The Avatari (11 page)

They spent their ‘gap’ in Europe and it was the loveliest time Susan had ever had. David found a lot of material for his dissertation while they were in Florence. On the way back home, they spent a week in Toulouse – Pierre Fermat’s city. The weather was bright and warm and they hired bicycles and rode happily and aimlessly through the city. On their last day there, they stopped for lunch at one of the cafés around the Fontaine de la Place Wilson. There, with the statue of the poet Pierre Gadoli and many other young couples interestedly looking on, David went down on one knee, took a small platinum band from his pocket and proposed to Susan. She had had an inkling he might; he had been acting strangely the last couple of days.

‘No,’ she told him, taking the ring and admiring it.

‘No? You can’t be serious?’ David’s tone was anxious.

‘I am yours, David, and you know it. But if you want to marry me, you’ll have to win me.’ She smiled at him, her voice mischievous, teasing.

‘Anything!’

He meant it.

‘Get a First,’ she said.

Getting a First was difficult; only fifteen percent of the students managed a First Class in their undergraduate course. Susan knew that if he worked hard, David would get one; and so would she. But the commitment and distraction of marriage was something that could get in the way. She knew David would understand.

‘That’s all?’ he asked incredulously. ‘Here I was thinking dragons and moats!’

He was laughing now.

‘It’s not going to be easy, you dummy!’ she told him, her tone mock serious as she put the ring in her pocket, then added, ‘And since you are so sure that you will get a first, I’ll keep this safely till that time – just so you don’t proposition someone else.’

David cast a languid glance over the crowd of beautiful scantily clad young women idling by the fountain. ‘You know,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘you may have a point there.’

Susan laughed and kissed him impulsively. Some of the people milling around, who had been watching them indulgently from the time David made his very public proposal, began clapping and whistling in approval.

Back at college, Susan and David braced themselves for the academic pressure that would now be far more intense in their final years. Susan stuck to her plan of taking papers on number theory and elliptical curves, tools she would need to perfect before attempting to solve the Last Theorem. Aiming for a career in research and academics, she knew she was in for the long haul. For his course in history, David was required to write an 8,000-word dissertation on his chosen hypothesis for submission to the examination board. His was a ‘flyer’, a hypothesis based on a little-known work by Roschelli, Marco Polo’s scribe. Susan tried to dissuade him from venturing into unexplored and, therefore, potentially risky terrain. She urged him to go, instead, for something more conventional. But David’s mind was set. In fact, he was quite excited that he was onto something quite path-breaking.

‘You might as well have researched on Mary Magdalene being Christ’s wife, you know,’ Susan chided him one day during the Lent term, as they sat on a bench by the river, her head resting on his lap.

‘Thought of that, but it’s too risky,’ David said. ‘Would have upset the keepers of the faith. But mark my words – some day, someone will.’

‘Why do you have to go kamikaze?’

‘It’s not that bad, sweetie,’ David reassured her. ‘You do know, don’t you, that we have goals that are quite similar? Except for one fundamental difference.’

‘What’s that?’ she asked.

‘Well, in
your
case, you already have a theorem which is assumed to be valid; all you are trying to do now is substantiate that mathematically. It is widely accepted that evidence exists to support the premise. It simply needs to be found and presented in the approved manner. I, on the other hand, am dealing with a conjecture, for which there is no proof – at least, none that has been found so far – other than what Roschelli has to say. In other words, habeas corpus – no body, no case. Thankfully, Roddy believes in me.’

Roddy was Penny Rodham, a postgrad and David’s tutor.

‘I think Roddy is giving you more attention than you rightfully deserve,’ Susan remarked.

‘Is it my fault that blondes find me irresistible?’ David asked with an impish grin, prompting her to throw a punch in his direction.

When he had finished writing his dissertation, David showed it to Susan and they both went over it, scrutinizing every bit with a critical eye. The dissertation would be sent to the examination committee, which would appoint two examiners to conduct an oral examination or viva.

‘Do you think I have a case?’ David asked nervously.

‘No one could have presented the argument better,’ she said, forthright as ever.

‘That’s no answer!’ he retorted irritably.

‘That’s what you can get from a
mathmo
,’ she said evenly. ‘I have a suggestion, though. Why don’t you tone it down a bit, make it more of a proposition? You know, something less definitive, that will allow you to give yourself and the examiners some slack to work with.’

They had discussed this before.

‘Can’t do that now,
mia cara
,’ David told her. ‘Besides, I really believe in my theory. Don’t worry, the worst they can do is throw it out. I’ll go up to the appeals committee if that happens.’

He spoke lightheartedly enough, but the chances of getting a redressal, once the examiners had flunked you, was one in ten. Equally worrying was the fact that if his dissertation were rejected, his scholarship would be discontinued.

When the time came for David’s viva, Susan received a call from her mother’s housekeeper; Antonia had suffered a stroke and was hospitalized. Susan would have to go down to Essex to be with her.

David saw her off at the railway station. ‘Don’t worry, sweetie. It’ll be just fine,’ he assured her.

She put her arms around him and kissed him. She didn’t tell him it wasn’t her mother she was worried about.

‘Well,
in buccia al lupo
!’ she said.

It literally meant ‘into the mouth of the wolf’, but was roughly the Italian equivalent of wishing someone luck, somewhat like ‘break a leg’ in theatre parlance.

They looked at each other and smiled weakly at the irony of the idiom.

On the day of David’s viva, Susan kept waiting for him to call, finally dozing off on a chair near the hospital phone. In the evening, when she still hadn’t heard from him, she rang up Jill, who promised to find out what had happened. Jill called back to say that someone had seen him at a pub.

‘How did his viva go?’ Susan asked her teammate.

‘Not good, it seems. But don’t worry, he’ll get over it. Probably needs to drink it off tonight.’

Early the next morning, Susan got a call from Jill. Her friend sounded shaken.

‘Susan,’ she said, ‘you need to get back. There’s been an accident.’

Susan felt she couldn’t breathe.

‘Is he all right?’

‘Just come back,’ the girl at the other end said weakly, before hanging up.

Susan would subsequently learn that the examiners at the viva had been particularly brutal; they had torn the basic premise of David’s dissertation to shreds, ridiculing it in their subtle, stylized academic parlance to devastating effect. After it was over, David had gone to a pub. Later that night, he had taken a punt out on the river. It was assumed that he had lost his balance and fallen into the water. A morning jogger had found his body near the bank, tangled in the weeds. The preliminary examination indicated that he had been intoxicated.

‘He wouldn’t have felt a thing, not with the river icy cold this time of the year,’ Susan overheard a student say to another in the common room.

CHAPTER 7

Yorkshire, England

A
UGUST 1986

By evening, Ashton had returned from Cadbury. After a quick wash and a change, he asked for his tea to be sent up to him in the library. He called Duggy and told him how his meeting with Tim Grahams had gone.

‘I finally asked him for his frank opinion about the Burqan Qaldun or Shambhala,’ he said. ‘According to Tim, there is no proof that it exists. It’s a myth – like Atlantis or El Dorado, if you will.’

‘It could also mean that it has never been found,’ Duggy mused, ‘and that the Teacher wanted your help in ensuring it remained that way.’

Ashton chose his next words carefully, trying to sound practical. ‘Well, I have been to the expert in these matters and he hasn’t given us much to work on. I don’t see what makes you imagine we can stop some people getting to a place which no one knows exists for sure.’ He made an expansive gesture with his hands. ‘I think we should stop getting any further into this and tell the police what we know.’

Duggy frowned, looking quite unconvinced by the argument. ‘Maybe we should give them the two hundred thousand pounds for their trouble,’ he suggested sarcastically. Irritated by now, Ashton was on the verge of telling him to stop being a stubborn ass when the house manager cut in.

‘Mr Grahams called about an hour ago,’ he announced. ‘Asked that you should call him back.’

With that, Duggy got up and left the library.

‘What the devil does
he
want now?’ Ashton said more loudly than he needed to, but he made the call.

‘You seem to have got back in good time, old man,’ he heard Tim say.

‘Yes,’ Ashton agreed. ‘Hardly any traffic. Thanks again for your hospitality.’

‘That’s all right. I wanted to speak to you about that, uh, research of yours.’

There was a pause. Henry Ashton remained silent. He was sure Tim hadn’t believed a word of his story.

‘I know someone who might be able to help you in this matter. A Dr Susan Hamilton.’

‘Who’s
she
?’

‘She used to be David Sage’s girlfriend. Remember that undergrad I had mentioned who wrote a dissertation about Marco Polo’s second book? Susan and David were together at Cambridge as undergrads – he at Darwin and she at Girton. He flamed out when they junked him in the viva. Got drunk and drowned in the river. At present, Susan is an assistant professor of Mathematics at Balliol College.’

‘And this mathematician has an interest in history?’

‘She took her boyfriend’s death hard. Dropped two years. Somehow blamed herself for it.’ Tim lowered his voice. ‘Word has it that she was on therapy, but evidently, she is fine now. Part of a group called the Shambhala Circle. Its members meet fairly regularly at Cambridge. I’ve been invited to speak at their meetings once or twice. I remember meeting Dr Hamilton there. Attractive, but
very
intense. At that time, I didn’t know she had any association with David Sage. After you left, I called a few people and managed to make the connection. When I spoke to her, she seemed pretty excited and wanted to meet you – immediately.’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ Ashton began doubtfully.

‘Oh, don’t be so stuffy, Henry!’ Tim said impatiently. ‘She’s just a smart, pretty, single woman who’s keen on meeting you. Why would
that
be a problem? Maybe she has some information you need?’

‘Tim, while I do appreciate your help,’ Ashton said politely, but firmly, ‘perhaps she could just call. I don’t particularly need to meet her.’

‘You’re worried that she might turn out to be a loony, right? Well, she isn’t. Intense, yes. But that is probably because of the mathematics.’

‘Oh, all right!’ Ashton said resignedly.

‘Splendid. She said she would be with you at nine in the morning.’

‘You didn’t commit!’ Ashton exclaimed.

‘Didn’t have to. She just asked me for your address and told me to warn you.’

‘Good god!’

‘Don’t worry, Henry, I’m sure you’ll enjoy meeting her.’

The following morning, Ashton decided to delay breakfast by an hour. He sat at the dining table, with the morning papers spread in front of him. He was just beginning to feel peckish when he saw her car drive in. She was ushered in right away and Ashton got up to shake hands with a tall, well-built woman in her thirties dressed in jeans and a cardigan, a foldable satchel slung over her shoulder. Her long blonde hair tumbled out of the woollen cap she had pulled down over her ears. She had a striking, intelligent face and Ashton quickly took in the dark, intense eyes and the finely chiselled, almost androgynous, features, making a conscious effort not to stare.

He held out his hand which she clasped in a strong grip.

‘Susan Hamilton,’ she said in a soft, direct voice.

‘Pleased to meet you, Dr Hamilton. You’ve probably been a boatie,’ he said with a chuckle, flexing his fingers.

‘Yes, I have. I’m sorry,’ she said with a nervous smile. ‘Please call me Susan, Sir Henry. Thank you for agreeing to see me. You must think me awfully rude for imposing myself on you in this manner.’

‘Not at all. We hardly get anyone visiting these days and certainly not anyone half as charming,’ Ashton said gallantly. ‘And while we are at it, would you call me Henry?’

She smiled back at him, nodding her acquiescence, some of the tension draining from her face and making her suddenly look younger. He guessed she must be around thirty-five, but couldn’t be sure.

‘Tim Grahams would have told you why I wanted to meet you,’ she said after a pause.

‘Breakfast?’ he asked, gesturing at the table. ‘Martha would be quite put out if we didn’t tuck in. We could talk after that.’

‘Thank you. I’m quite famished, really.’

‘Excellent,’ he said, calling out to Martha, who bustled in with a trolley and had no qualms whatsoever about looking Susan up and down, a beaming smile on her red face.

‘You took Political Science at Cambridge?’ Susan asked politely as they ate.

‘Yes, Trinity. I was with Tim Grahams.’

‘He mentioned that.’

They finished breakfast, still talking about Cambridge. After Martha cleared away the dishes, Duggy entered the room and Ashton introduced Susan. Duggy pulled a chair up to the table and sat down.

‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ Susan said, glancing from one man to the other.

‘Right,’ Ashton said with a smile, pouring out coffee for her.