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Why had Aaron, or Ella, or whoever had wrecked the room, left that on the desk? It must surely be an attempt to cast blame on Nicky, but if so, it was a feeble one, akin toThe StAnselm Murderwith its sly quotation fromBeowulf. It was spiteful, Jem thought, and that was another little niggle because, whatever else you could say of Aaron and Ella, they weren’t spiteful. He could imagine Aaron killing if he felt it necessary; he couldn’t imagine him upending a bottle of ink onto a bed.
But who else might it have been? It wouldn’t have been Nicky unless the page was in the nature of a confession, which was both implausible and rather frightening to consider. Hugo would have had time if he’d gone to Bascomb Stair while Jem was trapped in Seal’s, assuming he’d been in the college then: Jem wasn’t sure if he’d been going in or coming out when they met in the Lodge. But why would he have taken such extravagantly unpleasant steps at all, still less invited Jem for a kindly drink afterwards? And that was everyone, unless Prue had arrived in Oxford, which would probably give Moffat an aneurysm.
Jem picked up the page and read the section of poetry.
I have very few people I prize in this land,
very few firm friends. And thus my soul is sorrowed:
That I found for myself a most marvellous man
though unfortunate and unhappy,
concealing his thoughts, plotting terrible crime,
with a blithe bearing. Often we gave our oath
that death alone could divide us,
Nothing else. But now that is changed?—
now it is as if it had never been,
our broken bond. Both far and near, I must
bear the bitter hate of my beloved.
‘God,’ he said aloud.
It could have been written for Nicky and Toby, or by Nicky about Toby.Unfortunate and unhappy, concealing his thoughts, plotting terrible crime with a blithe bearing.Doubtless the translation would be faithful to the original, but the picture it drew of Toby in those last days was horribly accurate. Had Nicky thought of Toby as he wrote of a treacherous man and a broken bond of love? He must have done, surely. He’d translated this ancient cry of pain into words so raw that they jangled Jem’s nerves, and then published the blasted thing as a pamphlet.
Might they have repaired their friendship, given time? They’d all forgiven Nicky forCymbeline, or at least they’d all tacitly agreed to avoid the subject; could they have pretended to forget about that terrible night if it hadn’t been the last one? Would Toby have forgiven them for whatever wrongs he thought they’d committed? Jem had felt truly hated that night for perhaps the first time in his life; he’d had plenty of sneers and casual mockery, but Toby had spoken as though Jem’s crippled foot, his lowly background, hisexistencewere as much an affront as his liaison with Nicky.The bitter hate of my beloved.
It was only a translation. He couldn’t look to it for answers. Still, it was a damned unnerving thing to find left for his attention in a ruined room.
He couldn’t sit here in an oversized nightshirt like an invalid, thinking of miseries and guilt. He needed to get dressed and get out, but his other clothes would still be in his room, and he couldn’t face the stairs. If he walked up to the Lodge, surely a porter would go and fetch them for him? He could put on his coat and shoes over his night things to go and ask; he’d look highly eccentric, but this was Oxford.
There was no sign of his coat on the coat-rack, or of his shoes anywhere. Jem looked around, wondering where on earth Nicky had concealed them. He tried a couple of cupboards and found nothing.
This was bizarre. His coat might have suffered from the oil and required cleaning, but his shoes had not, and he needed them; Nicky knew perfectly well they had to be specially made and cost more than Jem could easily afford. He wouldn’t have been careless with Jem’s shoes. He looked in every cupboard, telling himself he was missing somewhere obvious, then went through to the bedroom again, and tried the wardrobe. His coat wasn’t hanging up among Nicky’s suits; he went through them twice to check, with a rising and stupid feeling of panic. Of course he’d been wearing a coat when he came here; of course Nicky hadn’t thrown his one adequate winter garment away?—
He could smell oil. Just a faint scent, but there.
Jem looked down. There was a blanket on top of a pile at the bottom of the wardrobe. He picked the blanket up and saw it covered his coat, neatly folded on top of his small, battered suitcase, next to which were his shoes.
He hauled the lot out, noting the weight of the case, and was absurdly relieved to discover his clothes and other possessions were inside, carefully packed, presumably by the porter. Well, that made sense; of course he should have brought Jem’s things here. But why had Nicky hidden them away like that?
The note had saidI have sent your clothes for laundry.It wasn’t a lie, as such, but Nicky could have addedYour other clothes are in the wardrobe. He hadn’t.
In the wardrobe, hidden under a blanket. Jem dressed slowly, with automatic movements, thinking about why Nicky might have wanted to force him to stay in here.
He finished dressing and decided to shave since he hadn’t bothered yesterday. He was making the best job he could of a sadly creased necktie when he heard the sound of the door being unlocked, footsteps, and the key turning again. There was a brief silence, then Nicky, in the other room, said, ‘Jem?’
‘Here.’ Jem came through into the sitting room, dressed except for his stockinged feet, and saw Nicky’s brows twitch. He cocked his head. ‘Did you hide my clothes?’
‘I hoped you’d have the sense to rest.’
‘Why did you hide them?’
