Stephen then strolled over to Christ Church and asked the secretary in the Treasurer’s office if she had in her records a London address for James Brigsley, matriculated 1963. It was duly supplied as 119 King’s Road, London SW3.
Stephen was beginning to warm to the challenge of Harvey Metcalfe. He left Christ Church by Peckwater and the Canterbury Gate, out into the High and back to Magdalen, hands in pockets, composing a brief letter in his mind. Oxford’s nocturnal slogan-writers had been at work on a college wall again: ‘Deanz meanz feinz’ said one neatly painted graffito. Stephen, the reluctant Junior Dean of Magdalen, responsible for undergraduate discipline, smiled. If they were funny enough he would allow them to remain for one term, if not, he would have the porter scrub them out immediately. Back at his desk, he wrote down what had been in his mind.
Magdalen College,
Oxford.
April 15th
Dear Dr Oakley,
I am holding a small dinner party in my rooms next Thursday evening for a few carefully selected people.
I would be delighted if you could spare the time to join me, and I think you would find it worth your while to be present.
Yours sincerely,
PS: I am sorry David Kesler is unable to join us.
Black Tie. 7.30 for 8 pm
Stephen changed the sheet of letter paper in his old Remington typewriter and addressed similar letters to Jean-Pierre Lamanns and Lord Brigsley. Then he sat thinking for a little while before picking up the internal telephone.
‘Harry?’ he said to the head porter. ‘If anyone rings the lodge to ask if the college has a fellow called Stephen Bradley, I want you to say, “Yes, sir, a new Mathematics Fellow from Harvard, already famous for his dinner parties.” Is that clear, Harry?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Harry Woodley, the head porter. He had never understood Americans — Dr Bradley was no exception.
All three men did ring and inquire, as Stephen had anticipated they might. He himself would have done the same in the circumstances. Harry remembered his message and repeated it carefully, although the callers still seemed a little baffled.
‘No more than me, or is it I?’ muttered the head porter.
Stephen received acceptances from all three during the next week, James Brigsley’s arriving last, on the Friday. The crest on his letter paper announced a promising motto: ex nibilo omnia.
The butler to the Senior Common Room and the college chef were consulted, and a meal to loosen the tongues of the most taciturn was planned:
Everything was ready; all Stephen could do now was wait for the appointed hour.
On the stroke of 7.30 pm on the appointed Thursday Jean-Pierre arrived. Stephen admired the elegant dinner jacket and large floppy bow tie that his guest wore, while he fingered his own little clip-on, surprised that Jean-Pierre Lamanns, who had such obvious savoir-faire, could also have fallen victim to Prospecta Oil. Stephen plunged into a monologue on the significance of the isosceles triangle in modern art while Jean-Pierre stroked his mustache. It was not a subject Stephen would normally have chosen to speak on without a break for five minutes, and he was only saved from the inevitability of more direct questions from Jean-Pierre by the arrival of Dr Robin Oakley. Robin had lost a few pounds in the past month, but Stephen could see why his practice in Harley Street was a success. He was, in the words of H. H. Munro, a man whose looks made it possible for women to forgive any other trifling inadequacies. Robin studied his shambling host, wondering whether he dared to ask immediately if they had ever met before. No, he decided; he would leave it a little and hope perhaps some clue as to why he had been invited would materialize during dinner. The David Kesler P.S. worried him.
Stephen introduced him to Jean-Pierre and they chatted while their host checked the dinner table. Once again the door opened, and with a little more respect than previously displayed, the porter announced, ‘Lord Brigsley.’ Stephen walked forward to greet him, suddenly unsure whether he should bow or shake hands. Although James did not know anyone present at the strange gathering, he showed no signs of discomfort and entered easily into the conversation. Even Stephen was impressed by James’s relaxed line of small talk, although he couldn’t help recalling his academic results when at Christ Church and wondered whether the noble lord would in fact be an asset to his plans.
The culinary efforts of the chef worked their intended magic. No guest could possibly have asked his host why the dinner party was taking place while such delicately garlic-flavored lamb, such tender almond pastry, such excellent wine, were still to hand.
Finally, when the servants had cleared the table and the port was on its way around for the second time, Robin could stand it no longer:
‘If it’s not a rude question, Dr Bradley.’
‘Do call me Stephen.’
‘Stephen, may I ask what is the purpose of this select little gathering?’
Six eyes bored into him demanding an answer to the same question.
Stephen rose and surveyed his guests. He walked around the table twice before speaking and then started his discourse by recalling the entire history of the past few weeks. He told them of his meeting in that very room with David Kesler, his investment in Prospecta Oil, followed soon afterward by the visit of the Fraud Squad, and their disclosure about Harvey Metcalfe. He ended his carefully prepared speech with the words, ‘Gentlemen, the truth is that the four of us are in the same bloody mess.’ He felt that sounded suitably British.
Jean-Pierre reacted even before Stephen could finish what he was saying.
‘Count me out. I couldn’t be involved in anything quite so ridiculous as that. I am a humble art dealer, not a speculator.’
Robin Oakley also jumped in before Stephen was given the chance to reply:
‘I’ve never heard anything so preposterous. You must have contacted the wrong man. I’m a Harley Street doctor — I don’t know the first thing about oil.’
Stephen could see why the Fraud Squad had had trouble with these two and why they had been so thankful for his cooperation. They all looked at Lord Brigsley, who raised his eyes and said very quietly:
‘Absolutely right on every detail, Dr Bradley, and I’m in more of a pickle than you. I borrowed £150,000 to buy the shares against the security of my small farm in Hampshire and I don’t think it will be long before the bank insists that I dispose of it. When they do and my dear old pa, the fifth earl, finds out, it’s curtains for me unless I become the sixth earl overnight.’
‘Thank you,’ said Stephen. As he sat down, he turned to Robin and raised his eyebrows interrogatively.
‘What the hell,’ said Robin. ‘You’re quite right — I was involved. David Kesler was a patient of mine and in a rash moment I invested £100,000 in Prospecta Oil as a temporary advance against my securities. God only knows what made me do it. As the shares are only worth 50 pence I’m stuck with them. I have a shortfall at my bank which they’re beginning to fuss about. I also have a large mortgage on my country home in Berkshire and a heavy rent on my Harley Street consulting-room, a wife with expensive tastes and two boys at the best private prep school in England. I’ve hardly slept a wink since Detective Inspector Smith visited me two weeks ago.’ He looked up. His face had drained of color and the suave self-confidence of Harley Street had gone. Slowly, they all turned and stared at Jean-Pierre.
‘All right, all right,’ he admitted, ‘me too. I was in Paris when the damned thing folded under me, so now, I’m stuck with the useless shares. £80,000 borrowed against my stock at the gallery. And what’s worse, I advised some of my friends to invest in the bloody company too.’