A Quiver Full of Arrows Page 8

  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
g to light the cigar, my eyes wandered to a board on the wall. To be more accurate, it was a highly polished wooden plaque with oblique golden lettering painted on it, honoring those men who over the years had won the club’s Backgammon Championship. I glanced idly down the list, not expecting to see anybody with whom I would be familiar, when I was brought up by the name of Edward Shrimpton. Once in the late thirties he had been the runner-up.

  “That’s interesting,” I said.

  “What is?” asked Eric, now wreathed in enough smoke to have puffed himself out of Grand Central Station.

  “Edward Shrimpton was runner-up in the club’s Backgammon Championship in the late thirties. I’m having lunch with him tomorrow.”

  “I didn’t realize you knew him.”

  “I didn’t until this afternoon,” I said, and then explained how we had met.

  Eric laughed and turned to stare up at the board. Then he added, rather mysteriously: “That’s a night I’m never likely to forget.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  Eric hesitated, and looked uncertain of himself before continuing: “Too much water has passed under the bridge for anyone to care now.” He paused again, as a hot piece of ash fell to the floor and added to the burn marks that made their own mosaic pattern in the carpet. “Just before the war Edward Shrimpton was among the best half dozen backgammon players in the world. In fact, it must have been around that time he won the unofficial world championship in Monte Carlo.”

  “And he couldn’t win the club championship?”

  “Couldn’t’ would be the wrong word, dear boy. ‘Didn’t’ might be more accurate.” Eric lapsed into another preoccupied silence.

  “Are you going to explain?” I asked, hoping he would continue, “or am I to be left like a child who wants to know who killed Cock Robin?”

  “All in good time, but first allow me to get this damn cigar started.”

  I remained silent and four matches later, he said, “Before I begin, take a look at the man sitting over there in the corner with the young blonde.”

  I turned and glanced back toward the dining room area, and saw a man attacking a porterhouse steak. He looked about the same age as Eric and wore a smart new suit that was unable to disguise that he had a weight problem: only his tailor could have smiled at him with any pleasure. He was seated opposite a slight, not unattractive strawberry blonde of half his age who could have trodden on a beetle and failed to crush it.

  “What an unlikely pair. Who are they?”

  “Harry Newman and his fourth wife. They’re always the same. The wives, I mean—blond hair, blue eyes, ninety pounds and dumb. I can never understand why any man gets divorced only to marry a carbon copy of the original.”

  “Where does Edward Shrimpton fit into the jigsaw?” I asked, trying to guide Eric back onto the subject.

  “Patience, patience,” said my host, as he relit his cigar for the second time. “At your age you’ve far more time to waste than I have.”

  I laughed and picked up the cognac nearest to me and swirled the brandy around in my cupped hands.

  “Harry Newman,” continued Eric, now almost hidden in smoke, “was the fellow who beat Edward Shrimpton in the final of the club championship that year, although in truth he was never in the same class as Edward.”

  “Do explain,” I said, as I looked up at the board to check that it was Newman’s name that preceded Edward Shrimpton’s.

  “Well,” said Eric, “after the semi-final, which Edward had won with consummate ease, we all assumed the final would only be a formality. Harry had always been a good player, but as I had been the one to lose to him in the semi-finals, I knew he couldn’t hope to survive a contest with Edward Shrimpton. The club final is won by the first man to twenty-one points, and if I had been asked for an opinion at the time I would have reckoned the result would end up around 21-5 in Edward’s favor. Damn cigar,” he said, and lit it for a fourth time. Once again I waited impatiently.

  “The final is always held on a Saturday night, and poor Harry over there,” said Eric, pointing his cigar toward the far corner of the room while depositing some more ash on the floor, “who all of us thought was doing rather well in the insurance business, had a bankruptcy notice served on him the Monday morning before the final—I might add through no fault of his own. His partner had cashed in his stock without Harry’s knowledge, disappeared, and left him with all the bills to pick up. Everyone in the club was sympathetic.

  “On Thursday the press got hold of the story, and for good measure they added that Harry’s wife had run off with the partner. Harry didn’t show his head in the club all week, and some of us wondered if he would scratch from the final and let Edward win by default since the result was such a foregone conclusion anyway. But the Games Committee received no communication from Harry to suggest the contest was off, so they proceeded as though nothing had happened. On the night of the final, I dined with Edward Shrimpton here in the club. He was in fine form. He ate very little and drank nothing but a glass of water. If you had asked me then, I wouldn’t have put a penny on Harry Newman even if the odds had been ten to one.

  “We all dined upstairs on the third floor, since the Committee had cleared this room so that they could seat sixty in a square around the board. The final was due to start at nine o’clock. By twenty to nine there wasn’t a seat left in the place, and members were already standing two deep behind the square: it wasn’t every day we had the chance to see a world champion in action. By five to nine, Harry still hadn’t turned up and some of the members were beginning to get a little restless. As nine o’clock chimed, the referee went over to Edward and had a word with him. I saw Edward shake his head in disagreement and walk away. Just at the point when I thought the referee would have to be firm and award the match to Edward, Harry strolled in looking very dapper, adorned in a dinner jacket several sizes smaller than the suit he is wearing tonight. Edward went straight up to him, shook him warmly by the hand, and together they walked into the center of the room. Even with the throw of the first dice there was a tension about that match. Members were waiting to see how Harry would fare in the opening game.”

  The intermittent cigar went out again. I leaned over and struck a match for him.

  “Thank you, dear boy. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the first game. Well, Edward only just won the first game and I wondered if he wasn’t concentrating or if perhaps he had become a little too relaxed while waiting for his opponent. In the second game the dice ran well for Harry and he won fairly easily. From that moment on it became a finely fought battle, and by the time the score had reached 11-9 in Edward’s favor the tension in the room was quite electric. By the ninth game I began watching more carefully and noticed that Edward allowed himself to be drawn into a back game, a small error in judgment that only a seasoned player would have spotted. I wondered how many more subtle errors had already passed that I hadn’t observed. Harry went on to win the ninth, making the score 18-17 in his favor. I watched even more diligently as Edward did just enough to win the tenth game and, with a rash double, just enough to lose the eleventh, bring the score to 20 all, so that everything would depend on the final game. I swear that nobody had left the room that evening, and not one back remained against a chair; some members were even hanging on to the window ledges. The room was now full of drink and thick with cigar smoke, and yet when Harry picked up the dice cup for the last game you could hear the little squares of ivory rattle before they hit the board. The dice ran well for Harry in that final game and Edward only made one small error early on that I was able to pick up; but it was enough to give Harry game, match and championship. After the last throw of the dice everyone in that room, including Edward, gave the new champion a standing ovation.”

  “Had many other members worked out what had really happened that night?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Eric. “And certainly Harry Newman hadn’t. The talk afterward was that Harry had never played a better game in his life and wh
at a worthy champion he was, all the more for the difficulties he labored under.”

  “Did Edward have anything to say?”

  “Toughest match he’d been in since Monte Carlo and only hoped he would be given the chance to avenge the defeat next year.”

  “But he wasn’t,” I said, looking up again at the board. “He never won the club championship.”

  “That’s right. After Roosevelt had insisted we help you guys out in England, the club didn’t hold the competition again until 1946, and by then Edward had been to war and had lost all interest in the game.”

  “And Harry?”

  “Oh, Harry. Harry never looked back after that; must have made a dozen deals in the club that night. Within a year he was on top again and even found himself another cute little blonde.”

  “What does Edward say about the result now, thirty years later?”

  “Do you know, that remains a mystery to this day. I have never heard him mention the game once in all that time.”

  Eric’s cigar had come to the end of its working life and he stubbed the remains out in an ashless ashtray. It obviously acted as a signal to remind him that it was time to go home. He rose a little unsteadily and I walked down with him to the front door.

  “Goodbye, my boy,” he said, “do give Edward my best wishes when you have lunch with him tomorrow. And remember not to play him at backgammon. He’d still kill you.”

  * * *

  The next day I arrived in the front hall a few minutes before our appointed time, not sure if Edward Shrimpton would fall into the category of early or late Americans. As the clock struck one, he walked through the door: there has to be an exception to every rule. We agreed to go straight up to lunch since he had to be back on Wall Street for a two-thirty appointment. We stepped into the packed lift. The doors closed like a tired concertina and the slowest lift in America made its way toward the second floor.