Page 9 of A Debt Inherited

The fourth man did not belong to the university.

Troughton looked towards him with the smallest lowering of his papers. “Sir William Cavell, Mr Bennet. County magistrate.”

Cavell did not incline his head. Thick-necked, cuffs overloaded with bullion thread, a ruby winking on one hand as it rested over the other. He breathed as horses did in cold air.

The Bull.

The Owl lifted his eyes. “Mr Bennet.”

He did not ask how Bennet did.

“You understand why you have been summoned.”

“I might guess, sir,” Bennet said. “But it would be only a guess.”

“Good. Then we shall make it clear.” The Owl’s lids lowered and rose, a slow owlish assent. “Before we begin: the Dean of this College has recused himself from all deliberations in this matter. The reasons will be obvious to you. You are, therefore, under the jurisdiction of the Vice-Chancellor’s Court, and this Board will conduct itself with due impartiality.” He paused, and the candles hissed. “You are not at present under civil indictment. You are under college discipline. Do you comprehend the distinction?”

“I do, sir.”

The Mole cleared his throat and nudged a ledger open, the nib of his pen already blotted. “Let the record show that Mr Thomas Robert Bennet, of Hertfordshire, Pensioner of this College, attends at noon by written summons of yesterday, and that the Dean is not present.”

“Very good,” said the Owl. Ceremony had been fed enough. “We shall proceed.”

The Pike leant in a fraction. “You will answer directly. If you require a question to be put again, say so. If you are unable to answer, say so. You will not embroider. Do you take my meaning?”

“I do.”

The Pike’s quill tapped his tooth with a click. “You will confirm first the nature of your acquaintance with Lord Julian Ashby.”

Bennet let the name pass through him without showing its edges. “He is my friend.”

The Mole scratched it down.

The Owl spoke again, patient, almost kind. “And the Dean’s daughter—Miss Pember—were you acquainted?”

Bennet kept his gaze level. “I had spoken with her in company.”

The Bull exhaled. “Plainly, sir. The lady was observed in Lord Ashby’s company more than once this term.”

Bennet did not look at him. “I cannot dispute what I have not witnessed.”

“You did not advise the Dean?” said the Pike.

“The Dean did not solicit my advice.”

The Owl blinked. “We will be orderly, Mr Brett.” Then, to Bennet: “Mr Bennet, you will understand that the Dean’s absence does not spare us the obligation to ask what must be asked. We will keep the tone we ought.” He glanced to the Mole. “Proceed.”

The Mole licked his forefinger, turned a page, found a note, and pushed his spectacles up by reflex. “There is a statement, unsigned, received by the Proctor’s office last week, which speaks of a conversation between you and Lord Ashby in the cloister after hall. Did such a conversation occur?”

Bennet remembered the cloister that evening—the echo of boots, the way rain gathered and ran along the stone lip. “I have spoken with Lord Ashby in the cloister after hall. Many a time, yes.”

“What was the subject?” the Pike said.

“Several subjects.” He let a breath pass. “The weather. A lecture badly given. A book less good than its reputation.”

The Bull leant his heavy elbows to the table, the wood complaining under him. “Did the subjects include elopement?”

“No.”