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Let someone know where you’re going.He couldn’t think who; there was nobody who’d care. Well, Aaron or Hugo might care, unless one of them was actually the killer, a plausible liar who’d pretended to the old friendship…
The old friendship: that was the answer. He’d write to his former friends. Four of them would care because they had loved each other and Toby. The fifth would care because he or she had killed him.
‘Four out of five isn’t bad,’ he said aloud, and almost laughed.
He would write to them all—no, he would write to them all except Nicky, and tell them what he was doing. He’d talk to Nicky in person. No point warning him.
Was this stupidly reckless? Perhaps. Then again, unlike Toby’s murderer, he had nothing to lose. If he wanted some kind of end to ten years of emptiness, he had one chance, and no choice.
Dear _____, he wrote, a template that would go to four people.
As I have told you, I am determined to discover what truly happened to Toby and who was responsible. Next week I will visit StAnselm’s, where I hope to speak to Nicky Rook. I will share what I learn from him with you all, as I will share what I have learned from you all with him.
One of us knows what happened to Toby. The others can, I believe, find out. It is my intention to do so, no matter the consequences.
Should anything happen to me?—
He stopped there, staring at the paper. It looked at once an absurd, melodramatic thing to write, and of such significance that his hand shook.
He spent a moment composing the words in his head and began again.
Should anything happen to me before I discover the truth, I hope one of you will take up the challenge and succeed where I have not. I think we owe that to ourselves, to each other, and to Toby.
Yours,
Jem
TWELVE
A few days later, Jem sat in a second-class carriage, watching through the grimy window and the billows of smoke for the first sign of a spire. It was cold and bright. The sun always seemed to shine on Oxford.
He tried his best not to think as the train drew in, or as he waited for one of the horse-drawn trams that still ran up from the station. Thinking meant the past, which was overwhelming, or the future, which was terrifying. He focused on his foot instead. It hurt more or less continually at the moment, between the cold and the unaccustomed amount of walking he’d done, saving omnibus fares and trudging further to cheaper markets. It was pennies, but he had more time than money, and pennies would soon count.
Nevertheless, he paid his twopence for a place on the tram rather than limp along with his bag, and he sat and looked out of the window at the foreign, familiar streets as they jolted up StAldgate’s towards the Broad, and Anselm’s.
There were motor cars in Oxford’s streets now—just a few, stinking and rattling along, though the tram-horse didn’t seem to care. They seemed wrong, a London intrusion into the dreaming golden city he remembered.
They turned onto Broad Street, and passed the medieval walls of Balliol, then Trinity with its blue iron gates, students and dons hurrying past, inside and out. And then he was at StAnselm’s.
Anselm’s looked smaller, somehow, and lower than he recalled. It had seemed huge on that first day. He’d been so nervous and so hopeful. They’d been so young.
He walked through the arch into the porters’ lodge. It, too, was smaller, its pigeonholes crammed with papers and the odd stray black gown. Jem approached the desk, and the elderly porter looked up.
‘Ah, MrKite. Nice to see you, sir.’
The Head Porter’s memory for students past and present was legendary. ‘Good afternoon, Moffat, how are you?’
‘Oh, mustn’t grumble, sir, mustn’t grumble. Just passing through?’
‘Er, no, I’m here for a week. I reserved a guest room.’
Moffat licked a finger to flip the pages of his blue-covered ledger, which looked exactly like the one he’d had in Jem’s day. ‘So you are. Bascomb Stair, second floor.’ He handed over a key.
‘Thank you. Is DrRook in college?’ He tried to ask it casually, and knew he’d failed. He knew Moffat would be thinking of the crime, and Jem wondered now if their personal crimes had gone as unnoticed as he’d assumed with the ignorant confidence of youth.
‘DrRook? Yes, indeed. I dare say he’s teaching now, but you’ll find him on the ground floor, Staircase Thirteen, Old Quad. Is there a message, sir?’
‘No. No, I dare say I’ll see him. Thank you.’
