something to do with Robert Sim?’
The name seemed to pull him back, instantly, to where we were. He lifted his head and looked directly at me now, his pale blue eyes unflinching. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘I fear it has everything to do with Robert Sim.’
This at least cut through the awkward preliminaries. ‘Tell me what you know about Robert’s death.’
He looked away and drew a hand across his forehead. ‘I know nothing of Robert’s death, save what I have been told: that you found him in the library close on Saturday night, with his throat cut.’
‘It was less a cut than a stab in the neck,’ I said, ‘but … the effect was much the same, although Principal Dun thinks he perhaps lived longer after the attack than he might otherwise have done.’
John was hunched, and seemed to cower a little further in on himself. ‘How long …?’ he began. ‘How long do they think he might have lived?’
‘Twenty minutes, perhaps, little more.’
‘And no one heard him call out?’
‘No one. I doubt it would have made any difference had anyone done so in any case. So great was the loss of blood, Dr Dun thinks nothing could have been done for him.’
‘No,’ answered John, not seeming convinced. ‘Has his killer been found?’
I shook my head. ‘We are scrambling in the dark. Talking of which, can I open these shutters? I can hardly see you.’ It was then, when I pulled back the shutters and let the light flood in from the window, that I saw what a truly dreadful condition John Innes was in. His hair was dishevelled, and his normally clean-shaven chin covered with what looked like two days’ stubble. His eyes, pale and watery under their sandy lashes at the best of times, were pink, from sleeplessness or weeping. The air around us, such as it was, was foul.
‘When did you last leave this room?’ I asked eventually.
‘Last night, for the Sunday service. Andrew Carmichael took my classes for me today. He told the principal I was ill.’
‘And does he – Carmichael – know what it is that is the matter with you?’
‘I told him it was grief over Robert Sim, and God knows, he was a friend and I do grieve over him.’
‘But there is something else, is there not? Something you are afraid of?’
He stood up and went to the washbowl on the deal table beneath the window and splashed some water on to his face. ‘It is nothing I can tell you about, Alexander.’
I almost laughed. ‘John? What has there ever been that you could not tell me? Am I not your friend? Have I not been your friend these seventeen years? What have you ever done in all that time that you could not tell me?’
He said nothing for a moment, did not turn his gaze from the window.
‘My life has not been as yours, Alexander.’
‘I know that. Which one of us can say our life is as that of another? We are bound together by something more than what we have become. Surely ours is a brotherhood?’
He turned at last, and smiled a little. ‘Yes, Alexander.’ He pressed a hand to his heart. ‘Ours is a brotherhood I will value until the last breath leaves my body. You must promise me you will not forget that.’
‘Of course, but …’
‘No, you must promise me.’
‘You have my promise.’
‘Good. That is a comfort.’ He lowered his voice. ‘But there are other brotherhoods, and …’
He hesitated.
‘You and Robert Sim were in some form of brotherhood together?’ I had heard of fraternities of men, scholars, divines, in the Netherlands and in Bohemia, Germany, butnever in Scotland. ‘Is there some fraternity here? In Aberdeen?’
He turned away again, shaking his head once more, wringing his hands. ‘Forget that I spoke, Alexander. I should not have spoken.’ He looked at me again, desperation in his eyes. ‘For your own sake, forget that I spoke.’
I started towards him. ‘No, John. I am …’ But before I understood what he was doing, he had crossed the floor and wrenched open the door.
‘Go!’
The name seemed to pull him back, instantly, to where we were. He lifted his head and looked directly at me now, his pale blue eyes unflinching. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘I fear it has everything to do with Robert Sim.’
This at least cut through the awkward preliminaries. ‘Tell me what you know about Robert’s death.’
He looked away and drew a hand across his forehead. ‘I know nothing of Robert’s death, save what I have been told: that you found him in the library close on Saturday night, with his throat cut.’
‘It was less a cut than a stab in the neck,’ I said, ‘but … the effect was much the same, although Principal Dun thinks he perhaps lived longer after the attack than he might otherwise have done.’
John was hunched, and seemed to cower a little further in on himself. ‘How long …?’ he began. ‘How long do they think he might have lived?’
‘Twenty minutes, perhaps, little more.’
‘And no one heard him call out?’
‘No one. I doubt it would have made any difference had anyone done so in any case. So great was the loss of blood, Dr Dun thinks nothing could have been done for him.’
‘No,’ answered John, not seeming convinced. ‘Has his killer been found?’
I shook my head. ‘We are scrambling in the dark. Talking of which, can I open these shutters? I can hardly see you.’ It was then, when I pulled back the shutters and let the light flood in from the window, that I saw what a truly dreadful condition John Innes was in. His hair was dishevelled, and his normally clean-shaven chin covered with what looked like two days’ stubble. His eyes, pale and watery under their sandy lashes at the best of times, were pink, from sleeplessness or weeping. The air around us, such as it was, was foul.
‘When did you last leave this room?’ I asked eventually.
‘Last night, for the Sunday service. Andrew Carmichael took my classes for me today. He told the principal I was ill.’
‘And does he – Carmichael – know what it is that is the matter with you?’
‘I told him it was grief over Robert Sim, and God knows, he was a friend and I do grieve over him.’
‘But there is something else, is there not? Something you are afraid of?’
He stood up and went to the washbowl on the deal table beneath the window and splashed some water on to his face. ‘It is nothing I can tell you about, Alexander.’
I almost laughed. ‘John? What has there ever been that you could not tell me? Am I not your friend? Have I not been your friend these seventeen years? What have you ever done in all that time that you could not tell me?’
He said nothing for a moment, did not turn his gaze from the window.
‘My life has not been as yours, Alexander.’
‘I know that. Which one of us can say our life is as that of another? We are bound together by something more than what we have become. Surely ours is a brotherhood?’
He turned at last, and smiled a little. ‘Yes, Alexander.’ He pressed a hand to his heart. ‘Ours is a brotherhood I will value until the last breath leaves my body. You must promise me you will not forget that.’
‘Of course, but …’
‘No, you must promise me.’
‘You have my promise.’
‘Good. That is a comfort.’ He lowered his voice. ‘But there are other brotherhoods, and …’
He hesitated.
‘You and Robert Sim were in some form of brotherhood together?’ I had heard of fraternities of men, scholars, divines, in the Netherlands and in Bohemia, Germany, butnever in Scotland. ‘Is there some fraternity here? In Aberdeen?’
He turned away again, shaking his head once more, wringing his hands. ‘Forget that I spoke, Alexander. I should not have spoken.’ He looked at me again, desperation in his eyes. ‘For your own sake, forget that I spoke.’
I started towards him. ‘No, John. I am …’ But before I understood what he was doing, he had crossed the floor and wrenched open the door.
‘Go!’
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