Free What Time Devours by A. J. Hartley Page A

him.”
    “Used to be a terror to virginal graduate students everywhere.”
    “The way I remember it, that’s a pretty small constituency,” said Thomas.
    “True,” she said. She looked at him directly as if concluding an assessment, one he passed. “I’m Julia McBride,” she said. “Jules to my friends or what passes for them in academia.”
    “Thomas Knight,” he said, shaking her hand.
    “Pleased to meet you, Thomas,” she said, toasting him with a cream-colored cocktail in a stainless steel martini glass. “I shouldn’t make fun of Randall. He’s had his share of hardships, after all.”
    “I don’t know much about him.”
    “Oh, you know, the usual. Bad marriage. Or went bad. So he became a bit of a hound, I’m afraid. For a while.”
    “Then what?”
    “Not sure. His wife got sick. Something serious and debilitating. A stroke, maybe. He had to look after her. I don’t think she was disposed to be very appreciative. Anyway . . . He’s in a session on early comedy tomorrow,” she remarked. “You going to go?”
    Thomas shrugged. He had not thought that far.
    “It’s reputed to be little more than a commercial for the seminar he’s running at the institute in Stratford next week,” she said. “There’s a special mini conference over there, since it’s an off year for the ISC, and all the rules are different.”
    “The ISC?”
    “Sorry. International Shakespeare Conference. Meets every two years. Invitation only. The word is that if you miss twice without a damned good reason, you get stricken from the list. But this thing is different. Smaller. A little less intense. They are even allowing graduate students to present, if you can imagine that. All the old-school textual critics have been recruited. I’m using it as an excuse to get over to the U.K. and see some shows, but I probably won’t attend a lot of the sessions. Not really my speed. At least we won’t have to deal with the Oxfordians there.”
    “Oxfordians?”
    “Those lunatics who claim the Earl of Oxford wrote the plays, and Shakespeare—for reasons passing human understanding—took the money and the credit. Bonkers, of course. Stratford is the one place those people avoid.” She turned to the barman and raised her empty glass. “Same again, please.”
    “What is that?”
    “They call it a Drake Chocolate Kiss,” she said, with a playful grin. “Sorry you asked now, aren’t you? You can have a taste if you like.”
    Thomas felt himself color a little.
    “I’m good,” he said. “What do you know about Love’s Labour’s Won ?” said Thomas.
    She seemed taken aback by the question, but that might have been the sudden shift in tack.
    “Not much,” she said. “We don’t have it.”
    “But it existed?”
    “Maybe,” she said. “I don’t recall the details. Why?”
    “If one turned up now,” said Thomas, “I mean, if someone found a copy of the original . . . that would be a big deal, right?”
    Her face shifted, and this time her perplexity seemed deeper, but there was something else, something like wariness or caution.
    “I’m not a wacko,” Thomas added hastily, “I’m just curious.”
    “It’s a curious subject about which to be curious,” she said, arch again. “But yes, I guess it would be a big deal. Why?”
    “Like I said,” said Thomas. “Just curious.”
    Her drink arrived and she sipped it. Thomas could smell the chocolate. Her eyes were fixed on a spot over his shoulder. Thomas followed her gaze to a tall, earnest-looking young man who was hovering near the door as if debating whether to join them.
    “You know him?” asked Thomas.
    “Graduate student of mine,” she said. “Let me introduce you.”
    “I really should be going,” he said, rising.
    “At least finish your beer,” she said.
    “Can’t argue with that,” Thomas replied. He sat again and took a drink of the Honker’s Ale. By the time he had put the glass down, the kid had joined them.
    Thomas thought of him