‘No, there’s nothing wrong.’ The echo on the line was confusing him, making him trip over his words as they bounced back to him two seconds later. ‘I just wondered if I might speak to Florence.’
‘Florence? I don’t understand.’
‘Florence and Harry. They’re not with you?’
‘No. Why ever would they be with us? You always come in August.’
He listened closely to the voice, trying to detect a lie. They were polished, people of her class, he had learned that much after more than a decade in Oxford, whether as undergraduate or fellow. She and Sir George — a powerful figure in the City and a decorated officer in the Great War — were as elegant in their manner as in their looks. They were a handsome couple: Florence’s mother, once a society beauty, had her daughter’s piercing eyes and perfect bone structure. Was Florence standing nearby, mouthing answers to her? If she were, he would never know it. And yet, he had to confess it did not sound like that at all.
‘James? Are you still there? Has something happened?’
‘No, no. Not at all.’ Hearing his own voice played back to him, even he did not believe it. ‘Just some confusion on my part.’
‘Is Florence unwell? Is Harry all right?’ The concern was genuine, he was certain of it.
‘Yes, yes. Everyone’s well. I just thought they might have… perhaps…’ He mumbled a farewell and hung up.
Virginia Grey did not say anything. She bit her lip and headed towards the kitchen. ‘Time for a pot of tea, I think.’
While she was fussing over cups and spoons, she asked, her tone as casual as if she were inquiring where she might find the sugar, ‘How have things been between you? Recently I mean.’
He hesitated, reluctant to confide in her. But it was clear she was keen to help and it was somehow comforting not to be conducting this search entirely alone. ‘We’re not newlyweds any more, Mrs Grey. But I believe our marriage is strong.’
She stopped her tea preparations and gazed at him.
‘You’re not convinced,’ he said.
‘It does not matter a jot whether I am convinced, my dear. That is not at issue here.’
‘Did she say something to you?’
Grey stared out into the garden and her hair caught the sunlight, turning the silver to bright white.
‘I don’t think it was anything specif-’
‘So she did say something! What the hell was it?’ Now he stood up, looming over her. He could feel his veins engorging, the rage stirred and beginning to surge.
Grey’s expression looked more pitying than alarmed, which only fuelled James’s ire. ‘Come on,’ he said loudly, ‘answer me!’
In a voice that was studiedly calmer and quieter than before, she said, ‘This.’ She gestured towards him. ‘She told me about this. Your aggression. She told me about your fights, James.’
‘We have had disagreements. Every couple has dis-’
‘She was not referring to disagreements, James. She was referring to violent displays of temper. I can see for myself the broken crockery here today.’
‘Today is hardly typical.’
‘She told me that there was a constant tension in the house.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘Her exact words were, “I feel as if the ground is covered with eggshells. And I’m tiptoeing my way through them.”’
‘Eggshells? I know what that’s about. That’s my punishment for demanding quiet when I work. Any scholar would be the same. It’s impossible to do serious reading with an infernal racket going on.’
‘What infernal racket?’
‘Harry shouting and shrieking when he’s playing. I lost my temper a few times.’ He could picture the tears trickling down his son’s cheeks, the little boy standing in the garden crying after James had exploded again, Florence holding Harry tight, explaining that it was not his fault, not his fault at all, James standing apart from them, too ashamed to step forward and hug Harry himself — a shame whose sting he felt again now. But what he said stiffly was, ‘I’m sure the Master would have been the same in my position.’
The silver-haired author of half a dozen books and a couple of hundred learned articles eyed him coolly. ‘Yes. Even I might struggle to do my needlepoint with that distraction.’
James realized his mistake. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Grey. I didn’t mean-’
‘Don’t worry, Dr Zennor. I’ve been condescended to by far greater men than yourself.’ She now placed the teapot at the centre of the table and took a seat. ‘Florence was worried about you. She said you were drinking heavily.’
‘For heaven’s sake, can a man not drink a glass of Scotch in his own home?’
‘At high table the other night, you had Perkins return to the cellar at least twice.’
‘So you think my wife left me because I’m some kind of dipsomaniac?’
‘No one is saying your wife has left you.’
‘She’s not here, is she?’
‘No, she is not. But there is no evidence that she has left you, in the rather melodramatic sense of that word. You don’t know where she is. And you don’t know why she’s gone.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Well, I think you need to begin by putting yourself in her shoes.’
James straightened his back, as if to signal that the discussion was over. ‘Well, thank you, Mrs Grey. I appreciate your efforts. But nothing you have told me will help me get my wife back.’
‘Is that what you want? To get her back?’
‘Of course, that’s what I bloody want!’ His voice cracked at that and, ashamed by the show of weakness, he dipped his head.
‘Well, perhaps I can help you.’
He looked up, the rims of his eyes a bloodshot red.
‘Florence came to see me yesterday.’
James gave a small nod, determined to do nothing that might stop Grey from going on.
‘She seemed agitated. She told me something of the… strains at home.’
‘Yes.’ His mind was whirring, processing what he was hearing at top speed, already working through the possible implications.
‘She said nothing concrete, she made no mention of any plans.’
‘But…’
‘She was clearly in a hurry. She broke off our conversation, saying there was something she had to look up urgently at the Bodleian.’ Grey focused on her fingers, as if she needed to concentrate and choose her words carefully. ‘I thought nothing of it at the time. After all, your wife is a dedicated scholar. But given her departure first thing this morning, I wonder if the two are connected. If there was something she had to check, something she had to find out, before she could leave. It might perhaps give you a-’
But Virginia Grey did not get the chance to complete her sentence. She looked up to see James had simply turned around, grabbed a jacket from the hall and marched out of the front door.
Chapter Five
It was only when he passed the clock outside the Post Office that he discovered the time. It was quarter to six: he had, he realized, spent most of the day in a stupor fuelled by anger and alcohol. But now, at last, he had some action to take. It was not much — after all, his wife was in the Bodleian fairly regularly — but Grey was a shrewd judge of character: if she believed Florence’s visit yesterday might be significant, that his wife had somehow seemed agitated, then that had to be taken seriously.
He had peddled furiously past Keble when a blur from his left suddenly slammed into view. He swerved to avoid it, but it was too late: a fellow cyclist had sprung from South Parks Road without looking, clipping the back of James’s rear wheel.
He landed hard, thankfully on his backside rather than his shoulder. His right hand, which had taken some of the impact, was scratched, the graze revealing itself as a grid of blood spots.
‘So sorry, Zennor. I am so frightfully sorry.’
James looked upward, shading his eyes to see Magnus Hook, research fellow at New College and wearer of the roundest, thickest glasses in Oxford, standing over him. Poor eyesight had kept Hook out of the army, but he was doing his bit for the war effort: he had been seconded by the Ministry of Food, which had taken over large chunks of St John’s to control the national supply of fish and potatoes. ‘I now work at the largest fish and chip shop in the world,’ was his pet conversational gambit; James had heard it at least three times.