I was half-shocked, half-amused, to hear of his depredations at Roy’s expense. I was still confident that he would not treat me anything like as badly: we had always been on specially amiable terms.
“You haven’t much for him to pinch,” said Roy. “He doesn’t seem to like books.”
Then suddenly a thought occurred to Roy.
“Do you look at your buttery bills?” he said.
“I just cast an eye over them,” I said guiltily.
“Untrue,” said Roy. “I bet you don’t. I once caught the old scoundrel monkeying with a bill. Lewis, I want to look at yours.”
I had not kept any, but Roy found copies in the steward’s office. Soon he glanced at me.
“You drink too much,” he said. “Alone, I suppose. I never knew.”
He made me study the bills. I used to order in writing one bottle of whisky a fortnight; on my account, time after time, I was put down for four bottles. I asked for the latest order, which, like the rest, had been taken to the office by Bidwell. The figure 1 had been neatly changed into a 4. As I looked at other items, I saw some other unpleasant facts. I felt peculiarly silly, angry and ill-used.
“He must have cost you quite a bit,” said Roy, who was doing sums on a piece of paper. “Haven’t you let him ‘bring things away’ from your tailor’s?”
“I’ll bring it away from the shop” was a favourite phrase of Bidwell’s.
“Yes,” I said helplessly.
“You’re dished, old boy,” said Roy. “We’re both dished, but you’re absolutely done.” He added: “I think we need to speak to Bidwell.”
Neither of us wanted to, but Roy took the lead. He sent another servant to find Bidwell, and we waited for him in Roy’s room.
Bidwell came in and stood just inside the door, his face benign and attentive.
“They said you were asking for me, sir?”
“Yes, Bidwell,” said Roy. “Too many things have gone from these rooms.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that, sir.”
“Where have they gone?”
“What might the old things be, sir?” Bidwell was wary, deferential, impassive. In the past he had diverted Roy by his use of the word “old”, but now Roy had fixed him with a hard and piercing glance. He did not wilt, his manner was perfectly possessed.
Roy ran through the list.
“That’s a terrible lot to lose, I must say.” Bidwell frowned. “If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, I never did like the steward using this as a guest room when you were away. We had men up for examinations” — Bidwell shook his head — “and I know I’m doing wrong in speaking, sir, but it’s the class of men we have here nowadays. It’s the class of men we get here today. Things aren’t what they used to be.”
Bidwell was not an ordinary man in any company, but he ran true to his trade in being a snob, open, nostalgic and unashamed.
Roy looked at me. I said: “I’ve been going through my buttery bills, Bidwell.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I’ve never ordered four bottles of whisky at a go since I came here.”
“Of course not, sir. You’ve never been one for whisky, have you? I spotted that as soon as you came on my staircase. It was different with an old gentleman I used to have before your time, sir. When I had you instead of him, it made a big old difference to my life.”
“I gave you an order for one bottle last week. The buttery say that when you handed it in, that order was for four bottles.”
Bidwell’s face darkened, and instantaneously cleared.
“I meant to tell you about that, sir. I may have done wrong. You must tell me if I have. But I heard the stock was running low, and I took it on myself to bring away what you might call a reserve—”
“Come off it, Bidwell,” said Roy clearly. “We know you’ve been cheating us. And you know we know.”
“I don’t like to hear you saying that, sir—”
“Look here,” said Roy, “we like you. We hope you like us. Do you want to spoil it all?”
Bidwell ceased to be impassive.
“It would break my heart, Mr Calvert, if either of you went away.”
“Why have you done this?”
“I’m glad you’ve both spoken to me,” said Bidwell. “It’s been hurting me — here.” He pressed his hand to his heart. “I know I oughtn’t to have done what I have done. But I’ve got short of cash now and again. I don’t mind telling this to you two gentlemen — I’ve always said that everyone has a right to his fancy. But it’s made me do things I shouldn’t have done. I haven’t treated you right, I know I haven’t.”
His mouth was twitching, his eyes were tearful, we were all raw and distressed.
“Just so,” said Roy quietly. “Well, Bidwell, I’m ready to forget it. So is Mr Eliot. On one—”
“You’ve always been every inch a gentleman, sir. Both of you.”
“On one condition,” said Roy. “Listen. I mean this. If anything else goes from these rooms, I go straight to the steward. And you’ll be sacked out of hand.”
“It won’t happen again, sir.”
“Wait a minute. Listen again. I shall go through Mr Eliot’s bill myself each week. You can trust me to do it, can’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Mr Eliot can never be bothered with his old bills, sir.”
“I can,” said Roy. “You’ve got it clear? If you take another penny from either of us, I shan’t stop to ask Mr Eliot. I shall get you sacked.”
“Yes, sir. I’m very much obliged to both of you gentlemen.”
Bidwell went out, his face once more rubicund, open, benign and composed. Both Roy and I were puzzled. His emotion was genuine: yet he had pulled it out with his intuitive cunning. How had he played on that particular note, which was certain to affect us both? Was there a touch of triumph about his exit? Like Arthur Brown, Bidwell’s was a nature that became deeper and tougher when once one was past the affable fat man’s façade.
Roy teased me because I — “the great realist”, as he called me — was upset at Bidwell’s duplicity. He told me that I bore major treacheries better than domestic ones. For my part, I was thinking how final his own manner had become. In giving his ultimatum to Bidwell, his voice was keen, as though it were a relief to take this action, to take any kind of action. He was restless, he was driven to do things once for all.
I heard him speak with finality again before that term ended. The college chaplain had just resigned, as some friendly bishop had given him preferment. As soon as he heard the news, Arthur Brown set unhurriedly to work: the chaplaincy did not carry a fellowship, it had no political importance in the college, but Brown’s instinct for patronage was too strong for him: he was obliged to keep his hand in. So he went round “getting the feeling of a few people”, as he explained to Roy and me. The upshot was that, before he spoke to us, he had invited Udal to spend a night in college. “I’m not committing anyone, naturally,” said Arthur Brown. “But I thought it might be profitable to explore the ground a little. I’m afraid I’ve rather taken it for granted that you wouldn’t object to the idea, Calvert, if we get as far as mentioning his name. I remember that you backed him strongly at several meetings.”
Roy gave a slight smile — I wondered if it was at his own expense.
“I don’t know how you’d feel about it, Eliot? I’m inclined to think myself that Udal would be rather an addition to the combination room.”
“If you all want him,” I said, “I’m ready to fall in.” I looked at Roy: he smiled again, but the mention of Udal had disturbed him.
Udal arrived in time for dinner, and Arthur Brown brought him into hall. It was one of the few occasions that I had seen him wearing a dog-collar. He towered above the rest of us in the combination room, polite, cheerful, perfectly at ease. If he wanted the job, I thought in hall, he was doing pretty well. Perhaps he was a little too casual; most societies liked a touch of nervousness when a man was under inspection — not too much, but just a fitting touch. Udal would have been slightly too natural in any company or any interview.