Page 10 of A Debt Inherited

The Owl’s lids descended, rose. “You will appreciate that there are circumstances which compel us to be precise. If we are too plain for your comfort, forgive us. We must be plain.”

“Be as plain as you wish,” Bennet said.

“Good,” said the Pike, quick as a fish. “Were you privy to any intention of Lord Ashby to quit the college with Miss Pember?”

“I was not privy to any intention.”

The Owl paused, looking at him. “State your present understanding of the circumstance which has given rise to this inquiry.”

Bennet held the Owl’s gaze. The question had been waiting to be asked from the moment the door closed behind him; it would be asked again and again in other forms. He allowed himself one steadying breath, and in his mind, he named them once more—the Owl, the Pike, the Mole, the Bull—so that when he spoke, he might speak to creatures and not to a court.

“My present understanding,” he said, “is that something grievous has occurred.”

“It is more,” said the Pike.

“I have not been told more.”

“You have been in college,” said the Bull. “College hears things.”

“College hears many things,” Bennet said. “It does not always understand them.”

The Mole’s pen scratched on.

The Owl folded his hands. “Bring forward the documents.”

A sheet was pushed towards Bennet. Across the top was written: Pass for travel between Cambridge and Stamford.

“Do you recognise the hand?” asked the Owl.

“No, sir.”

The Mole’s pen scratched on.

The Pike leant forward, his elbows on the table. “You may speak freely. We suspect Mr Fitzwilliam assisted your companion as well.”

Bennet looked up. “If you mean Lord Ashby, he was no companion, only a friend.”

“Friendship,” murmured the Owl, “is oft the cloak of counsel. Look again.”

Bennet obeyed. “It is not Fitzwilliam’s hand, nor mine.”

The Owl nodded once. “So recorded.”

The Bull slid the second paper forward. Bennet did not need to read it. He knew the words: Cambridge to Huntingdon, to Stilton, to Stamford, thence the northern road.

“Do you recognise this?”

“Yes.”

“Whose writing?”

Only then did the recognition settle, clean and irrevocable—the slant of the ink was his own.

“Mine.”

“And to what purpose was it written?”

He hesitated. The room waited. The candles made a faint, wet hiss.