“Really? That’s very helpful. I tried to see your uncle, Sir Roderick, in London at the Foreign Office, to ask a few questions about your mother, but it was impossible to make an appointment.”

“Oh, Uncle Roddy would never see you, or tell you anything if he did. He’s the original Stuffed Shirt. I’ve given up all hope of seeing him, not that I’m keen. But don’t run away with the idea that I had a neglected or unhappy childhood. It was absolutely marvellous, even though St. Columb’s was running down all the time I was growing up. I believe Daddy poured a lot of money into the family place—God knows why—but my grandfather was a hopeless estate manager. Our money from Daddy was watched rather carefully by a solicitor, so it didn’t go down the drain, and it still doesn’t, let me assure you. My little stud is built on that, and since I met Stella—you’d adore Stella, though she is a bit frank-spoken and you are a parson, after all—I’ve been as happy as a lark.”

“So you really know nothing about your father? In your letter to the Cornishes here you rather suggested that he had some Secret Service connection.”

“That was hinted at, but not much was said. Not much was known, I suppose. But you see Daddy’s father, Sir Francis, was in that, and very deep, I believe, and how far Daddy followed in his footsteps I really don’t know. It was the spy connection that kept Daddy from coming to see me, or so it was said.”

“Spy? Do you think he was really a spy?”

“It’s not a word Gran would ever hear used. If they’re British intelligence agents they certainly aren’t spies, she said. Only foreigners are spies. But you know how kids are. I used to joke about him being a spy, to raise the temperature a little. You know, the way kids do. They always told me to be very secret about it but I don’t suppose it matters now.”

“And did you know that your father was a painter, and a remarkable connoisseur, and had a reputation as an expert on pictures?”

“Never heard a word about that. Though I was knocked endways to find out he’d left a huge fortune! I did think of asking the Cornishes if they’d like to use some of it to finance some really super breeding—you know, the very best of the best. But then I thought, shut up, Charlie; that’s greedy, and Daddy has treated you very well. So shut up! And I have.—Oh, crumbs, I must be off! Heavy afternoon ahead of me. Thanks for the super lunch. I shan’t be seeing you again, shall I? Or Arthur and Maria, either. I fly on Friday. They’re a super pair. Especially Maria. By the way, you’re a great family friend, I believe; have you heard anything about her being in foal?”

“In foal? Oh, I see what you mean. No. Have you?”

“No. But I have the breeder’s eye, you know. Right away there’s something about a mare that tells the tale. If the stallion’s clicked, I mean.—And now I must dash!”

As well as a stout woman may, she dashed.

Arthur wept. He had not done so since his parents died in a motor accident when he was fourteen; he was stricken by the grief that overcame him as he sat in Darcourt’s study, a cluttered, booky room, into which a little watery November sun made its way cautiously, as if doubtful of its welcome. He wept. His shoulders shook. It seemed to him that he howled, although Darcourt, standing by the window, looking out into the college quadrangle, heard only deep-fetched sobs. Tears poured from his eyes, and salt downpourings of mucus streamed from his nose. One handkerchief was sodden and the second—Arthur always carried two—and the second was rapidly becoming useless. Darcourt was not the sort of man who has boxes of tissues in his study. It seemed to Arthur that his paroxysm would never end; new desolation heaved up into his heart as quickly as he wept out the old. But at last he sank back in his chair blear-eyed, red-nosed, and conscious that his fine tie had a smear of snot on it.

“Got a handkerchief?” he said.

Darcourt threw him one. “Feel better now, do you?”

“I feel like a cuckold.”

“Ah, yes. A cuckold. Or as Dr. Dahl-Soot pronounces it, cookold. You’ll have to get used to it.”

“You’re a bloody unsympathetic friend. And a bloody unresponsive priest, Simon.”

“Not a bit of it. I am very sorry, both for you and Maria, but what good will it do if I join you in siren tears? My job is to keep a cool head and look at the thing from the outside. What about Powell?”

“I haven’t seen him. What do I do? Beat him up?”

“And signal to the whole world what’s wrong? No, you certainly do not beat him up. Anyhow, you’re in this opera thing up to your neck, and Powell is indispensable.”

“Damn it, he’s my best friend.”

“The cuckoo in the nest is often the best friend. Powell loves you, as a friend may very well love you. I love you, Arthur, though I don’t make a song and dance about it.”

“That kind of love. You have to because you’re a priest. Like God, it’s your metier.”

“You don’t know anything about priests. I know we are supposed to love mankind indiscriminately, but I don’t. That’s why I gave up practical priesthood and became a professor. My faith charges me to love my neighbour but I can’t and I won’t fake it, in the greasy way professional lovers-of-man-kind do—the professionally charitable, the newspaper sob-sisters, the politicians. I’m not Christ, Arthur, and I can’t love like Him, so I settle for courtesy, consideration, decent manners, and whatever I can do for the people I really do love. And you are one of those. I can’t help you by weeping with you, though I respect your tears. The best I can do is to bring a clear head and an open eye to your trouble. I love Maria, too, you know.”

“Indeed I do know. You wanted to marry her, didn’t you?”

“I did, and in the kindest possible way she gave me the mitt. I love her even more for that, because Maria and I would have made a damned bad match.”

“Okay, old Clear Head and Open Eye. Why did you ask her, then?”

“Because I was in the grip of passion. There were a thousand reasons for loving Maria, and I now see there were a million for not marrying her. I love her still, but don’t worry that I want to play the role that Powell has played in your marriage.”

“She told me she once had le coeur tendre for Hollier, and that you had proposed to her. And looked a fine ninny as you did it, what’s more. Every woman has these boss-shots in her past. But she married me, and now she’s wrecking it.”

“Balls. You’re the one who’s wrecking it.”

“Me! She’s pregnant, damn it!”

“And you’re sure it’s not your child?”

“Yes.”

“How? You use some contraceptive, I suppose. Condoms? They’re very much in vogue at present.”

“I hate the damned things. There they are, the morning after, leering wetly at you from the bedside table or the carpet, like the Ghost of Nooky Past.”

“Maria uses something?”

“No. We wanted a child.”

“So?”

“I had mumps, you remember. Badly. The doctors told me tactfully that henceforth I would be infertile. Not impotent. Just infertile. And it’s irreversible.”

“You told Maria, of course?”

“I hadn’t got around to it.”

“So the child must have been begotten by somebody else?”

“Yes, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Must it have been Powell?”

“Who else is a possibility? You see—I hate telling you this—somebody came to me.”

“To tip you off?”

“Yes. A security man who works at night in our apartment building.”

“One Wally Crottel?”

“Yes. And he said that Mr. Powell sometimes stayed late, and occasionally overnight when I was out of town, and as a convenience would it be a good idea if he gave Mr. Powell a key to the parking area?”

“And you said no.”

“I said no. It was just a hint, you know. But it was enough.”

“It was a mistake to underestimate Wally. So then—”