At the door of Bonner-Hill’s rooms, the Warden paused, key in hand and an expression of grim determination on his face. “His books. We should like them for our library,” he said in a rush. “That is to say, I could help you to dispose of Mr. Bonner-Hill’s collection of books if his will is not specific in regard to them. So inconvenient, trying to deal with booksellers. You could leave them just as they are on the shelves for the librarian to sort-to catalogue, that is. Our library has benefited greatly from endowments,” he finished breathlessly.
“If that was Harry’s intention, no doubt he will have provided for it in his will,” said Melanie without enthusiasm. “May we go inside now, or was there anything else?”
“But of course.” The Warden turned the key. “There is no reason to hurry yourselves, ladies. If you would kindly return the key to the porter as you leave …”
“Did you ever hear anything so direct as that?” Melanie said, when the door was closed behind them. “ ‘We should like them for our library,’ without so much as a by your leave, and poor Harry not even buried yet. I tell you, Harriet, there’s a myth that people in universities have genteel manners. When they want anything, they’re as blunt as beggars. Well, my dear, I wonder where his papers are. It’s very tidy, isn’t it? No wonder he despaired of me. There’s his travelling trunk in the corner. We’ll pack things into that. His bedroom is through there. It would help me greatly if you would empty the wardrobe. I don’t intend to leave his suits behind for the Warden.”
Harriet was no authority on gentlemen’s bedrooms, but she doubted whether many came up to Bonner-Hill’s in tidiness. Little in it suggested it was occupied at all. The furniture was all of the serviceable kind provided by the College. There were no photographs or pictures, no special ornaments or bric- a-brac. A pair of polished shoes symmetrically positioned on the mat beside the bed, and a bathrobe hanging on the door were more suggestive of a hotel room than a home. Oddly, she found the impersonality more poignant than a roomful of small evidences of occupation. She could see the lonely don, separated from the wife he had worshipped but failed to wean away from the stage, moving about these rooms like an overnight guest.
She opened the wardrobe and began lifting out suits and putting them on the bed. There must have been a dozen there. She doubted whether they would all fit into the trunk without creasing, and that would be a sin.
Melanie appeared at the bedroom door. “You’re doing splendidly, darling. Such a help! I say, here’s a strange thing. I found this letter on his writing desk. It’s addressed to John Fernandez. I wonder what Harry was doing with it. It’s been opened, you see.” She held it between them, showing the torn edge of the envelope.
Nothing was said, but Harriet knew that Melanie was offering to take out the letter and look at it. She was pitting their friendship against decorum. It wanted only a whisper of encouragement to begin a conspiracy. The temptation was strong. Alone, Harriet might have yielded, but she was not ready to admit as much, even to Melanie. “We really ought to return it to Mr. Fernandez.”
The “really” gave Melanie the chance, if she wished, of pressing the point, but she was not going to risk a stronger rebuff. “You’re right, my dear. Possibly he left it here when he was calling on Harry. Oh dear, I wish it wasn’t addressed to him, of all the people in Merton, though. I suppose I could hand it to the porter to give to him, but it looks so pointed when his room is just across the passage.”
“Let me take it,” offered Harriet, hoping her eagerness was not too apparent. When Melanie had suggested spending the afternoon in Merton, the possibility of a second meeting with Fernandez had crossed her mind, but she had seen no way of taking the initiative. “I met Mr. Fernandez this morning.”
“Would you? What a thoughtful suggestion! I am not comfortable with the man, as I think I mentioned this morning. I should not go inside, my dear, even if he invites you.”
“I shall not,” said Harriet. “It would not be proper.”
The card on the door read J. Fernandez, M.A., but the envelope in Harriet’s hand was less formaclass="underline" Mr. John Fernandez, Merton College, Oxford. The postmark was London, 23 Aug. 89-a week ago. She examined the neatly severed envelope, even put her fingers inside and satisfied herself that it contained a letter, but she did not take it out. That would have been too demeaning after the conversation with Melanie.
She knocked and held her breath, waiting to see if he was in. He might so easily have decided to go out for a Sunday afternoon stroll, making up on the fresh air now that his throat was better. How did she know it was better? In the chapel he had sung more lustily than the Warden and the other Fellows together.
Footsteps ended the uncertainty. Fernandez opened the door, blinked in surprise, and said, “How very delightful. Let me see. It’s Miss Harriet Shaw, is it not?” His hand went to his hair and made sure that it was flat.
She smiled. “Yes, I’m sorry to disturb you-”
“Not at all. Won’t you come in?” He opened the door fully and stepped back with it.
“Thank you, but no,” Harriet firmly replied. “I have just come to return a letter addressed to you which Mrs. Bonner-Hill found in her husband’s rooms. We are sorting through his things, you see.”
He took the letter, glanced at the writing on the envelope and pocketed it. “Careless of me. I must have left it when I spoke to him on Friday evening. I wasn’t my usual self at all. Had a confounded nasty bout of laryngitis.”
“You’re better now, I hope?”
“Immeasurably, Miss Shaw, immeasurably. If I may presume to say so, I felt a distinct improvement in chapel this morning when I saw that our little congregation was not quite the same as usual. And when you mentioned afterwards that you had an interest in geography, my recuperation was complete. Is it physical?”
Harriet felt a tingling of her cheeks. “I beg your pardon.”
Fernandez smiled. “The geography, my dear. Is your interest mainly in the natural features of the earth’s surface?” “Oh. I understand. Yes, I particularly enjoy looking at maps.”
“A cartographer, too! We seem to have so much in common. Are you sure you won’t step inside for a few minutes? I have a collection of maps which is certain to interest you, including, I may say, a copy of a sixteenth-century chart said to have been used by Magellan.”
“You are most generous, sir, but I must return to Mrs. Bonner-Hill. I am here to keep her company, you see. She is likely to become depressed if I leave her for long.”
He nodded resignedly. “Yes, from my slender acquaintance with Mrs. Bonner-Hill, I would expect her to be easily agitated. Well, Miss Shaw”-he took a step towards Harriet-“I shall let you go upon one condition, and that is that you allow me to meet you tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock at the entrance to the Bodleian Library. It is not renowned for its maps, but I suppose I am the foremost authority in Oxford on those that are there, and I should be most honoured to show them to you.”
“That is very obliging of you, sir, but-”
“You cannot refuse,” said Fernandez.
“I shall have to see how Mrs. Bonner-Hill proposes spending the morning. If she should require my company …” Harriet was already determined that nothing would stop her from keeping this engagement, but she was not so naive as to let Fernandez know. It did no harm to introduce a little uncertainty into one’s dealings with gentlemen.
“It would be kindest not to tell her of our arrangement,” Fernandez suggested. “I should not like her to think that we discovered our mutual interest in geography as an indirect consequence of her husband’s death.”