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Authors: Gavin Scott
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with the demands of the system. He also felt it very probable that however thorough and conscientious they were, in the end Gordon Clark would hang for a crime he did not commit.
* * *
Ken Harrison was waiting for him when he got back to his rooms and for a moment Forrester stood looking at him, trying to remember what the hell he was supposed to be tutoring him about. Then, apologising for his distraction, he asked him to read his essay out loud. Instead, Harrison brought out a hip flask.
“I hope this isn’t too much of a cheek, but it’s a single malt – and you look as if you need it.” Harrison handed him the flask and as he tipped it back Forrester felt the peaty liquid spread its warmth in the pit of his stomach.
“Yes,” he said. “Good idea, Harrison. Thank you.”
“I was very sorry to hear about Dr. Clark,” said Harrison, settling himself into the chair on the other side of the fireplace.
“You know he’s been arrested?”
“The college is buzzing with it.”
Forrester drank more whisky. “I believe he’s innocent,” he said.
Harrison nodded. “He’s always seemed a pretty good stick to me. But things look rather black for him just now, don’t they?” Forrester handed him back the flask and Harrison returned it to his pocket. “Who do you think did it then, Dr. Forrester?”
Forrester looked at him sharply. Harrison had drawn his attention to a simple truth: the only certain way of keeping Gordon Clark from the gallows was to find who
had
killed David Lyall.
“I have no idea,” he replied. “But I intend to find out.” The words came out without thinking, but as he spoke he knew that was exactly what he had to do.
“Good for you,” said Harrison. “And – I hope it doesn’t sound presumptuous – I’d like to do anything I can to help.”
“You?” said Forrester.
“Well, I’m sure you know lots of people who’d be more use—”
“No, no, that’s not what I meant. But I can’t ask you to do that. I’m supposed to be tutoring you in ancient history. And you’re supposed to be studying for a degree.”
“I can do both. Anyway, this afternoon you’re obviously preoccupied with this. Why don’t we just talk about it and leave the Greeks for next week?”
Forrester considered this.
“This isn’t just an excuse to get out of reading your essay, is it?”
“No,” replied Harrison, equably. “I’ve written it.” He took out the pages. “I’ll leave it behind; you can read it when I’ve gone. Or I can read it to you now – I really don’t mind.”
“No,” said Forrester. “I’ll take you up on your offer. Actually, it’ll be quite a relief to talk.”
And as he said the words Forrester knew that it would be, because Harrison was exactly the sort of stolid, unflappable comrade you would want to have in the proverbial foxhole. Forrester had been in plenty of proverbial foxholes during the past five years, and the truth was he had rarely had someone with him who had Harrison’s oddly comforting qualities. No matter that the man was technically his student – he knew he needed him. “Tell me what you want to know,” he said.
“What would be most useful for me,” said Harrison, “would be if you just told me what happened that night as if I knew nothing. I’ve only heard bits and pieces anyway; but pretend I know nothing.” So Forrester did, only leaving out, because of his promise to Margaret Clark, the Senior Tutor’s revelation about his wife’s affair with David Lyall.
During the narrative Harrison puffed gently on his pipe and when it was over he found that it had gone out and required the usual ritual cleaning, refilling and relighting. During this he said, “What about the wife?”
“You mean, did she kill David Lyall?”
“Yes.”
“Why would she do that?”
“I saw them together, once. Well, more than once, actually.”
“Together?”
“On the riverbank. There was something about the way they stood – well, I
* * *
Ken Harrison was waiting for him when he got back to his rooms and for a moment Forrester stood looking at him, trying to remember what the hell he was supposed to be tutoring him about. Then, apologising for his distraction, he asked him to read his essay out loud. Instead, Harrison brought out a hip flask.
“I hope this isn’t too much of a cheek, but it’s a single malt – and you look as if you need it.” Harrison handed him the flask and as he tipped it back Forrester felt the peaty liquid spread its warmth in the pit of his stomach.
“Yes,” he said. “Good idea, Harrison. Thank you.”
“I was very sorry to hear about Dr. Clark,” said Harrison, settling himself into the chair on the other side of the fireplace.
“You know he’s been arrested?”
“The college is buzzing with it.”
Forrester drank more whisky. “I believe he’s innocent,” he said.
Harrison nodded. “He’s always seemed a pretty good stick to me. But things look rather black for him just now, don’t they?” Forrester handed him back the flask and Harrison returned it to his pocket. “Who do you think did it then, Dr. Forrester?”
Forrester looked at him sharply. Harrison had drawn his attention to a simple truth: the only certain way of keeping Gordon Clark from the gallows was to find who
had
killed David Lyall.
“I have no idea,” he replied. “But I intend to find out.” The words came out without thinking, but as he spoke he knew that was exactly what he had to do.
“Good for you,” said Harrison. “And – I hope it doesn’t sound presumptuous – I’d like to do anything I can to help.”
“You?” said Forrester.
“Well, I’m sure you know lots of people who’d be more use—”
“No, no, that’s not what I meant. But I can’t ask you to do that. I’m supposed to be tutoring you in ancient history. And you’re supposed to be studying for a degree.”
“I can do both. Anyway, this afternoon you’re obviously preoccupied with this. Why don’t we just talk about it and leave the Greeks for next week?”
Forrester considered this.
“This isn’t just an excuse to get out of reading your essay, is it?”
“No,” replied Harrison, equably. “I’ve written it.” He took out the pages. “I’ll leave it behind; you can read it when I’ve gone. Or I can read it to you now – I really don’t mind.”
“No,” said Forrester. “I’ll take you up on your offer. Actually, it’ll be quite a relief to talk.”
And as he said the words Forrester knew that it would be, because Harrison was exactly the sort of stolid, unflappable comrade you would want to have in the proverbial foxhole. Forrester had been in plenty of proverbial foxholes during the past five years, and the truth was he had rarely had someone with him who had Harrison’s oddly comforting qualities. No matter that the man was technically his student – he knew he needed him. “Tell me what you want to know,” he said.
“What would be most useful for me,” said Harrison, “would be if you just told me what happened that night as if I knew nothing. I’ve only heard bits and pieces anyway; but pretend I know nothing.” So Forrester did, only leaving out, because of his promise to Margaret Clark, the Senior Tutor’s revelation about his wife’s affair with David Lyall.
During the narrative Harrison puffed gently on his pipe and when it was over he found that it had gone out and required the usual ritual cleaning, refilling and relighting. During this he said, “What about the wife?”
“You mean, did she kill David Lyall?”
“Yes.”
“Why would she do that?”
“I saw them together, once. Well, more than once, actually.”
“Together?”
“On the riverbank. There was something about the way they stood – well, I
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