These stern words were delivered at the entrance to All Souls College, where Sir John had come to a halt. He held his ground belligerently and smote the bricks of the walkway beneath his feet.
Then said he: “I take it I am near the entrance to All Souls College?”
“You are, yes, sir. Turn around completely. Move four or five steps forward and prepare to mount three stair steps to the door.”
“You’ve given me a greater answer than I required, but I thank you for it, as I will also thank you to leave me now.”
I hesitated. We had attracted a small crowd of onlookers who seemed half amused by Sir Johns behavior. They looked from him to me, no doubt curious as to what I might do or say next. I hardly knew myself, so embarrassed was I by such attention.
In the end, I could do naught but call weakly as I backed away, “All right, if you wish it so. I will meet you at the inn at days end.”
Then I turned and walked swiftly away from him. I looked back but once and saw him pushing away one of the crowd who had been so bold as to offer him assistance up to the door of All Souls College.
EIGHT
I knew not what to do, nor where to go. Set adrift in Oxford, I could but wander the streets, looking into the faces of those whom I might pass during that midmorning, in the vague hope that I might by chance encounter those whom I sought tramping through the town as I was. Had I met them thus, what might I have done? Would I have slyly passed them by, then turned round and followed them wherever they might have gone? That was my imagined fantasy. But there were matters to be considered. Would I recognize them? Yes, I was properly certain that I would. But then the question came, might they not also recognize me? That, I had to admit, was a distinct possibility, Sir John was aware of the chance meeting Clarissa and I had had with the claimant and Eli Bolt in Kingsmead Square, Bath. On the basis of that and the brief view that they had had of me on our last night in the dining room of the Bear Tavern, Sir John had warned me not to call attention to myself and to observe them as nearly as possible in secret. Thus I knew that it was doubly important that I escape their notice. To attempt to trail them, even at a distance, might indeed put an end to my worth as an observer. At least, it seemed so to me at that time.
Mulling these matters for more than an hour, I coursed back and forth between the town and the university, never leaving completely one nor the other. There was an abundance of bookshops there; as I grew less interested in sighting and pursuing claimant and Bolt, I gave more attention to the bookshops and began browsing their windows. Then, tempted inside by a copy of Daniel Defoe’s The True-Born Englishman, I entered one of the bookshops which was located in George Lane. I emerged an hour later with Mr. Defoe’s poetic work under my arm (bought at a good price) and The Adventures of David Simple, by Sir John’s half sister, Sarah. Two doors down stood a drinking and eating place called the Swan. I repaired to it that I might examine the books I had bought.
Inside, I chose an obscure corner of the bar, safely out of the way of the noisy comings and goings of the crowd from the street. The Swan was much favored by the university people, though not necessarily by the students. Those who entered seemed older and rougher in their manner — college servants they were, doorkeepers and porters and the like. In fact, sometime after I had settled at the bar with a cup of coffee before me, the doorkeeper from Balliol College came into the place and seated himself at a table a distance away with a number of his fellows; he paid me no attention whatever. The purpose of these visits to the Swan, which were none of them very long, was to gulp as much ale as possible and gobble as many oysters as could be kept down. Of great duration they may not have been; they were nevertheless frequent: During the course of my two hours in the Swan, I saw one red-faced, elderly fellow duck into the place three times — and each time he downed a pint of ale. All the while I sat sipping my coffee, turning the pages of the books, and quietly moping.
Yes, reader, I moped. If I had earlier been stung somewhat by Sir John’s failure to accept my theory on the doorkeeper’s presumed lies, I was really quite hurt by his refusal of the help I offered him in getting about Oxford. What was it he had said to me as we stood before All Souls College? “Do not make the mistake of supposing that you are in some way indispensable to me…’’ In truth, I had never thought that I was indispensable in helping him through the streets, nor in any other way. I had perhaps grown a bit more contentious than before, and sitting there in the Swan, I vowed that I would remedy that in the future. Nevertheless, it seemed to me that some of the blame must fall upon Sir John himself. He had grown quite tetchy of late, and I could not fathom the reason. Perhaps it was simply a matter of growing older. It occurred to me then that I had no idea whatever of his age. To me he looked quite old, though he didn’t seem so. But, I asked myself, was it merely the encroachments of age that inspired him to send me off on this fools errand? After all, asking me to locate two men who may or may not be somewhere about the town on this day! They could be a hundred miles from here — or perhaps even in London. Now, there would be a bit of irony for you, would it not? As I searched for them here, they might very well be in London, seeking more signatures on their affidavits.
Having, for a considerable while, become lost in such thoughts and considerations as I have described above, I became only gradually aware of a commotion there within the Swan. It was, after all, only a small commotion — a quickening swell in the usual hum of conversation. At last it had risen to such a level that it could no longer be ignored. I looked up and around me, just as a great voice boomed forth, drowning out all else:
“Hear ye, one and all, I ask kindly for your attention.”
Though the voice was new to me, I had no difficulty locating its source: Eli Bolt stood, broad and tall, at the far end of the Swan. Only one man in the room was in any sense more prominently in view — and that was the claimant himself. He, as it happened, had taken a place, standing upon a chair beside Mr. Bolt. He was visible from every corner of the room. I, fearing recognition, shrunk back a bit and hid behind an open book; neither of the two men, however, gave me so much as a glance.
“We ask only that you take a look at Lawrence Paltrow, who is next to me here,” continued Mr. Bolt. “If any of yez remembers him from his time at Oxford ten or twelve years past, then we’d like to speak to you in private. Any who wants a closer look, just come forward and take it.”
With that, a number rose from their tables and a few pushed away from the bar. They came forward for the sort of clear view that the dim light within the Swan prohibited. The claimant stepped down from the chair that he might meet them and present himself in the best possible manner. He smiled, offering his hand in good, manly fashion to those who approached him. One by one, each who had come forward had a few words with him; after that, one or two fell back, returning to their companions. Those who remained began to move closer to the claimant and talked freely with him. As if by magic, pints of ale appeared and were accepted.