Free The September Society by Charles Finch Page A

thinking. Each of the lads would miss a tutorial today; they hadn’t been at meals for some time; their friends, beyond Stamp, would begin to mark their absence. The police would have to be involved, he thought. He would write them from London.
    He went to Stamp’s room and knocked on the door.
    “Had your collections?” Lenox asked him.
    “Yes,” said Stamp, pushing his blond hair away from his face as he constantly did. “Brutal. We had a question on Cromwell’s protectorate that you wouldn’t believe. I couldn’t even understand it, much less answer it. Some bother about predestination and right rule and I don’t know what.”
    “It’s over, at any rate.”
    “Yes. I wish this matter with Dabs and Payson weren’t going on, or I could have a drink to celebrate.”
    “Has anything further come to you? Perhaps a conversation with one of them? Or a trip they had talked about?”
    “The only thing I thought of after you left yesterday was that Dabney sometimes talked of getting digs in London after we leave Oxford, the three of us. It couldn’t possibly be related, but he did talk it over a good deal.”
    “Were they spontaneous?”
    “Not exceptionally, and I would be surprised if they had done something off the cuff without me.”
    “What do you think of your head porter here? Reliable fellow?”
    “Red?”
    “Is that his name?”
    “Well, we call him that. His real name is Kelly. He’s Irish, though.”
    “Ah.”
    “I don’t know if I’ve heard anyone call him his real name in my life, other than the junior dean or the chaplain or some dour chap like that. The lads’ mothers.”
    “Is he reliable?”
    “I should say so, yes. Pretty steady with us, doesn’t make trouble if you’re a moment or two past lock-in. All of the porters around the college belonged to one company in some regiment of the army—can’t remember which, maybe the Royal Pioneer Corps?–and we got more or less lucky. Nice chaps. The worst is at Queen’s, down the lane. They have the Scots Guards. Absolute dragons, they say. It’s a pretty miserable lot over there anyway. The students, I mean.”
    “Have you thought about my advice? A spell at home?”
    “I’ve thought about little else. More about that than Oliver Cromwell, unfortunately. Or Charles II and the Restoration or Dryden as court poet or anything like that.”
    “I’m sorry to hear it.”
    “Well, it’s not ideal, but I do appreciate it. I think I’ll go tosee my aunt in London for five days—until my next tute. They’re good about letting you use the British Library there, if you run into the right librarians. My aunt doesn’t have a world-class collection of modern histories, unfortunately.”
    Lenox laughed. “I’m glad to hear you’ll be safe down there,” he said. “I’m leaving in an hour if you’d like to share the train.”
    “Nice of you, but I’ll go this afternoon. Have to send a few hours’ warning.”
    Lenox handed Stamp a card. “Please come see me if you like, or if you think of anything. I live round St. James’s Park.”
    “I say, that’s decent of you. I shall.”
    They said good-bye, and Lenox went up to George Payson’s room again.
    It had been tidied since yesterday, books straightened, old tea removed, boots cleaned, so Lenox went back downstairs to find the head porter.
    He was a man of middling size wearing a black suit and a pair of thin silver spectacles that were just perched on his nose. When he spoke there was no trace of his country of origin, and his hair was in fact black, not red. Some long-graduated student’s idea of an Irish joke.
    “Mr. Kelly?” Lenox said.
    “You’ve found me—but call me Red.”
    “I’m Charles Lenox.”
    “Ah, Mr. Lenox. How do you do?”
    “Not badly, thanks. May I ask a housekeeping question?”
    “Certainly.”
    “Did you know that the scout had cleaned George Payson’s room since yesterday?”
    “Yes, as usual.”
    “He hadn’t for two or three days