A Quiver Full of Arrows Read online

  Sir William’s colleagues all knew within the hour. College lunch that day was spent in a silence broken only by the Senior Tutor inquiring of the Master if some food should be taken up to the Merton professor.

  “I think not,” said the Master. Nothing more was said.

  Professors, Fellows and students alike crossed the front quadrangle in silence and when they gathered for dinner that evening still no one felt like conversation. At the end of the meal the Senior Tutor suggested once again that something should be taken up to Sir William. This time the Master nodded his agreement and a light meal was prepared by the college chef. The Master and the Senior Tutor climbed the worn stone steps to Sir William’s room and while one held the tray the other gently knocked on the door. There was no reply, so the Master, used to William’s ways, pushed the door ajar and looked in.

  The old man lay motionless on the wooden floor in a pool of blood, a small pistol by his side. The two men walked in and stared down. In his right hand, William was holding the Collected Works of John Skelton. The book was opened at The Tunnyng of Elynour Rummyng, and the word “whym-wham” was underlined.

  a 1529, Skelton, E. Rummyng 75

  After the Sarasyns gyse,

  Woth a whym wham,

  Knyt with a trym tram,

  Upon her brayne pan.

  Sir William, in his neat hand, had written a note in the margin: “Forgive me, but I had to let her know.”

  “Know what, I wonder?” said the Master softly to himself as he attempted to remove the book from Sir William’s hand, but the fingers were already stiff and cold around it.

  * * *

  Legend has it that they were never apart for more than a few hours.

  THE PERFECT GENTLEMAN

  I would never have met Edward Shrimpton if he hadn’t needed a towel. He stood naked by my side staring down at the bench in front of him, muttering, “I could have sworn I left the damn thing there.”

  I had just come out of the sauna, swathed in towels, so I took one off my shoulder and passed it to him. He thanked me and put out his hand.

  “Edward Shrimpton,” he said, smiling. I took his hand and wondered what we must have looked like standing there in the gymnasium locker room of the Metropolitan Club in the early evening, two grown men shaking hands in the nude.

  “I don’t remember seeing you in the club before,” he added.

  “No, I’m an overseas member.”

  “Ah, from England. What brings you to New York?”

  “I’m pursuing an American novelist whom my company would like to publish in England.”

  “And are you having any success?”

  “Yes, I think I’ll close the deal this week—as long as the agent stops trying to convince me that his author is a cross between Tolstoy and Dickens and should be paid accordingly.”

  “Neither was paid particularly well, if I remember correctly,” offered Edward Shrimpton as he energetically rubbed the towel up and down his back.

  “A fact I pointed out to the agent at the time, who only countered by reminding me that it was my house who had published Dickens originally.”

  “I suggest,” said Edward Shrimpton, “that you remind him that the end result turned out to be successful for all concerned.”

  “I did, but I fear this agent is more interested in ‘up front’ than posterity.”

  “As a banker that’s a sentiment of which I could hardly disapprove, since the one thing we have in common with publishers is that our clients are always trying to tell us a good tale.”

  “Perhaps you should sit down and write one of them for me?” I said politely.

  “Heaven forbid, you must be sick of being told that there’s a book in every one of us, so I hasten to assure you that there isn’t one in me.”

  I laughed, as I found it refreshing not to be informed by a new acquaintance that his memoirs, if only he could find the time to write them, would overnight be one of the world’s best sellers.

  “Perhaps there’s a story in you, but you’re just not aware of it,” I suggested.

  “If that’s the case, I’m afraid it’s passed me by.”

  Mr. Shrimpton re-emerged from behind the row of little tin cubicles and handed me back my towel. He was now fully dressed and stood, I would have guessed, a shade under six feet. He wore a Wall Street banker’s pinstripe suit and, although he was nearly bald, he had a remarkable physique for a man who must have been well into his sixties. Only his thick white mustache gave away his true age, and would have been more in keeping with a retired English colonel than a New York banker.

  “Are you going to be in New York long?” he inquired, as he took a small leather case from his inside pocket and removed a pair of half-moon spectacles and placed them on the end of his nose.

  “Just for the week.”

  “I don’t suppose you’re free for lunch tomorrow, by any chance?” he inquired, peering over the top of his glasses.

  “Yes, I am. I certainly can’t face another meal with that agent.”

  “Good, then why don’t you join me so that I can follow the continuing drama of capturing the elusive American Author?”

  “And perhaps I’ll discover there is a story in you after all.”

  “Not a hope,” he said. “You would be backing a loser if you depend on that.” And once again he offered his hand. “One o’clock, members’ dining room suit you?”

  “One o’clock, members’ dining room,” I repeated.

  As he left the locker room I walked over to the mirror and straightened my tie. I was dining that night with Eric McKenzie, a publishing friend, who had originally proposed me for membership in the club. To be accurate, Eric McKenzie was my father’s friend rather than my own. They had met just before the war while on holiday in Portugal and when I was elected to the club, soon after my father’s retirement, Eric took it upon himself to have dinner with me whenever I was in New York. One’s parents’ generation never see one as anything but a child who will always be in need of constant care and attention. As he was a contemporary of my father, Eric must have been nearly seventy and, although hard of hearing and slightly bent, he was always amusing and good company, even if he did continually ask me if I was aware that his grandfather was Scottish.

  As I strapped on my watch, I checked that he was due to arrive in a few minutes. I put on my jacket and strolled out into the hall to find that he was already there, waiting for me. Eric was killing time by reading the out-of-date club notices. Americans, I have observed, can always be relied upon to arrive early or late; never on time. I stood staring at the stooped man, whose hair but for a few strands had now turned silver. His three-piece suit had a button missing on the jacket, which reminded me that his wife had died last year. After another thrust-out hand and exchange of welcomes, we took the lift to the second floor and walked to the dining room.

  The members’ dining room at the Metropolitan differs little from any other men’s club. It has a fair sprinkling of old leather chairs, old carpets, old portraits and old members. A waiter guided us to a corner table which overlooked Central Park. We ordered, and then settled back to discuss all the subjects I found I usually cover with an acquaintance I only have the chance to catch up with a couple of times a year—our families, children, mutual friends, work; baseball and cricket. By the time we had reached cricket we had also reached coffee, so we strolled down to the far end of the room and made ourselves comfortable in two well-worn leather chairs. When the coffee arrived I ordered two brandies and watched Eric unwrap a large Cuban cigar. Although they displayed a West Indian band on the outside, I knew they were Cuban because I had picked them up for him from a tobacconist in St. James’s, Piccadilly, which specializes in changing the labels for its American customers. I have often thought that it must be the only shop in the world that changes labels with the sole purpose of making a superior product appear inferior. I am certain my wine merchant does it the other way round.

  While Eric was attemptin