Almost Home: A Novel

“If Jared did not drown in the river, then he must have been killed. What other conclusion could there possibly be?” he demands. I do not answer. My mind races, searching for other plausible explanations and finding none. I remember Chris’s voice in the restaurant last night, strong with conviction. He believed Jared was killed then and he is convinced of it now. I begin pedaling furiously, desperate to get away from the hospital.

  “Jordan, wait!” Chris’s bike creaks as he pulls up beside me. Then he grabs my handlebars and slows gently until I am forced to a halt. “I’m sorry for yelling.” He stares into my eyes, searching. “But now do you believe me about Jared?”

  “I don’t know.” I look away. But the facts seem unavoidable. Dr. Peng said that Jared was dead before he reached the water. At a minimum, someone else had to be involved. “Yes,” I whisper, swallowing hard.

  “Thank you,” he replies and there is a calmness to his voice that makes me think, for a second, that being right is enough for him, that this will end here. But then his face hardens once more. “Now let’s figure this out together. For Jared.”

  Forty minutes later, we enter the Maypole, a pub that sits close to college, below Jesus Lane where Park Street meets Lower Park Street. “What are you drinking?” Chris asks.

  I hesitate. The Maypole had always been known for its cocktails, creamy and brightly colored concoctions with fancy names, served in big glasses with umbrellas and fruit. But such drinks seem ridiculous now. “Coffee,” I say, still feeling the chill that has been with me since Addenbrooke’s.

  As Chris walks to the bar, I look at my watch. It is nearly six o’clock, I note, surprised at how quickly the afternoon has passed. The pub is growing full with a happy-hour crowd. I make my way to an open table and drop into one of the chairs, listening to a group of students at the next table discuss how their rehearsal had gone today. Situated steps from the Amateur Dramatic Club theater, the Maypole has always been popular with the thespian crowd. The walls are lined with posters from various productions, framed clippings of newspaper reviews. Above the table hangs a blue and green poster touting a production of As You Like It that I recall seeing as a student. I lean closer, studying the list of the leading actors, printed below the title in smaller letters. Vance Ellis. I see him in my mind, tall and raven-haired with pale porcelain skin. Vance was Duncan Lauder’s lover and companion. The two could not have been more different, Duncan soft-spoken and athletic, Vance temperamental, prone to wild binges of drinking and drugs. Yet they were inseparable, one of the most enduring relationships I had known at Cambridge. Were they still together now after so many years?

  A few minutes later, Chris returns with two steaming glass mugs, setting them on the table as he sits, choosing the chair closest to me. “Thanks.” I take a sip, surprised at the strong taste of alcohol that mixes with the coffee.

  “Baileys and Jameson,” Chris explains in response to my raised eyebrow. “You always liked it, and I figured we could both use something stronger.” I nod, cupping my hand around the cup, grateful for the warmth.

  “So who killed Jared?” he asks matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather.

  “I just can’t believe it.” I stare hard at the table. “I’m still trying to get my head around the idea that it wasn’t an accident, that the coroner’s report isn’t wrong.” I take another sip of coffee, forcing myself to push the emotion down, to think as I would for a work investigation. “I think the first question is, why was he killed? I mean, who would want to hurt him? He was such a nice…” I stop midsentence, seeing Chris’s skeptical expression. “Okay, maybe nice isn’t the right word.”

  “Jared was a lot of great things, Jordie. Brilliant scholar, talented rower, a great friend. But I wouldn’t call him nice. He could be a bastard.”

  I nod, picturing Jared storming away from the boathouse when the crew hadn’t rowed well. He was intense and exacting, with little patience for anyone who did not rise to that standard. But there was another Jared, too, that only I knew, the one who would curl around me like a child and bury his head in my neck to escape his problems, who would awaken in the middle of the night, sweat-soaked and terrified, clinging to me from the nightmares that he would not talk about and could not escape. “He was intense,” I agree. “But that didn’t give anyone a reason to hurt him. We’re assuming, of course, that it wasn’t random.”

  “Not in this town,” Chris replies quickly.

  He’s right, of course. Cambridge is the epitome of small-town Britain; with the exception of an occasional alcohol-fueled fistfight between local youths and students, violent crime was almost nonexistent. “So where does that leave us? Jared didn’t have any enemies.”

  “That we know of.”

  I tilt my head. “What are you saying?”

  Chris finishes his coffee and sets down the cup. “Jared had everything. Someone could have been jealous.”

  “Of what?”

  “I don’t know.” Chris looks directly at me. “You?”

  I shake my head, feeling a blush creep up my neck. “That’s crazy!”

  “Maybe. I’m just exploring all of the possible theories.”

  “No,” I insist. “There was no one else.”

  “Not for you. But maybe there was someone with a crush…?”

  Only you, I think, the air thick with the unspoken. “That can’t be it.”

  “Then what else?”

  “The Eight…?” I am surprised to hear the words come out of my mouth. A look of realization passes over Chris’s face. Rowing at the major colleges like Lords was a competitive business, especially in the May term as the top crews vied feverishly for the Head of the River. There were rowers who were angry when they didn’t make the first boat, who thought they deserved a spot. And competition between the colleges was even more intense. I heard rumors of crews over the years sabotaging one another’s shells or blades to ensure victory, an urban legend of one crew tainting another’s prerace dinner so they couldn’t row due to food poisoning. But the notion that someone might actually kill to get into a boat or to win is unfathomable.

  “I wish we were able to get a copy of the coroner’s report from Dr. Peng,” I say, changing the subject.

  “You mean like this?” Chris reaches into his coat and pulls out a few folded sheets of paper.

  I look from the papers to his face, then back again, amazed. “How did you?”

  “There was an extra copy at the back of the file that I was able to slip out. She’ll never miss it; she didn’t even know it was there.” He hands the papers to me. “You hang on to these for safekeeping.” I put them into my bag quickly, not wanting to see the writing that confirms the truth about Jared’s death. “So what’s our next move?” he continues. “I mean, this can’t be the end, not after all that we’ve learned. You’ll keep helping me, won’t you?” His eyes hold mine, pleading.

  I hesitate. A big part of me wishes that I never agreed to this day in the first place, that I still believed, even falsely, that Jared died accidentally in the river. But we opened the door and now we have to follow the path, wherever it leads us. I cannot turn away. “Yes,” I say at last.

  “Good.” Chris stands up. “Because we’ve got a lot of work to do. Let’s go.”

  I hesitate, looking at the clock above the bar, which reads five to seven. “What now? I’m not sure there’s much else we can accomplish today.” Despite my promise to help, I am eager to board the next train out of Cambridge.

  He shifts uneasily. “Um actually, there’s one other thing. This morning when I was waiting for you by the P’lodge, I ran into Lady Anne.” Lady Anne is the wife of Lord Colbert, the Master of the College. “She invited us to dinner at Formal Hall.”

  My heart sinks. “And you accepted?”

  He nods. “I figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask some questions, see what they remember.” I look at Chris, annoyed. He knew this all day. He also knew, though, that I wasn’t ready to hear it earlier. Chris was always good at giving
people the information they needed, no more than he thought they could handle.

  For a second I consider confronting him about the subterfuge. Then I stop; it’s who he is, and I learned a long time ago not to waste breath or energy trying to change people. And he’s right—the Master and his wife are good potential sources of information. But inwardly I groan. It is my third night in the country and I still haven’t had an evening in the flat to relax and unwind.

  Still I hesitate. “I don’t know. I’m still fairly exhausted from the jet lag.” I look down at the bottom of my jeans, muddy from the bike ride. “And I’m hardly dressed for hall.”

  “We’ll be wearing gowns, so one will notice,” he says dismissively. “Now let’s go or we’ll be late.”

  Outside, it is growing dark and the streetlights have begun to come on. We do not speak as we walk the bikes the short distance back down Jesus Lane to the front of college, leaning them against the wall of the Chimney. Chris stops outside the Porter’s Lodge. “Wait here,” he instructs before walking inside.

  I stare into First Court once more, across the open western side where a low wall separates the hockey pitch, the field leading to the Lower Park Street houses. The setting sun flickers on the horizon. In my mind I see a girl walking across the field. It is me in my younger years, twenty, or twenty-one maybe, backpack full of library books, flannel shirt untucked. I am speaking to someone I cannot see and my face lifts, breaks open with laughter. And then I know it is not just the pain I have been running from all these years. It is the joy. The memory of a paradise ripped from its roots in an instant, of a joy so breathtaking and so real that is gone, never to be touched again.

  “Here.” Chris emerges through the doorway and hands me one of the sleeveless black gowns he carries. As alumni of the college (“Old Members,” they call us), we are required like the current students to wear the black cloth gowns over our street clothes for Formal Hall. I slide my arms through the holes, leaving the gown open in front.

  The bells in the college chapel chime seven fifteen as we cut across the edge of First Court, passing through another arched doorway and up a set of stone steps inside. At the top, I pause. The cavernous dining hall looks exactly as it did ten years ago, the dark wood walls and oil paintings of past Masters unchanged by time. I follow Chris down the length of the room, weaving in and out of the students who scramble among the benches to find seats together at the wood tables that run the length of the room. Though Formal Hall is held almost every night, most students attend only once or twice a week, eating the rest of their dinners at the less expensive, cafeteria-style meal served earlier. This is a special occasion for most students, a chance to enjoy slightly better food, to sit down with friends over a bottle of wine.

  At the front of the Hall on an elevated dais sits High Table, reserved for the Master and fellows and their guests. Several professors I do not recognize are already seated at one end of the table, engrossed in conversation. Lord Colbert and Lady Anne rise as we approach.

  “Welcome,” Lord Colbert says in a deep baritone, shaking Chris’s hand, then kissing me on the cheek. He must be about seventy-five now, though his bald head and regal features seem unchanged in that timeless manner of the already old.

  But Lady Anne, never a small woman, is considerably rounder than I recall, her puff of hair more white than gray now. “What good fortune to have you back!” she exclaims. A bell sounds and, still standing, we take our places: Lord Colbert at the head of the table, Lady Anne to his right, Chris to his left, then me beside. The room grows quiet as a student comes to the front and reads the traditional grace in Latin. There is much shuffling, the scraping of benches against the floor, as the students are seated.

  “My wife tells me you’re up reliving memories,” Lord Colbert says as the first course, breaded mushrooms, is served. “It’s always wonderful to see our Old Members.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Chris replies.

  “It’s been what, about ten years, since you left?” Lord Colbert asks. I nod. “Christopher, you’re with the The Times, aren’t you? I’ve read some of your pieces,” he adds, not waiting for an answer. Then he turns to me. “And what have you been doing, that is professionally, since you left us?”

  “I’m a Foreign Service officer. A diplomat with the State Department. I’ve been stationed in a number of countries and spent the last year in Washington.”

  “And you’re posted to London now?”

  “Only just. I arrived a few days ago.” I consider mentioning Sarah, then decide against it.

  “I’ve met your Ambassador Raines on a number of occasions,” Lord Colbert says. “He seems like an admirable chap. I’m told he has a promising future in Washington.”

  “Well, how lucky for us that you’ve returned,” Lady Anne interjects before I can respond. “Do either of you have families?”

  Chris and I exchange uneasy glances. We must seem like such anomalies among our classmates, most of whom have gone on to marry and have children. “No ma’am,” he replies at last.

  “You know, the college has an alumni dinner scheduled for June to coincide with the college’s quincentenary,” the Master says, changing the subject. I had almost forgotten that the college would be five hundred years old this year. “We’ll be unveiling the new Mortensen Library.”

  I take another bite of mushroom, stifle a hiccup I suspect would be loud, and reach for my water glass. Half listening as the Master continues talking about developments in the college, I look out across the sea of gowns that fills the Hall, the student conversations growing more animated with wine. I was young like them once, I know, with nothing more to worry about than being able to cox after a night of revelry, preparing for a supervision on Monday. But I cannot remember how it felt to be so carefree. My eyes travel upward to the balcony at the rear of the hall. Through the high-paned window I can make out the edge of the adjacent chapel roof, a nearly imperceptible corner perch where the two buildings meet. My heart quickens, remembering.

  “We’ve received the notices about the reunion,” Chris is saying. I turn toward him, forcing myself to focus on the conversation as the waiter clears the starter plates. “And we’ll certainly make every effort to attend.” I nod, though I cannot imagine coming back again, much less for a reunion. “But when I saw Lady Anne earlier today, I didn’t have a chance to explain the full purpose for our visit.” Panic rises in me. Chris is going to tell the Master what we learned about Jared. It is too soon, too direct. I grab his arm under the table but he shakes me off, continuing, “You see, we’re gathering some information about an old classmate of ours. It’s an unexpected stroke of luck that we have the chance to speak with you. Perhaps you can help provide some of your recollections.”

  “I’ll certainly try.” Lord Colbert sits back, lifting his wineglass. “Who is it?”

  “Jared Short.”

  “Oh?” the Master replies.

  Lady Anne interjects, “The lovely boy who drowned so tragically?”

  I hold my breath, waiting for Chris to correct her, to tell her what we learned from Dr. Peng. “Yes, ma’am,” he replies, his eyes wide, face sincere. I relax slightly. Maybe he isn’t as unsubtle as I thought.

  “What is it that you want to know?” Lord Colbert asks.

  “Anything you can tell us,” I answer.

  Lord Colbert clears his throat. “I’m not sure I can be of much use. I didn’t know him well. He was a great rower and a brilliant student. He had a lot of friends. But you already knew all of that.”

  “Yes.” Chris picks up his own wineglass and swirls it, feigning nonchalance. “We knew Jared well as a student. I was wondering if you could tell us what you know about his death.”

  “Nothing,” Lord Colbert replies, a second too quickly. “I mean, I was out of town at a conference the night that he passed away. I only know what the police told us and what was reported in the papers.”

  “And what was that?” I press, studying the Master’s face.


  “You know the story as well as I do.” There is an undertone of impatience in his voice. “It was the night of the May Ball. He went missing and was found drowned in the river.” He pauses. “Why are you asking these questions now?”

  “It’s such an unpleasant subject for dinner,” Lady Anne chimes in.

  But Chris is not dissuaded. “It just seems that the details around Jared’s death are a little vague. One day he’s the college’s star rower, and then the next day he drowns and it’s like he was never here.” I press Chris’s leg under the table, urging him to remain calm. “No funeral, no mention of it in the annual alumni bulletin.”

  “His parents wanted it that way.” Lord Colbert says, his voice matter-of-fact. “There was a memorial service.”

  “We understand,” I interject, forcing empathy into my voice. “Still, I’m sure that you can appreciate that his closest friends might be a little curious to learn additional details.”

  “Ms. Weiss,” Lord Colbert replies evenly. “There are no other details.”

  Chris jumps back in. “None that you know of.”

  “None whatsoever.”

  Chris opens his mouth to reply, but I kick him under the table, warning him not to share what we learned. We eat the main course, venison in puff pastry, silently for several moments. I pick at mine with disinterest. I was never a fan of the gamey foods that they always seemed to serve for formal dinners here. I eat around it, trying to satisfy my nearly empty stomach with the potatoes and peas.

  Finally the waiters come to clear the plates. “You won’t object, will you, if we have a look around the college to see if we can learn anything further?” I ask Lord Colbert as dessert is served, testing him.

  Lord Colbert sets down his fork. “About what, pray tell?”

  “The circumstances surrounding Jared’s death,” Chris replies.

  The Master, unused to being pressed, exhales sharply. “Haven’t we just been through all of this?”

  “Are you suggesting there may have been more to Jared’s death than met the eye?” Lady Anne asks. Lord Colbert’s head snaps in her direction. His expression does not change but I can see his eyes working furiously, communicating with her in the secret language of long-married couples, cautioning her to be quiet. Is he simply warning her not to encourage our questions or is there something he does not want her to say?