t find time for a St. Bride’s man.” Jonty took his seat at Bresnan’s side, allowing Orlando to install himself in the prime information-gathering place opposite the clergyman. “Do you get back here often?”

  “Not as much as I would like.” Bresnan shook his head in evident sadness. “I try to take my parish duties as diligently as I can, although I suspect I could do better in that regard. Unfortunately, they don’t allow me much time to travel all the way here.”

  “Not the easiest journey from Gloucestershire. I wish I’d had the foresight to put out a decanter of sherry as well. I’d forgotten what taxing work investigation is.” Jonty smiled. “Is there a special occasion for your return?”

  “Indeed. An old friend of mine has just been appointed the new rector of Archangel and I’m here to watch the installation tomorrow. It seems to be the season for ceremonies.” Bresnan beamed enthusiast
ically.

  “Ah yes.” Orlando nodded approval. Archangel was another of the less fashionable colleges and one with which St. Bride’s had never struck up a rivalry, both of them being brothers-in-arms against the bigger, more glamorous places. Even when St. Bride’s had begun to gain in both popularity and status, in no little part due to having a pair of famous detectives in its midst, Archangel hadn’t changed its opinion. As opposed to the college next door, which thought St. Bride’s was getting jumped-up delusions of grandeur and complained to everyone about it. “Would that be Dr. Walcott? A very sound man. I’m sure he’ll do a wonderful job.”

  “He always was the most able of my generation,” Bresnan sighed. “So many men pass through Cambridge, some with shining potential that never quite fulfils itself. Still, it’s wonderful to have reason to see the place again. I’m staying a few nights at the University Arms and taking the opportunity to renew old acquaintances and revisit old haunts. Especially St. Bride’s.” The sudden light in Bresnan’s eyes gave him the innocent air of a callow undergraduate. “She’s looking lovely, the old girl. Always does in the autumn.”

  Orlando waited to see if Jonty hastened the conversation on, in the way he always did when things were threatening to get maudlin. He did.

  “You said in your letter that you had a matter of some importance you wished to seek our advice on?”

  “My case, yes, I’m sorry. We seem to have deviated off the subject.” The clergyman looked flustered.

  “No need to apologise, as it wasn’t even your fault. My colleague himself specialises in going off the subject. Should they make it an Olympic event, he’d be sure to win gold in Antwerp.” Orlando sniffed meaningfully. If Jonty was going to so obviously avoid dwelling on autumn, just because Orlando got a bit sentimental about that time of year, then people needed to know he was the worst sort of wool gatherer. “Please enlighten us.”

  “I have—had—two uncles. Born within two minutes of each other and yet with birthdays a day apart. Is that enough of a conundrum to start with?” Bresnan’s eyes began to twinkle; he was clearly fond of puzzles and riddles. This was just the sort of silly stuff that Orlando used to love, even if his appetite for trivial things seemed to have waned. He hoped that as the Forster Professor of Applied Mathematics, he would still find time for laughter, tickling, punting on the river, and other childish delights.