The Cruellest Month Page 14

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next day I reapplied myself to my work with especial vigour. I decided to put Gwen Richmond’s murder right out of my mind and get on with what was, after all, my main purpose in being in Oxford. I was scribbling away energetically at my notes when I felt a light touch on my shoulder. It was Bill Howard whom I hadn’t noticed sitting down in the next seat.

  ‘Hi! Sorry to disturb you when you were working away with such concentration, but I just wanted to know if you and Michael would prefer French or Italian food tomorrow evening?’

  ‘Oh, how lovely. Well, Italian would be nice.’

  ‘Is there anywhere special you’d like to go – you probably know the restaurants here better than I do.’

  ‘I believe the Murano in the High is supposed to be pretty good.’

  ‘OK, then, I’ll book a table for eight o’clock – will that be all right?’

  ‘Marvellous. We’ll look forward to it.’

  I reflected, as I bent over my notes once more, that even if Dino Torcello wasn’t our murderer, it would still be interesting to see what sort of restaurant he had created. I hoped that the food would be good since I had recommended it. I had the feeling that Bill Howard, if not actually a Foodie, cared more than most men about what precisely he ate and drank.

  As I packed up my notebooks at the end of the day I felt that particular glow of satisfaction you get when you know you’ve done a good day’s work. There’s nothing else quite like it in the world and I suppose it’s the real reason why you go on slogging away when what your friends are doing seems much more agreeable and entertaining . I was just collecting my coat from the pegs outside Room 45 when Tony came up.

  ‘I’m so glad I caught you – I’ve got a meeting this evening and I wanted to tell you straight away. I’ve remembered why I know Dino Torcello’s name.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘When we have a reception or some kind of “do” on here, it’s his restaurant that does the catering.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘And I’ve just been checking. There was a reception the evening that Gwen Richmond died. I remember now - there was a lot of kerfuffle with the police being around. Anyhow the reception did take place – for some librarians from Minneapolis – and the Torcello restaurants did all the canapés and things.’

  ‘And they had to be delivered by somebody and that might just have been Dino!’

  ‘He’d have come in round the back at the staff entrance he’d have been expected – and delivered the food. Then he could easily have hidden – in one of the “gents” – and come out when everything was quiet and found Gwen and killed her.’

  ‘Could he have found out where Gwen was?’

  ‘I suppose he could have asked, quite casually – people wouldn’t take much notice. Anyway, I can ask around and see if anyone remembers.’

  We looked at each other with some excitement.

  ‘It is a possibility,’ I said. ‘He does have a pretty good motive. Anyway, Michael and I are being taken to dinner at the Murano tomorrow by Bill Howard, so perhaps I may see him.’

  Michael was wearing a tie when I went to pick him up the following evening and looked quite respectable. And although we had our usual disagreement about the necessity of polishing shoes, I was grateful that he wasn’t wearing a pair of shabby old trainers, so I didn’t press the matter.

  The Murano was obviously one of Oxford’s more fashionable restaurants. Apart from the prices (which were astronomical and made me feel rather guilty about having suggested it) the décor was very plush, with murals of Venetian lagoons and glass-blowing (all very atmospheric), the inevitable pink tablecloths and intimidating waiters. It was very full and, as is often the case in such places, the proprietor had crowded in too many tables and other people’s conversations occasionally overlapped with ours.

  I looked carefully at the head waiter who ushered us to our seats, whisked (pink) table napkins on to our laps and thrust giant leather-covered menus into our hands. He was too young to be Dino Torcello himself, but he was dark and looked definitely Italian so I felt safe in assuming that he was one of the sons.

  ‘Well,’ I said brightly, ‘this is nice!’

  Michael looked at me quizzically but Bill Howard said warmly, ‘I’m so glad you were both able to come. I feel rather guilty, though, at dragging Michael away from whatever assignment he should be doing.’

  ‘Oh I’m just faffing about – going round in circles a bit now – you know how it is when the exams are quite close. There’s so much you feel you haven’t done it hardly seems worth while doing anything!’

  ‘Michael! That’s not—’

  ‘You probably know more than you think you do,’ Bill broke in soothingly. ‘That’s what I used to find with my students – the ones who were bright anyway – and I’m sure Michael here is bright.’

  A young waiter came and hovered over us and we applied ourselves to the menu.

  ‘I’ll have the parma ham and melon and then the osso bucco,’ I said.

  ‘Fritto misto for me,’ Bill said, ‘and then the tagliatelle with ham in the wine and mushroom sauce.’

  ‘Oh – yes – perhaps I’d rather have the tagliatelle.’ I relapsed into my usual indecisiveness about choosing. ‘It does sound rather nice...’

  ‘What about you, Michael?’ Bill asked.

  ‘I’ll have the squid and then the osso bucco. I expect my mother has told you how we poor scholars are kept in a permanent state of starvation – it’s a great treat to have real food instead of the cardboard substitutes one gets in Hall.’

  ‘But surely college catering is supposed to be wonderful – and all those fine wines they lay down.’

  ‘Only for the High Table. We poor serfs exist on gruel and water while the dons live it up with port and pheasant. It has always been so – you may recall Parson Woodforde.’

  The conversation ambled gently through seventeenth-and eighteenth-century literature while we ate our first course. When the osso bucco and tagliatelle were placed before us the man I had decided was one of the Torcellos appeared bearing one of those enormous pepper mills that seem to be the badge of office of all Italian head waiters. I hate having pepper ground over my food by someone else so I always wave them away on principle, even if I really want the pepper. Bill and Michael, however, submitted to the ritual. The Torcello son moved to the next table whose occupants, a man and a woman, seemed to be regular customers since they engaged him in conversation, which he graciously inclined his head to hear.

  Out of a blur of words I heard the woman say, ‘And how is your father? We were so sorry to hear about his accident.’

  ‘Yes, a broken arm takes so long to mend when you are not young. And, alas, it is his right arm so that he is virtually helpless. It makes him – as you can imagine - very restless. Even at his age he always likes to run things here and now he cannot do anything.’

  ‘I imagine he wouldn’t be an easy patient.’ the woman said laughingly.

  ‘Indeed he is not. Fortunately he is still able to attend Council meetings and so forth and that takes up some of his energy, but we will all be glad when the plaster is off - it has been six weeks now – and we can all get back to normal!’

  He bowed and went away to chivvy one of his under-lings.

  I became aware that Bill Howard was asking me a question.

  ‘Have you been to the performance of All’s Well in Trinity College gardens?’

  ‘Oh – I’m so sorry – no, not yet. I’m never lucky with the weather for anything out of doors. Do you remember your college production of The Wasps, Michael? When we all sat in a fine drizzle under umbrellas but still contrived to get bitten to pieces by mosquitoes!’

  I continued to make conversation mechanically but I was greatly preoccupied with what I had just heard. If Dino Torcello – an elderly man now – had his right arm in plaster it seemed unlikely that he would have been able to summon up the strength to kill Gwen Richmond and pu
ll a largish bookcase down on top of her. In any case, he obviously hadn’t been allowed anywhere near his restaurants so he wouldn’t have had an excuse to get into the Bodleian anyway. It seemed that every door I opened hopefully in this investigation was immediately slammed in my face. I pulled myself together and concentrated on the conversation. Bill and Michael were discussing Chekhov.

  ‘They did the last act – where the girl, Nina, comes back – so well,’ Bill was saying, ‘you really did get the feel of what it must have been like in a second-rate touring company in Russia before the Revolution – great atmosphere.’

  ‘I haven’t seen this National Theatre production.’ I said, ‘but I love The Seagull – I think it’s my favourite of all the Chekhov plays. I remember – years ago – being taken to see a production by the Moscow Arts Theatre. It was incredible – we didn’t know any Russian, of course, but by the end we felt we’d understood every word!’

  The waiter arrived with our zabagliones.

  ‘My, this looks good!’ Bill said, just like someone out of a film, which made Michael splutter slightly. I gave him a severe look.

  It was a pleasant evening, relaxed and cosy and as we came out of the Murano and stood on the pavement while Bill finished off a story he had been telling about some extraordinary woman he’d met at a seminar, I felt peaceful and happy, in spite of my disappointment about Dino Torcello. Really, I told myself, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if I never knew who killed Gwen Richmond.

  A light rain began to fall and I felt in my bag for a scarf to tie over my hair. Bill Howard produced a tweed hat from the pocket of his Burberry and put it on. In the hat he looked quite different and much younger. He reminded me of someone but I couldn’t think who.

  ‘Can I get you a cab?’ he asked.

  ‘No, we’re fine,’ I said. ‘I left my car outside Michael’s college and it’s not far. Thank you for a lovely evening.’

  ‘It’s been my pleasure.’

  Michael added his thanks to mine and we parted on the corner of the Turl.

  ‘Your chum in the CIA is quite fun,’ Michael said as we negotiated the bollards half-way along the road.

  ‘The CIA?’ I said startled.

  ‘That raincoat, with the collar turned up – all tall and broad-shouldered – you must agree, that’s what he looks like.’

  I laughed. ‘You’re right. I thought he reminded me of someone this evening – perhaps that was it!’

  The next morning I told Tony about the collapse of our theory.

  ‘Oh well, that’s that, then,’ he said. ‘There really isn’t anyone else. Perhaps it was an accident after all.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  I took Robert and Betty and Tony out to dinner at the Torcello restaurant in Woodstock the following evening. There was no sign of an elderly Italian with his arm in plaster but the food was excellent and we all enjoyed ourselves. I also took Fitz, Elaine and Bill Howard out to dinner (to a rather grand Chinese place Fitz chose) and came away – as I so often used to do with Fitz in the old days – feeling rather downcast at my own lack of high seriousness or even moderate intelligence.

  I had now more or less finished my work in the Bodleian. I was having a quick lunch with Tony – a sandwich and a glass of wine at the King’s Arms – and told him that I just had a few things to check and then I could go back home and write my paper.

  ‘Why don’t you stay and write it here? We love having you, you know that. You’re the best listener we ever have!’

  ‘And I love being here. But I must get back to the animals – you know what it’s like. As it is, Foss won’t speak to me for days and the dogs will be thoroughly spoiled if they stay with Rosemary much longer. Anyway, I’ll be coming back for the wedding.’

  ‘Did you know that Mother’s more or less taken over all the arrangements?’ ‘You don’t surprise me in the least. I hope Pamela will be allowed to choose her own wedding dress at least.’

  ‘Well ... Mother did say that she was going up to London next week if Pamela felt like going with her to have a look round…’

  We both laughed.

  ‘Pamela and her mother don’t seem to mind, thank goodness.’

  ‘It would be like minding a force of nature! And, actually, it will obviously be easier for Betty to see to the reception and things – I expect most of the guests will be from your side.’

  We discussed Tony’s future plans for a while and then he looked at his watch and said, ‘I must be off. I want to go down into the store and see about a few things.’

  ‘You mean the underground bit – how fascinating.’

  ‘Have you ever seen it?’

  ‘No. I’ve always longed to.’

  ‘Come with me, then, and I’ll give you the guided tour. We’ll start off in Duke Humfrey.’

  We went through the arched doorway with its Latin inscription:

  QUOD FELICITER VORTAT

  ACADEMICI OXONIENS

  BIBLIOTHECAM HANC

  VOBIS REPUBLICAEQUE

  LITERATORUM

  T.B.P.

  I found the wooden stairs steeper now than in the days when I had rushed up them so eagerly to see if Rupert was there. I stood in the library, under the great dark-beamed roof with its brilliantly coloured ceiling, looking at the gilt-framed portraits on the walls and felt again, as I always did, a little surge of gratitude that I should have been allowed to spend time in such a splendid place.

  We walked between the tall shelves, light from the arched windows glowing on the rich leather bindings of the books, our footsteps echoing on the floor, passing through Arts End and up into the more modern section until we found ourselves in a smallish room. In one corner was a sort of moving belt above which was a notice written in the minatory style that seems to come naturally to librarians:

  Before loading books into the elevator ensure that the books are distributed as evenly as possible across the width of the box.

  ‘Goodness.’ I said, ‘whatever is this?’

  ‘Oh, that’s our pride and joy,’ Tony said, ‘the book conveyor. It takes books from one building to another on a sort of conveyor-belt system.’

  ‘Underground.’

  ‘Oh yes – from Duke Humfrey and the Upper Reading Room to the New Bodleian.’

  ‘You mean, it’s all going on under the Broad?’

  ‘Sure. Come on we’ll go down into the basement.’

  Tony unlocked the door (‘We have to be pretty hot on security!’) and we got into a small lift and went down into what seemed like the bowels of the earth. After walking along a tunnel we found ourselves in one of the many bookstores.

  ‘I thought you might like to see these particular sliding bookcases.’ Tony said. ‘They were invented by Mr Gladstone.’ He demonstrated one. ‘Neat aren’t they? He wrote a study called Books and their Housing – he’d have made a good librarian.’

  I was peering (as I always do) at the book shelves and found that these particular ones contained a collection of 1920s girls’ school stories. ‘Oh look! Elinor Brent Dyer – all the Chalet School books! There are some here I’ve never seen anywhere before. How marvellous!’

  ‘You must come in one day and have a good read.’

  ‘Yes. One always forgets that the Bodleian has treasures like these as well as all the old books!’

  ‘People come in and read Mills and Boon and some-times back copies of Woman’s Weekly. You must remember that we’re a copyright library – which is why we’re rapidly running out of space. It’s a bit like Alice – running as hard as you can just to stay in the same spot.’

  We turned back and walked along the rather dismal passages with pipes overhead and the continual hum of air conditioning and the clatter of the book conveyor which flowed along beside us like a noisy river.

  ‘However far down are we?’ I asked, as we continued down a sloping tunnel.

  ‘Well there are three floors below ground. And here we are in the New Library. Will you hang on for a minu
te. I just want to have a word with Bernard...’ He disappeared round a comer of some bookcases and I went on looking about me. There were books everywhere of course, on many different kinds of shelving and some in wire cages as if they were dangerous animals. There were book trolleys of various ingenious shapes and even what appeared to be a supermarket trolley, though I thought it unlikely that a member of the Bodleian staff had actually walked away with one from Sainsbury’s! I wandered over to a table with a notice which said: ‘Do not place anything on this table’ and another whose notice sternly admonished: ‘On no account are any books on this table to be removed’ and I reflected with some amusement that prohibition seemed to be the natural mode of expression of those who worked in libraries. Anyway, I have always felt that all librarians bitterly resent any-one removing books from the shelves – where they each occupy their especial space in their own well-ordered habitat – and actually reading them.

  Tony reappeared quite suddenly and I was reminded (because of the underground tunnels, I suppose) of the White Rabbit.

  ‘Isn’t it fun!’ I said. ‘You are so lucky to work here!’

  Tony smiled at me indulgently and I reflected sadly, not for the first time, that the young today seem unacquainted with the joys of frivolity. I assumed a more serious expression.

  ‘How many books are there down here?’

  ‘I can’t give you an accurate figure – but it’s about sixty per cent of the storage capacity of the building.’

  ‘Good heavens! Just books – well books and journals, I suppose?’

  ‘Mostly. Though one of Bodley’s librarians in the nine-teen thirties had a thing about ephemera, so somewhere – I don’t know precisely where – there are boxes full of bus tickets, grocers’ bags and old handbills.’

  ‘How lovely!’

  He smiled again in recognition of my enthusiasm for trivia.

  We went through more passages festooned with pipes and firebox switches, lit by bare bulbs dangling from cords – I thought of the richness of Duke Humfrey and the soaring circular glory of the Radcliffe Camera up above – and got in another rather cramped lift from which we emerged into the familiar corridors of the New Bodleian just by Room 45.