No Graves as Yet_ A Novel - Anne Perry [95]
So Perth was already pursuing the thought of a cheat! Did he understand that such a charge would follow a man all his life? The whisper of it would deny him a career, blackball him from clubs, even ruin him in society. Was that something a man like Perth would grasp?
Someone had killed Sebastian. If it were not for that, then it was something else equally ugly. Perhaps it would be even worse if it were for a trivial reason?
He looked at Foubister’s miserable face, the anger in it, the desperation. He had such a burden of trust, hope, and sacrifice on his shoulders. Added to that, even coming here had opened a world to him he would never forget. The family that had nurtured him and loved him so selflessly was already someplace to which he could never fully return. The gulf widened, every day. He had already lost most of his Lancashire accent; only the odd vowel sound appeared now and then. He must have worked terribly hard to achieve that.
As if he had spoken it aloud, Foubister sensed Joseph’s thought. “I didn’t crib!” he exclaimed, his face white, his eyes hurt and angry.
“It would be very foolish,” Joseph replied. “Your style is nothing like his.” Then in case it seemed like an insult he added, “You are quite individual. But do you think it is possible someone else has cribbed, and Sebastian knew it?”
“I suppose it is,” Foubister admitted reluctantly, shifting from one foot to the other. “But it would be stupid. You’d have known one style from another, the pattern of thinking, the words, the phrases, the kind of ideas. Even if you weren’t sure, you’d suspect.”
It was true. Joseph knew each voice as uniquely as the brush stroke of an artist or the musical phrase of a composer.
“Yes, of course,” he agreed. “I’m just looking for a reason.”
“We all are,” Foubister said tensely, holding the book in his hand more tightly. “We’re all wandering around tearing ourselves to pieces. He doesn’t understand!” He jerked his arm backward to indicate Perth, somewhere in the college behind him. “He doesn’t really know anything about us! How could he? He’s never been in a world like this.” He said it without condescension, but with impatience for those who had placed Perth out of his depth, a feeling he himself must taste every day, even if it was lessening, at least on the surface. But surely, deeper into thought, he must have understood that the thread of it ran through everything—class, manner, words chosen, even dreams.
Joseph drew breath to interrupt, then silenced himself. He should listen. Unguarded talk was exactly what he needed to hear—and weigh. He forced himself to relax and lean a little against the doorjamb.
“Someone mentions an argument, and he thinks it’s a fight!” Foubister went on, his wide eyes on Joseph’s, expecting understanding. “That’s what university is all about, exploring ideas! If you don’t question it, try to pick it to pieces, you never really know whether you believe it or not.”
Joseph nodded.
“We don’t argue to prove a point!” Foubister went on, his voice rising in desperation. “We argue to prove that we exist! Differences of opinion don’t mean hate, for heaven’s sake—exactly the opposite! You can’t be bothered to waste time arguing with someone you don’t respect. And respect is about the same thing as liking, isn’t it?”
“Almost,” Joseph agreed, thinking back to his own college days.
They heard a clatter of feet on a stairway above them, and a moment later a student excused himself and ran past, clutching a pile of books. He glanced at Joseph and Foubister. His eyes were wide with question and suspicion. It was clear in his expression that he thought he understood something. He turned away and sprinted across the quad and through the archway.
“You see?” Foubister challenged, fear rising sharply in his voice. “He thinks I cheated and you’re calling me out on it!