Ah, but there is the word that pulls me up sharp—beglamoured. The word glamour has been so battered and smeared that almost everybody has forgotten that it means magic and enchantment. Could it really be that poor Simon was a victim of my Gypsy mother’s cup of hocussed coffee, and saw wonders in me because he had been given a love philtre, a sexy Mickey Finn? I hate the idea, but I cannot say with absolute certainty that there is no truth in it. And if I cannot say that, what sort of Divine Wisdom am I, what possible embodiment of Sophia? Or is it not Sophia’s part to split hairs in such matters?

Whatever the answers to these hard questions, I had the gumption to tell Simon that I did indeed love him, which was true, and that I could not possibly think of marrying him, which was also true. And as he could not consider doing anything about a physical love without marriage (for reasons that I understood and thought greatly to his credit, though I did not share his reluctance) that was that. The love was a reality, but it was a reality within limits.

What astonished me was his relief when the limits had been defined. I knew, as I don’t suppose he did for a long time afterwards, that he had never in the truest sense wanted to marry me—didn’t even want unbearably to make sexual love to me. He wanted a love that excluded those things, and he knew that such a love was possible, and he had achieved it. And so had I. When we parted each was richer by a loving and enduring and delightful friend, and I was perhaps the happier of the two because in the hour I had wholly changed my feeling about Hollier.

The knowledge of Simon’s love made it easier for me to endure the painful tensions in Hollier’s rooms from this time until Easter, and to respond whole-heartedly when Simon telephoned me shortly after seven o’clock on the morning of Easter Sunday.

“Maria, I thought you should know as soon as possible that Parlabane is dead. Very sudden, and the doctor says it was heart—no, no suspicion of anything else, though I feared that, too. I’ll attend to everything, and there seems to be no reason to wait, so I’m arranging the funeral for tomorrow morning. Will you bring Clem? We’re his only friends, it appears. Poor devil? Yes, that’s what I said: poor devil.”

4

Hollier, Darcourt, and I drove back from the funeral happy because we seemed to have regained something that Parlabane had taken from us. We were refreshed and drawn together by this shared feeling, and did not want to part. That was why Hollier asked Darcourt if he would come up to his rooms for a cup of tea. We had just finished a long, vinous lunch but it was a day for hospitality.

I stopped in the porter’s lodge to see if there was any mail for Hollier; there is no postal delivery on Easter Monday, but the inter-college service in the university might have something from the weekend that had begun the previous Thursday.

“Package for the Professor, Miss,” said Fred the porter, and handed me an untidy bundle done up in brown paper, to which a letter was fastened with sticky tape. I recognized Parlabane’s ill-formed writing and saw that there was a scrawl of direction: Confidential: Letter before Package, Please.

“More of the dreadful novel,” said Hollier when I showed it to him. He threw it down on the table, I made tea, and we went on with our chat, which was all of Parlabane. At last Hollier said, “Better see what that is, Maria. I suppose it’s an epilogue, or something of the kind. Poor man, he died full of hope about his book. We’ll have to decide what to do about it.”

“We’ve all done what we could,” said Darcourt. “The only thing we can do now is recover the typescript and get rid of it.”

I had opened the letter. “It seems awfully long, and it’s to both of us,” I said to Hollier; “do you want me to read it?”

He nodded, and I began.

“Dear Friends and Colleagues, Clem and Molly:

–As you will have guessed, it was I who gave his quietus to Urky McVarish.”

“Christ!” said Hollier.

“So that’s who the flag was at half-staff for,” said Darcourt.

“Does he mean it? He can’t mean murder?”

“Get on, Maria, get on!”

“—Not, I assure you, for the mere frivolous pleasure of disposing of a nuisance, but for purely practical reasons, as you shall see. It lay in Urky’s power to help me forward my career, by his death, and—a secondary but I assure you not a small consideration with me—to do some practical good to both of you and to bring you closer together. I cannot tell you how distressed I have been during the recent months to see Molly pining for you, Clem—”

“Pining? What’s he talking about,” said Hollier.

I hurried on.

“—while your mind was elsewhere, pondering deep considerations of scholarship, and hating Urky. But I hope my little plan will unite you forever. At this culminating hour of my life that gives me immense satisfaction. Fame for me, fame and wedded bliss for you; lucky Urky to have been able to make it all possible.”

“This is getting to be embarrassing,” I said. “Perhaps you’ll take over the reading, Simon? I wish you would.”

Darcourt took the letter from me.

“—You knew that I was seeing a good deal of Urky during the months since Christmas, didn’t you? Maria once let something drop about me getting thick with him; she appeared to resent it. But really, Molly, you were so tight with your money I had to turn somewhere for the means of subsistence. I still owe you—whatever the trifling sum is—but you may strike it off your books, and think yourself well repaid by Parlabane, whom you used less generously than a beautiful girl should. Beautiful girls ought to be open-handed; parsimony ruins the complexion after a while. And you, Clem—you kept trying to get me rotten little jobs, but you would not move a finger to get my novel published. No faith in my genius—for now that I no longer have to keep up the pretence of modesty I must point out unequivocally that I am a genius, admitting at the same time that, like most geniuses, I am not an entirely nice fellow.

“—I tried to get a living by honest means, and after that by means that seemed to present themselves most readily. Fatty Darcourt can tell you about that, if you are interested. Poor old Fatty didn’t think much of my novel either; and it may have been because he recognized himself in it: people are ungenerous about such things. So, as a creature of Renaissance spirit, I took a Renaissance path, and became a parasite.

“—Parasite to Urquhart McVarish. I supplied him with flattery, an intelligent listener who was in no sense a rival, and certain services that he would have had trouble finding elsewhere.

“—Why was I driven to assume this role, which seems distasteful to people like you whose cares are simple? Money, my dears; I had to have money. I am sure you were not entirely deceived by my explanation about the cost of having my novel fair-copied. No: I was being blackmailed. It was my ill luck to run into a fellow I had once known on the West Coast, who knew something I thought I had left behind. He was not a blackmailer on the grand scale, but he was ugly and exigent. Earlier this evening I sent the police a note about him, which will cook his goose. I couldn’t have done that if I had intended to hang around and see the fun, gratifying though that would have been. But the thought warms me now.

“—The police will not be surprised to hear from me. I have been doing a little work for them since before Christmas. A hint here, a hint there. But they pay badly. God, how mean everybody is about money!

“—The paradox of money is that when you have lots of it you can manage life quite cheaply. Nothing so economical as being rich. But when you are on the rocks, it’s all hand to mouth and no peace of mind. So I had to work hard to keep afloat, begging, cadging, squealing to the cops, and slaving at the ill-requited profession of parasite to a parsimonious Scot.