The Devlin Diary (12 page)

Third week of Michaelmas term

“A
LICE
L
ARKIN’S DAUGHTER
was in a
riding
accident and
broke
her leg,” Carolyn Sutcliffe explained to Claire as they sat in Carolyn’s well-furnished set. She spoke in a manner that suggested this was highly
confidential
information and that Claire should be hanging on to her every
word.
“Poor Alice has had to take a leave of absence. Her supervisions will have to be
split up
among the other fellows, and I’ll be taking over her role as the history department’s director of studies until she returns.”

Carolyn Sutcliffe’s unstated but clear message: she was now Claire’s boss. Not something much to Claire’s liking. She had made a point of avoiding Carolyn ever since the fellowship admission dinner, and she wasn’t warming to her now any more than she had the night they’d met. It wasn’t easy to cozy up to someone who quite obviously disliked her; but even if Carolyn was more agreeable, Claire would have a difficult time regarding her as a friend. She behaved as though she was at the center of some monumentally urgent matter or had been entrusted with a secret mission. She continually wore a self-satisfied smirk, as though she had just done something worth bragging about or said
something incredibly witty. Frankly, Claire couldn’t imagine Carolyn doing either of those things.

“Of course, her leave of absence may be
extended,
depending on the
severity
of her daughter’s injuries,” Carolyn added.

“Of course,” Claire echoed. In spite of a two-mile run this morning, she felt groggy. For the past three days, a thick, drizzly mist had swallowed up Cambridge, turning streets, buildings, trees, and river into dreamlike, mind-numbing shades of gray. It was the sort of drizzle that didn’t seem heavy enough for an umbrella, but on the running paths the air had been so dense that she hadn’t been able to see more than ten feet ahead. The weeping willows along the riverbank had dripped with condensation. “Can you tell me again what the director of studies does?”

“The DOSes are in charge of supervisions,” Carolyn replied. “We assign students to the fellows. Or temporary lecturers, as the case may be.” She spoke as though the job was a terribly tiresome burden, even though it was obvious that she was delighted at the prospect of wielding power, and perhaps especially delighted at wielding power over Claire. A phone rang in the set’s other room, and Carolyn sprang from her chair to answer it.

“Gaby!” From where Claire sat, she could easily hear Carolyn’s brassy, loud greeting. It was followed by a flurry of Italian, also loud, speaking the usual formalities:
How nice to hear from you. I was thinking of you only yesterday.
Even in a foreign language, Claire noticed, Carolyn still managed to sound posh and self-important.

Gaby must have been none other than Gabriella Griseri, of course. The Italian countess was Carolyn’s friend and, as of four months ago at least, Andrew Kent’s girlfriend. She was also the woman who had falsely accused Claire of stealing a four-hundred-year-old diary out of Venice’s Biblioteca Marciana. Claire had good reason to dislike Gabriella, and the countess had made it abundantly clear that the feeling was mutual. Claire settled back quietly, prepared to amuse herself by listening for anything of importance.

Carolyn stepped into the open door, phone in hand. “You speak Italian, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else?” she breezily inquired.

“Spanish,” Claire answered truthfully.

Carolyn disappeared again and began speaking French. Claire wasn’t entirely ignorant of the language, but as she strained to listen, Carolyn’s strident voice dropped a few decibels as well. She couldn’t make out much. Twice she heard Carolyn say, “Andy,” and once she heard her mention “BBC.” In between were a few indistinct but enthusiastic murmurs.

Carolyn soon returned, even more smug than before. “Gaby just told me the most
marvelous
news. You remember Gabriella Griseri, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Claire didn’t bother pointing out that Carolyn knew very well that she knew Gabriella.

“She just landed the most
fabulous
job,” Carolyn gushed. “Her own half-hour chat show on the BBC. Andy will be
so
proud.” She smiled at Claire as if challenging her to refute it. Her intent was so obvious—
don’t you dare interfere with the happy couple!
—that Claire didn’t even deign to acknowledge it. When she didn’t respond, Carolyn got back to business. “Where were we? Oh, yes, Alice Larkin’s supervisions. She was in charge of sixteen students. I’m going to assign three to Radha Patel, three to Toby Campbell, and the remainder to you.”

“Ten students?”

“You’ve only
twelve
at present. Others have taken on more than that at times.”

But not currently, Claire read between the lines. Carolyn Sutcliffe was assigning more students to Claire than to anyone else in the department. Another ten students would bring her total up to twenty-two. She’d be teaching so much that she’d hardly have time to research and write. Even with her current load, she hadn’t done much. She’d looked for the article that Derek Goodman had mentioned, but she hadn’t found it. And she’d gone back to the Wren twice to work with the diary. She’d copied everything but the last ten pages. She berated herself for not being more diligent when she’d had time. How was she ever going to find time now, with twenty-two hours of supervision and twenty-two papers to read every week?

“Is there a problem?” Carolyn asked in a way that made it clear she couldn’t care less if there was.

“I won’t have much time to do research.”

“I don’t see the need. You’re a temporary lecturer, not a research fellow.”

“I’m still a historian. I’m working on a paper about encryption in the seventeenth century. How am I going to be able to write it while supervising twenty-two students?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, but I hardly think it matters.”

The gloves were off, Claire realized. Obviously Carolyn Sutcliffe valued her friendship with Gabriella so much that she was willing to undermine Claire’s ability to do her job by trying to make it difficult for her to write a paper, maybe even by making it difficult for her to perform well as a supervisor.

“In any case,” Carolyn went on, “I believe that another of the fellows is writing a paper on the same subject, so it’s just as well for you to leave off.”

“Someone else is writing about seventeenth-century codes and ciphers?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Derek Goodman.”

Claire strode across the Backs toward Sidgwick, where Carolyn had told her Derek was lecturing. Her pace was brisk, her mind troubled. Was it possible that Derek Goodman had asked her to go out with him just for the opportunity to poach her work? It seemed absurd, but he was the one who’d told her that academics were ruthless.

In the past week since the kiss, she’d been avoiding both Andrew Kent and Derek, and she wasn’t looking forward to confronting him. She suspected they had been avoiding her too. On the Trinity College website she had found a paper entitled “Sexual Relationships between Junior and Senior Fellows” that spelled out all the possible consequences of such a liaison, and none of them were good. Perhaps all Andrew had had to do was mention “disciplinary action” to Derek and he’d stopped
pursuing her. She spotted him emerging from the fog while walking across the Backs of Queens’ College.

“How could you?” Claire demanded as soon as she was within speaking range.

“How could I what?” Derek grinned innocently.

“You know very well what.” All the way from Nevile’s Court, Claire had been unsure of what she would say, but now that she was face-to-face with Derek Goodman her anger untied the knot in her tongue. “You stole my idea.”

He guffawed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Carolyn Sutcliffe just told me that you’re writing a paper on seventeenth-century codes.”

“And what’s this to do with you?”

“I told you that I was writing about it. You stole my idea for a paper.”

“Come on, now. Do you really think I need your help to generate ideas?”

“I showed you my notes from the diary I found. Are you saying that you thought of it before I did?”

“Of course I did.”

“If that’s true, why didn’t you tell me the night we went out to the pub?”

“I know better than to share my ideas with other historians.”

“But why would you want to write a paper on a subject that was just written about by some”—Claire paused as she tried to recall the word—“‘
wanker
’ at St. John’s?”

“Oh, that.” He shrugged. “I may have misremembered.”

“Misremembered?” Claire said incredulously. She was temporarily stunned speechless by the depth and breadth of his deception. “You made it all up, didn’t you? It was all a big lie, from the moment you asked me out to telling me that a paper like mine had already been written.”

“I think your imagination is working overtime, Dr. Donovan. Surely I’ve got better things to do than wine and dine junior fellows and press them for ideas. Anyway, ideas are easy; it’s the execution that’s
hard. I don’t see that my paper and yours have anything at all to do with each other.”

“You mean you’re still going to write it?”

“Write it and publish it, I imagine. I’ve got a greater knowledge of sources, and I daresay I can churn out a paper much faster than you can. I know editors at all the journals. All I have to do is make a phone call and they’ll make space for anything I choose to write. And once my paper is published, no one will be interested in publishing yours.”

Claire felt as if she’d been knocked breathless. She’d heard of ruthless ambition before, but she’d never encountered anything like this. He’d made a preemptive strike to destroy the competition even before she’d had a chance to compete. And not only had Derek Goodman completely deceived her but he also showed no remorse for his behavior. “You can’t do this,” Claire said. “I’ll lodge a complaint with the vice-master.”

“Go right ahead. It’s your word against mine. Who do you think he’ll believe? A fellow who’s been with the college for fourteen years, or a temporary lecturer who’s been here less than a month?”

Derek smiled again, but Claire didn’t find it at all charming anymore.

The door to Andrew Kent’s set was at the top of E staircase in the Great Court. Claire raised her hand to knock, then hesitated. She had decided against going to the vice-master to make a formal complaint against Derek Goodman. If Andrew Kent could have a private word with Derek and tell him to lay off the writing of (and the stealing of, Claire thought darkly) her paper, then all of this could be handled very quietly, no fuss, no muss, no repercussions. Not that she was worried about what was going to happen to Derek, but she knew it wouldn’t look good for a new lecturer to make accusations about one of the fellows, no matter how true it might have been. The cards were stacked against her.

But how was Andrew Kent going to react? She lowered her hand. If he hadn’t seen her kissing Derek Goodman (the kissing debacle was how she thought of it now), she could have counted on his trust in her. They might not have known each other well, but certainly he knew her
well enough to know she was not a liar. But now? What must he think of her?

Claire worried that she’d lost Andrew’s good opinion entirely. Maybe he was even sorry he’d hired her. After all, he hadn’t bothered getting in touch with her since the debacle, and he’d given her no opportunity to explain. Not that she was sure she could explain. What would she say? “I was just standing there innocently, and he kissed me”? Not exactly the truth. “I was feeling lonely and I let him kiss me”? Closer, but still not the whole enchilada. “I thought Derek Goodman was extraordinarily attractive until I discovered what an underhanded snake he is”? That more closely approximated the truth, but how could she prove that there had been a devious motive behind Derek Goodman’s kiss?

Maybe she shouldn’t say anything to anyone. She could turn around, go back to her set, and pretend none of this had ever happened. She could supervise twenty-two students a week and try to find another subject for a paper—if she ever found time to go to the library again. Except it was so patently unfair. Even if it hadn’t happened to her, Claire would have been outraged by Derek Goodman’s behavior. It was simply wrong for an older, seasoned academic to charm, manipulate, and steal from one of his younger colleagues. And as he’d said, he’d been a fellow for fourteen years. Claire had a sneaking feeling that she wasn’t the first person he’d used in this way.

But did she really want to open this can of worms? What would Derek Goodman do once he found out that she’d told someone about his misdeed? Clearly, Claire decided, she should think on it a bit longer.

The door opened and Andrew Kent stood in the doorway, dressed in a brownish tweed jacket, similarly colored slacks, a tan button-down shirt, and a green tie. Not a bad ensemble for a man who sometimes dressed as though he were color-blind. He sported a new pair of glasses that reminded her of 1920s intellectuals, rather dashing in their vintage style, and his hair was mussed, as if he’d been running his hands through it. He was, in fact, the epitome of the absentminded professor, the sort who is sexy without being aware of it. At the moment she wished she didn’t find Andrew Kent so incredibly appealing. It simply made this particular encounter more awkward.

“Were you going to knock, or were you planning to stand there all afternoon?” he asked in a way that was not entirely welcoming.

It reminded her that Andrew Kent was not so much absentminded as acid-tongued. “I hadn’t decided yet,” Claire answered in an equally frosty tone.

“Why don’t you come in while you’re making up your mind?” Andrew said as he stepped back from the doorway.

His set consisted of only two rooms, a sitting room and an office. Andrew lived “out,” or off-campus, with his young son. Through the windows she could see across the Great Court to the chapel on the other side. She could also see the path leading up to the doorway of E staircase. Andrew had seen her coming in.
Great,
she thought, feeling foolish. He’d known she’d been standing outside his door the whole time.