Sigurd shakes his head. “Sorry.”
The lady stirs. “Well, there then, Dad. How can it be? You were at Oxford in the thirties. This young man must only be in his twenties.”
“I thought it was him,” he says hesitantly. He gazes up at Sigurd again. “It is you.” His eyes run over Sigurd’s face, a fierce incomprehension in them. “You look exactly the same. I don’t forget a face. It’s a talent of mine. Best professor I ever had. So clever and funny. I’ve always remembered you.” He frowns. “But how can that be?”
Sigurd inclines his head solemnly. “Your professor sounds wonderful. It is a gift to teach.”
My gaze bounces from Sigurd to the old man and back. Sigurd looks almost worried but I can’t work out why. It’s just an old man’s mistake.
“Cold, isn’t it?” the man’s daughter says chattily to me. “You look chilled to the bone, lad.”
I nod and smile, saying something vague.
The old man fiddles with his scarf. It slips from his hands and falls to the ground. Sigurd stoops quickly to pick it up, but before he returns it, he speaks a few quiet words. The man’s daughter doesn’t notice. She’s talking about a log fire at the restaurant, but I see the old man’s face light up. He looks wonderingly at Sigurd and then inclines his head in a courtly gesture. Sigurd returns the gesture solemnly and steps back. He catches my eye and blanches.
The old man’s daughter says affectionately, “There now, Dad. We must be off. We’ll lose the table at the restaurant.” She smilesat us and wheels him away, but his face remains turned toward Sigurd, and he gives another one of those respectful nods, his eyes awed.
Sigurd watches them leave with a funny expression on his handsome face.
“Wait,” I call after them. “Can I ask you something?”
The lady turns. “Yes, dear?”
“What subject did you learn under that professor?”
“We must be getting on,” Sigurd says quickly.
“Folklore,” the man calls out, winking at me.
“Time to go.” Sigurd turns away and starts to walk briskly in the direction of his car.
I eye his broad shoulders distractedly. That whole encounter was odd. Obviously, an old man whose memory might be failing could believe he recognises someone from his distant past. But Sigurd seemed oddly taken by surprise and wrong-footed. Why? And what did he say to the old man to put him at ease?
I climb into my seat after he opens the car door for me, still thinking.
The journey back is filled with conversation, but my end isn’t really focused. I can’t concentrate. Luckily, Sigurd doesn’t seem to notice.
When we enter the house, he holds up my case. “I will set this in the bedroom. Are you still sharing mine?” Maybe he did notice my abstraction after all. I consider him for a beat too long, and his smile is crooked. “I shall put it to one side for you until you make up your mind,” he says kindly. “And then I shall make lunch.”
“Thank you.” I hesitate. “Is it okay if I use your library? I just want to check my emails,” I lie.
His eyes are busy, but he nods as graciously as ever. “Please help yourself to anything you wish, Cary,” he says earnestly.
I watch him disappear down the corridor and then turn to enter the library. It’s as warm and welcoming as it was before, but I hardly notice. I stride over to the desk, open his laptop, and type out the details for my work account. I work at one of the finest research centres in England, and if I can’t find what I need there, I won’t find it anywhere.
“Come on, come on,” I say agitatedly, tapping my fingers on the desk as the page loads. I type in my access details and release a breath as my account appears on the screen. So, Adrian hasn’t announced my sacking yet. I hesitate. Do I want to do this?
I think of Sigurd’s warm, open nature. He’s been absolutely lovely to me, despite not knowing me, and he doesn’t deserve me spying on him. But then I remember that odd encounter, and my resolve firms. I have to know. Curiosity is my besetting sin.
I type in the Oxford University staff registers and then scroll down the results as they load, one ear listening for the already familiar sound of Sigurd’s footsteps.
It seems to take forever, but finally, I find the folklore department. I locate their historical records and scroll down the lists of past academic staff. My startled intake of breath is loud in the room when my eye catches on it: Sigurd Arvesen, Professor of Folklore and Ethnology.
How can that be? Was it a relative of his? I breathe out, relaxing. A relative is a feasible explanation. He said his family collected the books in this library, and many of them seem to be folklore. Enough to indicate a family collection. But surely, he’d have explained he was a relative of another Professor Arvesen to the old man?
I click on the tab offering photographs and tap through old black-and-white images showing earnest students in caps and gowns riding bikes, punting down the River Cherwell, and sitting at picnics. It’s fascinating, and my clicks get slower as I look at this long-gone age. They look so innocent and happy,unaware that war is going to sweep through their worlds soon, leaving no one unscathed.
I click on another image, and suck in a sharp breath. It’s a photo of what appears to be a graduation. A large gathering of students tosses their caps as the university’s buildings loom in the background. And there he is. He’d been caught unaware by the photographer, and he’s watching the caps fly into the air, his face full of an almost childlike enjoyment. I enlarge the photograph, and the image gets a little blurred, but he still stands out. His hair is short, and he’s wearing a suit and his own cap and gown.
