First Born(31)

‘Ms Raven,’ says a man an inch or two shorter than my father, a man with sparkly blue eyes, tan skin and a well-groomed grey beard. ‘Groot. Eugene Groot, pleased to meet you.’

‘Thanks for seeing me.’

He closes his eyes for a few seconds, and then leads me towards an ornate staircase and says, in a low, discreet tone, ‘I’m so sorry for your loss, it’s a dreadful tragedy. The whole department is in a state of shock.’

‘Thank you.’

He leads me through to a grand hall. A soprano is singing, filling the double-height room with her voice.

‘The Club’s been here since 1888. Most of the architecture is McKim’s work.’ He sounds strained when he talks. A little nervous. Overcompensating. ‘And yes, that elephant head is real.’

‘Did KT ever come here?’

‘Not that I know of,’ says Groot.

We walk through dark-red-painted corridors to another staircase. The steps creak like you’d expect in an old English house, and then we arrive at the dining hall.

‘Beautiful room,’ I say.

‘Isn’t it?’

We sit and are presented with menus.

‘It all looks very grand, but let me tell you the Harvard Club Foundation scholarship fund helps support numerous undergraduates through their studies. All this is a form of giving back.’

‘KT talked about you,’ I say.

He puts on his reading glasses. ‘Your sister was an excellent student. An enquiring mind.’

‘She was fond of you.’

He looks away and summons a waiter and asks for a bottle of still water at room temperature.

A sommelier comes over and Groot looks at me. ‘Should we stick to water, perhaps, or should we make a more appropriate toast to Katie? Too soon? Please, you decide, Molly.’

‘We can toast her. But I don’t drink.’

‘Not at all?’

‘Not a drop.’

He turns to the sommelier. ‘One glass of the Billecart rosé.’

Moments later he’s presented with a tall flute of pink champagne.

‘To the memory of your sister.’

‘To KT.’

My tumbler chinks his flute and we drink.

‘Did you know her well?’ I ask.

‘At postgraduate level every teacher knows their students to a much fuller extent than at undergraduate, so I’d say I knew her a little. I always wanted to see her go on to study for her PhD. Katie would have made an excellent doctorate student.’

He orders shrimps and crab cake. It sounds good, but I cannot risk food poisoning from improperly prepared or stored shellfish, so I order roasted heirloom beets because they sound safe. The professor lectures me on the history of Columbia, the theories of Hobbes, the future of the Ivy League. He orders a glass of Meursault for himself. Fifteen minutes later he orders another.

‘Have any of your other students ever been awarded a scholarship from the same foundation?’

His porterhouse arrives along with a bottle of red wine, and my rib lamb chop arrives too, and he tells me he’d never heard of the foundation or the scholarship until KT was awarded it, but that he’s gone on to suggest applications from several more of his students.

‘Seems like a very generous scholarship,’ I say.

‘Generous!’ he says, his voice slurring a little. ‘It’s more than generous, Molly. It’s downright unprecedented. Fees paid and an apartment close to school and a living stipend. It’s unheard of. I’d like to see very much more of it.’

‘It’s offered through your department, or through the main Columbia office?’

‘Actually, it’s nothing to do with Columbia. It’s a private scholarship, or, sorry, rather it’s a sponsorship. I am aware of similar sponsorships at other institutions around the world, of course; often student-specific, often tied to a religious order or sporting potential. If you don’t mind my saying, Molly, it is very pleasant to meet you.’

‘And you.’

‘No, I mean, it’s a cliché and all, but talking with you here, it brings back Katie one last time. It’s as if I’m talking through you to her in some way. Forgive my appalling sentimentality – this Burgundy . . .’

He must be drunk. I’m sitting here with a mineral water, whereas KT would have skipped the main course and taken him to some underground bar.

‘I don’t mind.’

He chews his porterhouse and drinks his wine. The label on the bottle says Nuits-Saint-Georges. Groot’s lips are darkening. He says, ‘There are rooms upstairs for members, and their guests, and very well-appointed they are too.’ He looks around.

‘Did you ever meet KT’s boyfriend?’ I ask.

‘I’m not sure. Name?’

‘Scott Sbarra.’

‘Doesn’t ring any bells, I’m afraid. I did notice her together with a young student one time. Broad chap, possibly a lacrosse player?’

‘That’s Scott. He rows.’

‘A worthwhile pastime. My wife used to row up at Dartmouth. She’s set to be appointed a judge next year.’

He looks me up and down and drinks more wine. His teeth are dark red.

‘KT told me you visited her apartment.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t say visited.’ He puts down his knife and fork and dabs his lips with his napkin. There’s a breadcrumb caught in his beard. ‘But yes, I think I did walk that way one time with her, before heading on to a meeting. That must have been it.’