Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(61)
“Even under those circumstances?”
“We’ve weathered worse, believe me.”
“I see. Uh, did your family know you’re—” Saul twiddled a finger to indicate queer.
“Undoubtedly. I never made any effort to pretend otherwise. I’m sure it contributed to my father’s dislike of me, which was ongoing and entirely mutual, but nobody else gave a damn so long as Theresa and I did our duty by the family.”
“I always got on with my parents.” Saul twisted his glass, contemplating the bubbles in the golden wine. “It never really occurred to me that we might ever fall out. That they would turn on me. I didn’t spend a lot of time at home after I went to university but I thought they’d always be there.”
“I couldn’t stand most of mine, and spent far too long with them. I thought they’d always be there too.”
Their eyes met. After a moment Saul managed a smile. Randolph didn’t, but he tilted his glass again. “Lost things.”
“Lost and found,” Saul amended. “We’re still on our feet, aren’t we? Or occasionally knees, of course.”
Now Randolph smiled. “I will definitely drink to that.”
Food came, superbly cooked in wine and butter. Delicate flavours, delicate textures. They talked about books and plays and trivial memories, a rambling conversation for no more purpose than listening to one another talk, watching one another eat. Randolph ate with care, paying the food due but not excessive attention. Saul, consuming possibly the best-cooked meal of his life and certainly the best in seven years, was amazed how easy he found it to forget the food with Randolph’s glinting eyes and half-smile across the table. His eyes, his smile, his wry humour, his love for unreadable eighteenth-century poetry and, entirely unexpectedly, Gothic novels. That led them onto the Casebooks of Simon Feximal, about which Saul was still fascinated.
“We, my siblings and I, grew up terrifying ourselves on them and M.R. James,” he said. “My parents tutted and called them nonsense, and read the Strand when we went to bed. I still can’t believe you knew Simon Feximal.”
“Not well. He was remote, and mildly terrifying, and of course a tradesman.”
“A what?”
“We aristocratic arcanists rather look down on ghost-hunters,” Randolph said with a self-mocking drawl. “Gentlemen and players, you know. Feximal helped people, and got his hands dirty doing it in a way my father preferred not to.”
“You admired him?”
“Not at the time. I took my guidance from my father, whether I knew it or not. But I’ve been working with Sam, his adoptive son, for a few years now, and it’s impossible not to respect him, or Feximal as seen through his eyes. I doubt most people would respect my father seen through mine.” Saul gave an acknowledging tilt of the head, having long concluded Randolph’s father had been a first-class arsehole. “I’m glad of it. Sorry I didn’t learn sooner. Everyone bemoans the changing world, you know, but there was a lot overdue for change.”
“True enough. Why is he Sam Caldwell if he was Feximal’s adoptive son?”
“Well, Caldwell adopted him as a matter of law, but Sam regards both of them in the same parental, or avuncular, light.” Randolph hesitated, toying with his glass, then added, “They were together, Caldwell and Feximal. A couple.”
“You’re joking.”
“No. Twenty-three years, I’m told.”
“Great Scott.” Saul took that in. “That’s...rather marvellous.” It was huge, and he wasn’t sure why. He’d loved the stories, but that wasn’t it. It was the possibility; the knowledge that men like him had found each other for whole lives, not stolen hours. He had to clear his throat to repeat, “Marvellous. Thank you for telling me. Er, was that common knowledge in your circles?”
“Good God, no. Sam knew of course. They were lost at Passchendaele, the pair of them, but they went together.”
Saul raised his glass in silent tribute. Randolph tapped it with his own, the crystal ringing pure and clear like a bell.
He insisted that Saul try the soufflé, which was magnificent. Saul declined coffee, but accepted a cigar and a brandy. The chatter and laughter rose and fell around them, diners coming and going, heedless youth and people old enough to know better, off to dance at jazz clubs and nightclubs. Frenetic pursuit of pleasure under artificial light, while he and Randolph smoked, and talked, and watched each other.
Randolph called for the bill, paying with what looked like about two months’ rent. That evidently didn’t bother him; Saul decided he wasn’t going to worry about it either. Randolph left the waiter a generous tip, exhaled smoke, and carefully extinguished his cigar. “It’s later than I realised. Will you come back with me? We shan’t be interrupted and I’d prefer the night not to end quite yet.”
So would Saul. It would be back to work tomorrow, discovering what had happened to his old life, and what shape his new one might take. He didn’t want this charmed evening to end with a long trudge back to Mornington Crescent and his cold, lonely, bare room. “If you think that’s safe, I’d love to.”
*
It was a mile or so from Randolph’s rooms in the Albany to Major Peabody’s house on Berners Street. Saul set off around ten the next morning in a positive frame of mind. At one point he found himself whistling.