But that evening the forecast was surprisingly accurate; and at 6:45 P.M. the rains came.
Denis Cornford looked out through the window at Holywell Street where the rain bounced off the surface of the road like arrowheads. St. Peter’s (Dinner, 7:00 for 7:30 P.M.) was only ten minutes’ walk away but he was going to get soaked in such a downpour.
“What do you think, darling?”
“Give it five minutes. If it keeps on like this, I should get a cab. You’ve got plenty of time.”
“What’ll you be doing?” he asked.
“Well, I don’t think I’ll be venturing out too far, do you?” She said it in a gentle way, and there seemed no sarcasm in her voice. She came up behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders as he stood indecisively staring out through the sheeted panes.
“Denis?”
“Mm?”
“Do you really want to be Master all that much?”
He turned toward her and looked directly into her dazzlingly attractive dark eyes, with that small circular white light in the center of their irises — eyes which had always held men, and tempted them, and occasioned innumerable capitulations.
“Yes, Shelly. Yes, I do! Not quite so badly as Julian, perhaps. But badly enough.”
“What would you give — to be Master?”
“Most things, I suppose.”
“Give up your work?”
“A good deal of that would go anyway. It would be different work, that’s all.”
“Would you give me up?”
He took her in his arms. “Of course, I would!”
“You don’t really mean—?”
He kissed her mouth with a strangely passionate tenderness.
A few minutes later they stood arm-in-arm at the window looking out at the ceaselessly teeming rain.
“I’ll ring for a cab,” said Shelly Cornford.
On Mondays the dons’ attendance at Lonsdale Dinner was usually fairly small, but Roy Porter would be there, Angela Storrs knew that: Roy Porter was almost always there. She rang him in his room at 6:55 P.M.
“Roy?”
“Angela! Good to hear your beautiful voice.”
“Flattery will get you exactly halfway between nowhere and everywhere.”
“I’ll settle for that.”
“You’re dining tonight?”
“Yep.”
“Would you like to come along afterward and cheer up a lonely old lady.”
“Julian away?”
“Some Brains Trust at Reading University.”
“Shall I bring a bottle?”
“Plenty of bottles here.”
“Marvelous.”
“Nine-ish?”
“About then. Er... Angela? Is it something you want to talk about or is it just...?”
“Why not both?”
“You want to know how things seem to be going with the election?”
“I’m making no secret of that.”
“You do realize I don’t know anything definite at all?”
“I don’t expect you to. But I’d like to talk. You can understand how I feel, can’t you?”
“Of course.”
“And I’ve been speaking to Julian. There are one or two little preferments perhaps in the offing, if he’s elected.”
“Really?”
“But like you, Roy, I don’t know anything definite.”
“I understand. But it’ll be good to be together again.”
“Oh, yes. Have a drink or two together.”
“Or three?”
“Or four?” suggested Angela Storrs, her voice growing huskier still.
The phone rang at 7:05 P.M.
“Shelly?”
“Yes.”
“You’re on your own?”
“You know I am.”
“Denis gone?”
“Left fifteen minutes ago.”
“One or two things to tell you, if we could meet?”
“What sort of things?”
“Nothing definite. But there’s talk about a potential benefaction from the States, and one of the trustees met Denis — met you, I gather, too — and, well, I can tell you all about it when we meet.”
“All about it?”
“It’s a biggish thing, and I think we may be slightly more likely to pull it off, perhaps, if Denis...”
“And you’ll be doing your best?”
“I can’t promise anything.”
“I know that.”
“So?”
“So?”
“So you’re free and I’m free.”
“On a night like this? Far too dangerous. Me coming to the Master’s Lodge? No chance.”
“I agree. But, you see, one of my old colleagues is off to Greece — he’s left me his key — just up Banbury Road — lovely comfy double bed — crisp clean sheets — central heating — en suite facilities — mini bar. Tariff? No pounds, no shillings, no pence.”
“You remember predecimalization?”
“I’m not too old, though, am I? And I’d just love to be with you now, at this minute. More than anything in the world.”
“You ought to find a new variation on the theme, you know! It’s getting a bit of a cliché.”
“Cleesháy,” she’d said; but however she’d pronounced it, the barb had found its mark; and Sir Clixby’s voice was softer, more serious as he answered her.
“I need you, Shelly. Please come out with me. I’ll get a taxi round to you in ten minutes’ time, if that’s all right?”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Shelly?”
“Yes?”
“Will that be all right?”
“No,” she replied quietly. “No it won’t. I’m sorry.”
The line was dead.
Just before nine o’clock, Cornford rang home from St. Peter’s:
“Shelly? Denis. Look, darling, I’ve just noticed in my diary... You’ve not had a call tonight, have you?”
Shelly’s heart registered a sudden, sharp stab of panic.
“No, why?”
“It’s just that the New York publishers said they might be ringing. So, if they do, please make a note of the number and tell ’em I’ll ring them back. All right?”
“Fine. Yes.”
“You having a nice evening?”
“Mm. It’s lovely to sit and watch TV for a change. No engagements. No problems.”
“See you soon.”
“I hope so.”
Shelly put down the phone slowly. “I’ve just noticed in my diary,” he’d said. But he hadn’t, she knew that. She’d looked in his diary earlier that day, to make sure of the time of the St. Peter’s do. That had been the only entry on the page for 2–26–96.
Just before ten o’clock, Julian Storrs rang his wife from Reading; rang three times.
The number was engaged.
He rang five minutes later.
The number was still engaged.
He rang again, after a further five minutes.
She answered.
“Angie? I’ve been trying to get you these last twenty minutes.”
“I’ve only been talking to Mom, for Christ’s sake!”
“It’s just that I shan’t be home till after midnight, that’s all. So I’ll get a taxi. Don’t worry about meeting me.”