“I don’t trust you,” Ruthven said immediately.
“I deserve that.”
“Yes, you bloody well do.”
It would be easier to be angry if Oxford wasn’t so sad. It was unfair. Ruthven deserved to be angry.
You don’t betray someone for years and then hover around hoping they’ll comfort you about it. Not that Oxford was asking for that. He hadn’t asked for anything — except just enough patience for Ruthven to learn the last secret. To meet someone who would, apparently, explain everything.
Ruthven might be an idiot for getting in this flyer, for agreeing to leave Chronos College, in this particular company. He hadn’t told Boswell, or Cressida, or anyone who might stop him.1
“I don’t think Monterey’s ever going to speak to me again,” Oxford observed, an hour or so into the trip.
“He spent a weekend hanging out with Lord Byron,” muttered Ruthven. “You’ll be fine. He doesn’t hold his friends to particularly high moral standards.”
The latest news on Monterey was that he had holed himself up in his rooms with Lovelace and was getting very drunk. All attempts by Zadie Kincaid to bring him on board with her ‘everyone gets their memories back’ agenda had been met with shouting and hat-throwing.
Ruthven had never related to Monterey harder in his life.
“Where are we going?” he asked as the swirling continents of the planet threw up a familiar cluster of islands.
“East Anglia,” said Oxford. “You’ll know it when you see it.”
Ruthven gave him a withering look. “You can’t buy me off with a fannish pilgrimage to modern-day Fenthorp.”
“Ha,” said Oxford, with the first glimmer of his humour returning. “Shame. That was my entire nefarious plan.”
Fenthorp Manor had survived to the twenty-fourth century.
Ruthven could not stave off the spark of excitement at seeing the building in real life. In his own century. He’d never thought to visit the site before.
Oxford landed the flyer with expert ease. The two of them climbed out, walking across the wide lawn towards the manor.
There was an expanded car park out the front with electrical charging units, and a holographic pillar detailing the historical significance of the site. Otherwise, the house looked much as it always had. A bit run down. No one had cleaned the mathematical tile in a couple of centuries, and the roof was in a shocking state of disrepair. Clearly it hadn’t been the site of any film shoots lately.
Ruthven wondered if the greenhouse would still be there. And then he stopped wondering anything, because the front door of the house was opening…
He wasn’t sure what he had expected. It was not this old man in an embroidered velvet jacket. He looked vaguely familiar, like when you meet the relative of someone you know well.
“Eliott Ruthven,” said Oxford, at about 50% of his usual dramatic charm. He’d be radiating full charm in no time, at this rate. “This is my godfather. Professor Aleister Gordon Hepple-Burbage.”
Ruthven heard himself mumble appropriately polite greetings, though it was hard to hear them over the loud screaming that had just erupted inside his head.
The Professor not only lived in Fenthorp Manor, but in the part of the house that was most recognisable from Cramberleigh filming. He led Oxford and Ruthven up to the second floor: the Round Library, where Sir Victor had proposed to Lady Sophia.
It was still a library, though most of the books on the shelves did not resemble the beautiful leather-bound editions from when it was filmed in the Sixties. The shelves were jammed wildly with vintage paperbacks, hardbacks in slipcovers, comic books, holozines and DVD cases, including something Ruthven instantly recognised as an ancient Alexandrian scroll-bucket.
There was no rhyme or reason to the collection. Flash Gordon sat alongside the Bronte sisters, Bridget Jones, Charles Dickens, Grange Hill novelisations and the Vorkosigan Saga.
There was a burning wood fire in the hearth, something that had been illegal on this planet for at least two centuries.
There was a cat curled up on the hearth rug.
It wasn’t Aesop.
(Ruthven hated that, for a moment, he had thought it might be.)
This cat was grey, and sort of scraggy around the edges. A cat who had lived a long and interesting life. He was of no distinct breed, with pale green eyes, long ears and soft, thin fur that stuck out in all directions. He had a fluffy tail which twitched back and forth as if it had a life of its own. He resembled the heroic statue of Professor Banksia from the quad about as much as Cressida Church resembled hers.
The same could be said of Professor Burbage, who now towed an entire tea trolley into the library, being the jovial sort of person who believed all guests should be greeted by proper refreshments. His statue was far younger, with a trim beard, tailored tweed suit, and shapely calves. This version of him involved grey hair, fluffy slippers and pyjama pants under the velvet jacket.
“You’re Banksia,” said Ruthven, staring at the cat on the hearth rug.
Professor Banksia arched his back and sniffed. “You’re Eliott Ruthven, I imagine. Oxford’s been on at us to invite you here.” He gave a blushing Oxford a pointed look. “I suppose this means the cat is out of the bag?”
“You might say that,” said Oxford.
“Oh dear,” said Professor Burbage, pouring the tea. “Sounds messy. Has anyone asked about us?”
“Hard to say,” said Oxford. “The Founders and the Anachronauts have been in Deep Committee for two days now, and the cats have formed their own group chat to talk about the humans behind their backs. You’re probably not high on their agenda of things to yell at each other about.”
“Until they remember that we know where the bodies are buried,” said Banksia slyly.
Ruthven made a startled sort of hum.
