Lessons in Discovery (13 page)

But Jonty couldn’t help recalling the last time they’d stayed

with the Stewarts, when there’d been very little in the way of

delineation between his chambers and Orlando’s. They’d been

given adjoining rooms in the west wing of the castle then been left to their own devices, there being no other guests at the time. No one had bothered about the fact that only one of their beds was

ever slept in, his mother having delegated a valet for their use who had every sympathy towards their inclinations and who’d

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carefully picked up Jonty’s tie from Orlando’s floor without

comment or concern.

This time would be different. Jonty and Orlando had

renewed their physical relationship, it was true, but it all seemed so very innocent compared to the previous summer. His thoughts

ran, again and again, back to the previous January and his dear

innocent Orlando, who’d found the simple acts of kissing and

cuddling a complete revelation and as satisfying as anything.

Orlando finding disgusting books in an undergraduate’s room and

getting into a terrible tizzy reading them. Orlando at last having the inner tiger unleashed and proving to be a wonderful lover—

loyal, protective, passionate, fierce, tender, silly. The trigger had been jealousy, Orlando’s envy of Jonty’s first lover, although

Jonty wasn’t sure that catalyst would help this time, nor could he think of another which might work such wonders.

At least he now knew more about his lover than he had done

the first time around, how his awful, unloving, repressive

childhood had left him unprepared for love, especially sexual

love. Orlando had always been told that sexual acts were unclean and despicable, even if the participants loved each other beyond all reckoning. Even if they were necessary to “continue the race”,

which were the only circumstances in which his parents had

seemed to think intercourse was acceptable. Perhaps that

knowledge would make the barriers easier to break down this time around. Jonty was encouraged that Orlando still demonstrated the emotional maturity he’d gained this last year—it hadn’t been lost with his memories. There was a good chance that he only had to

find the right key to release those passions once more. But if those passions
were
released again, would Orlando be able to cope just yet? Or ever?

Jonty felt like his head was going to split. There was so

much uncertainty this time around, strangely more than there had been the first time, because now he knew what was at risk if he

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didn’t succeed—the very essence of his life. If Orlando turned and rejected him now, because he made too bold a pass, that

archaeological expedition would seem the only reasonable

alternative.

His thoughts were interrupted by a familiar knock and then a

familiar nose poking around the door. “Fancy a bit of shopping?

I’ve just spoken to Nurse Hatfield and she assures me that as long as you’re wrapped up well, a little fresh air won’t hurt.”

Jonty grinned. “If I hear the expression
wrap up and don’t

forget your scarf
once more this winter I’ll go mad. I promise there won’t be a single piece of skin showing if I’m only allowed out of my prison.”

They went to the market, Jonty swathed in every piece of

clothing Orlando had managed to get him to wear in order to

guard against pneumonia or whatever other ills might be lurking

in the East Anglian air. They visited their usual stalls and shops, stuffing their bags with purchases small enough to carry,

arranging delivery of the others.

Jonty never went home without armfuls of presents to give

to his family after church on Christmas morning and the giving

didn’t stop at his nearest and dearest. Every servant in the house would receive something from the youngest son: luxurious soaps

and ribbons for the housemaids, cigars for the footmen, not even the lowliest of the stable lads would be left out. The butler always had a bottle of port, the housekeeper a bottle of scent and the cook a romantic novel.

Orlando was amazed at the volume of goods being

purchased and expressed his guilt that he wasn’t doing the same.

Jonty insisted that his position in the house, youngest son, made this a traditional Stewart obligation, one that Orlando didn’t have to comply with, being a guest himself. He was exceedingly

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Charlie Cochrane

his father’s debts having accounted for much of what the man had left. The fact that Jonty was always flush with cash had rankled with him in the past year. They’d resolved the issue before, but Jonty would rather not have to deal with that particular matter

now. If he’d ever assumed that things would be easy once he and

Orlando were on kissing terms again, he’d forgotten too much of

what had passed between them this past year.

They took afternoon tea, a large steaming pot accompanied

by huge rum babas awash with cream, and watched the world pass

the windows of their cafe. They had always enjoyed watching

people, making up stories, outrageous or mundane, about what

they were up to. By the time this new term had come, Orlando had become quite good at it, his tongue and inhibitions sufficiently loosened to be happy to join in Jonty’s daftness.

It saddened Jonty that, when he tried a little game of it now,

remarking of an elderly and very respectable couple, “They’re on the way to see a retired naval gentleman who will provide them

with most interesting tattoos,” Orlando had simply answered,

“Are they? However do you know?”

The rum babas compensated in part for his disappointment,

bringing on a great tiredness, which Jonty saw off with a little nap on his sofa before hall. As he dozed, he entered a strange dream in which he was kissing Orlando, which was, as always, very nice.

Then they started to get ready “to do their duty”, as his coy lover used to refer to matters of the bed, so Jonty had lain back, eyes shut, and let Orlando get on with things.

To his horror, when he’d opened his eyes in the dream, he’d

seen the face of someone quite different. He’d pushed the man

away, shouting, “Stop it, you’re not my Orlando!” but the other

man had argued, showing Jonty that he was wearing Orlando’s

underclothes and tiepin, which was incongruously attached to his vest. He’d even indicated the scar on the back of his ankle where he’d been hit and snapped his tendon. So many circumstantial

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indications to the contrary, yet it wasn’t Jonty’s sweetheart. He’d been so cross about the fact that he’d gone off to give a lecture on
Twelfth Night
, which, according to the logic of his dream world, had taken place in his sitting room and been a huge success. How his students coped with him wearing only his vest and pants was a mystery.

When Jonty got to the part of the lecture where he spoke of

cross garters—only to discover that he was wearing the vile

things—and was being chased by a gaggle of girls from Girton

who had gate-crashed the lecture hall, he woke with a start.

Relieved that it had only been a dream, he stretched

languorously then went in search of a small sherry, which he

cradled in his hand and sipped while contemplating the fire. He

hadn’t had much of an inclination to think ever since the flu had floored him, except about Orlando, of course, but he’d been

thinking about that man on and off every day for over a year.

Now another thought buzzed about his brain like a restless

insect and just like its counterpart it was hard to pin down and swat. There was something in his dream which had been relevant

to the Woodville Ward case, but he was jiggered if he could put

his finger on it.
Perhaps if I try another half glass of Oloroso and
sit down here, I can have the thing formulated
.

Back in his own set, Orlando had managed to decipher a few

more of Shaa’s letters, although he’d turned up little that was new.

The story about planning his flight with Breton had been

corroborated in one of them, even so far as establishing projected dates and times. Orlando began to wonder more about the role

that Breton had played in this matter. Jonty wouldn’t hear a word said against the man, but he must surely be considered as a

suspect. What if they had argued over a woman—Orlando

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supposed that such things happened—or fell out over the

arrangements for their clandestine departure?

He set to work on the last message that he felt was based on

a simple substitution. As he changed the indecipherable into a

meaningful script his heart began to pound. Here was mention of

a man called Stephen, who appeared to work at the college as a

lesser steward and who was one of the people Shaa suspected of

spying on him. This seemed as if it might be the man referred to in the other letters.

Orlando’s mind started to fill with ideas. Had there been a

confrontation between the two, resulting in Shaa’s violent death and the disposal of his body? Had Stephen then taken himself off somewhere, hiding away until the hue and cry had died down, or

more likely gone to ground with whoever had set him to spy on

Shaa in the first place? And had Breton then waited at Lowestoft for his friend, eventually having to set out on his own? It seemed a desperately sad scenario.

Orlando knew he lacked empathy—or had before, there

seemed to be a bit more fellow-feeling in him these days—so he

recognised that it would be hard to imagine himself back in

medieval times, to understand how the protagonists felt. Breton

and Shaa had been close friends. Not, he now understood, in the

same way as he and Jonty were friends, Breton must have missed

Shaa, as Orlando would have yearned for Jonty if he’d been in

their shoes. He wondered if Breton had felt torn between going to search for his companion or staying and taking up the berth on a ship that represented his greatest desire. The choice must have

been agonising.

Perhaps the choice two weeks ago had been heartbreaking

for Jonty. The decision between telling him everything or just

leaving him to believe that their former relationship had only been platonic, then waiting to see whether it would develop in the same way the second time around. Orlando squirmed to think of how

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he’d reacted, throwing up, such a childish thing to do, and how

hurt Jonty must have been in the hour before he’d summoned up

the nerve to go round and apologise. Jonty had never mentioned it of course, but listening to him in the bathroom must have made

the man think that he was hated, and that was the last thing in the world to be true.

At least I’ve been given the chance since to show him it

wasn’t so. It’s strange, how something as awful as the flu could
produce such splendid results. Jonty was at death’s very portals,
yet hardly twelve hours later we were kissing and blissfully happy.

There’s no logic to it.

Orlando shook his head and wished, not for the first time,

that he understood life like he understood algebra.

They met en route to hall, but couldn’t take seats together at

High Table, Jonty being whisked off by the chaplain. Orlando

could see a particular glint in his friend’s eye and it was

maddening not to be able to find out the cause of it until they were together in the SCR.

“You look smug.” Orlando was genuinely pleased to see

Jonty give the impression of being so much more like his old self.

His pre-flu self, to be accurate—he still didn’t know what the

Jonty of the previous year had been like. “In fact, I’d use the

words unbearably smug. Would you like to reveal what cream

you’ve got for yourself, little cat?”

“Oh, I’ve got a theory. A really thick, double-clotted-cream

theory. Want to hear it?”

“Of course I do, you annoying creature.” Orlando felt the

hairs prickle on the back of his neck and wondered if he’d always felt this way when Jonty teased him. It was an incredibly pleasant sensation.

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“It all revolves around a dream I had. That body in the

well—how do we know it was Shaa?” Jonty’s eyes positively

gleamed.

Orlando considered, then counted off the facts on his fingers.

“Because of the timing, the jewellery and the broken arm. Fairly conclusive, I’d have thought.”

“Fairly circumstantial, I’d have said. You know,
I
don’t think it was him at all. What if someone put the jewellery on

another person, broke his victim’s arm pre- or post-death and

dumped him down the shaft on the principle that by the time the

body was found, identification would be very difficult? And that evidence you hold so much store by would settle the case in the

murderer’s favour. A nice little case of mistaken identity.” Jonty’s smug look became so self-satisfied that Orlando wondered if he’d spent the last year alternating between wanting to kiss this man and thump him.

“But who would have done something like that?” Orlando