Page 36 of Apt to be Suspicious
“I would like to do a bit of research and ask a few people for sources I can’t access on my own. Would you mind doing a little of your own, about Miss Styles? Or any of those men, do you have the list? Here, let me make a copy of that for you.” He printed it out from his notes on the desk, the broad letters borrowing a little from Greek in particular around the e and d. “There you go.”
“I’ll— this is an interesting sort of mystery. And annoying. I’d like to keep sorting it out. I suppose it might be nothing. Do you get fancies sometimes, seeing a mystery that isn’t there?”
“Sometimes. But I’ve also seen mysteries that are there. I agree that this one is worth a little more time. Perhaps we might meet up on Wednesday or Thursday? I should have some further information back. I want to check with a friend in the Guard about what might be actionable on their end. If, for example, Miss Styles were enchanting Darcy. I see him on Tuesday.”
Pen nodded. “Let me finish this coffee, then I’ll take myself off to the library again. You seem to have work waiting to be done.”
“Oh, always.” Edmund kept his tone light. “But a change is as good as a rest, that’s the saying. And this has been a pleasant one. Last night, as well.”
She raised an eyebrow, but took the conversation off onto asking more about what he was studying in particular right now, rather than anything about recent events. He asked her about her work, of course, as well. That occupied them until the coffee was gone, and he walked her downstairs.
Edmund came down at half-four with enough of his work done. He put through a package for Ytene of the frock and copies of his notes so far and a packet of inquiries addressed to his mother. None of them were about Pen directly, but he had found it difficult to put thoughts of her aside to do his work. The conversations with her made him want to reach for something, to find perhaps an excuse for more time together.
Chapter 24
Sunday evening, May 9th at Somerville College
“Come along, Miss Stirling, drinks in the JCR.” Pen had thought she’d escaped for the evening. She had not been late to hall; she had more sense. But she had come in with two more senior women, who had been deep in a discussion about some point of science that Pen could only half-follow.
By the time they’d actually sat down to eat, she’d got enough of an explanation to contribute here and there to the conversation. It had something to do with breeding strains of wheat, and how to make them more resilient, along with matters like the soil. The maths of the yields were actually quite interesting, because it wasn’t like actual crops obeyed logic reliably.
But then she’d heard the comment behind her, by name, and she couldn’t duck out. Or rather, Pen could, but it would be immediately obvious to everyone that she had. Best to face the gossip and get it over with. She turned on one heel. “All right.” She put a pleasant expression on, but this was going to be rather awful.
The thing of it was that— around the actual reason for the dance— she’d actually entirely enjoyed herself last night. Edmund Carillon moved and talked like black tie was made with him in mind. He had been annoyingly handsome. Worse, he had been an utter gentleman.
Edmund had managed himself. He had expected nothing of her she hadn’t offered. That was the way to put it. He had brought her drinks and kept them safe. There’d been that matter with Tibbs. He’d handled that not only promptly but without fuss. This afternoon, he’d been interested in her thoughts and ideas. He’d consulted, not walked all over her.
It was not the way she was used to men behaving. Oh, on average, they were civil to her. Some of them asked her questions about maths and listened to the answers, when relevant. But none had somehow managed that combination of ordinary manners with a sense that what she was saying mattered, outside of Bletchley. When, honestly, mostly she had not been the one coming up with the interesting ideas, just implementing various approaches.
As she followed the others into the Junior Common Room, there was a decent crowd, but not an overwhelming number. That was better than it might have been. Vesta was in the corner, but Audrey wasn’t about. That at least meant she’d have someone to check with after, about people’s reactions.
Mum had taught her that trick long ago. It had no end of use in parish life. In any gathering where the gossip got more visible, there were multiple layers. There was what was actually said, but there were also all the reactions to it. No one person could keep track of it all.
Pen accepted a glass of sherry— the respectable drink in this circumstance— and perched on a footstool. Around her, the other women of Somerville found their own chairs. It didn’t take long for the chatter to sort itself out, and for someone to say, “You hadn’t said you were going to the dance with Mr Carillon, Stirling.”
“I suppose I hadn’t.” Pen shrugged slightly, wanting to go at this as calmly as she could. There was no need to make enemies. Just as one of the other women— Miss Hall, reading modern languages— was about to speak, Pen saw Cecily Styles come in.
“How do you know Carillon?” Pen couldn’t tell if Miss Hall was approving or disapproving.
Pen considered her options and settled on the one that was both true and that would not be revealing to anyone who didn’t already know she’d gone to Schola. “I was at the same school his younger sisters are at. A place in Wales.”
She could have sworn she saw a brief twitch from Miss Styles, but Miss Hall coughed. “Well. I suppose that might explain it. He rarely takes people out. He’s gone about with a crowd, not paying much attention to any one woman.”
This was the part that Pen was bad at. She’d had so little practice, for one thing. People had walked out at Bletchley, but it was done quietly, mostly. Or they’d already been married or engaged or whatever. Not that Pen was an innocent. She was sure there had been an affair or three, or people having a massive blowup when a relationship went wrong. But it hadn’t been visible to her. And it certainly hadn’t come with this kind of gossip or people wanting to know her own personal business.
When she’d walked out with people before, first, it had never got terribly serious. There wasn’t enough privacy for that. But the only people who commented were the people who knew both of them.
Now she shrugged slightly. “A kindness, I suppose. Maybe he doesn’t like everyone making assumptions about him.” She realised, just as she finished speaking, that there were all sorts of assumptions. She didn’t think he preferred men, though now she was deeply curious about what data there might be about that if she looked. But she also wasn’t sure how to tell if someone wasn't making it obvious.
He wouldn’t here, despite the comments about Oxford tendencies towards that sort of thing in some periods. It was illegal in the non-magical community. If he’d been inclined that way, he’d have kept it within Albion, anyway.
“Will you be seeing him again?” That was Miss Wallace, a third year.
“Possibly.” Pen kept her voice casual. “We both turn out to like a crossword.” That was again, a truth, and truth was easier than a lie. At that point, Miss Styles sniffed rather pointedly. The conversation thankfully went off in other directions from there, the usual sort of comments about what people had worn, who they had been with. Pen picked up a few tidbits about the names she and Edmund were paying particular attention to, though she thought nothing actually new.
When she made her way out of the JCR, she found herself not far behind Miss Styles. The other woman turned around once, and said, “I hadn’t realised you knew Mr Carillon.”
Pen kept her answer brief, sensibly. “He was a pleasant escort and a superb dancer. There’s nothing serious. Do you know him? I could introduce you if you liked.”
