‘I know what you’re doing,’ he says, drawing on reserves of spirit from somewhere deep inside himself. ‘You’re working on the principle of divide and rule. Well, it won’t work.’

  No, it won’t, I agree silently – at least, it won’t work until I have more ammunition.

  Just an hour ago, I thought that everything was simple and straightforward. I’d believed that something had happened on Friday night which had made Linda want to leave Oxford, and some of the members of the Shivering Turn had done no more than help her.

  I’m far from sure of that now. Now, as a result of all the lying and evasion from the four members of the society I’ve talked to, I’m beginning to think that it was not so much a case of Johnson and Duffy helping Linda board the train as it was of them forcing her to do it.

  Why would they force her to leave?

  Because they were afraid of the consequences of having her stay – because they were worried she might talk to the wrong people about what she’d seen!

  But what had she seen?

  Whatever it was, it has to be connected to the Shivering Turn – a society which is only registered with the bursary because, as Crispin Hetherington put it: ‘the bursar is a very stupid man, and it amuses me to hide something he would certainly not approve of right under his nose.’

  I read the extract of the poem again.

  And dare you face your urges and desires

  Embracing both the good and bad you own

  Or will you, like a cold and errant coward

  Abandon all and make a shivering turn?

  Robert Cudlip is the key, I decide. The society was created in his honour, and will reflect his values.

  I need to find out more about the man and, since this is Oxford, I know exactly where to look.

  TEN

  The Bodleian Library (or just the Bodley to us smart-arsed Oxford types) is one of the world’s great libraries. It occupies a total of five buildings, the first completed in the fifteenth century and the last constructed in 1930, and even this is nowhere near enough storage space, so many of its books and documents are kept underground. Every time a new book – on any subject – is published in Great Britain, a copy of it must be submitted to the Bodley in order to establish copyright; when I last checked, it housed nearly twelve million items, including four copies of the Magna Carta and one of only twenty-one known copies of the original Gutenberg Bible. It is not a repository of the whole of the world’s knowledge – nowhere is – but it comes closer than most, and if you can’t find what you’re looking for there, the chances are you won’t find it anywhere.

  What I am looking for is the collected works and biographical details of Robert Cudlip, who (as we know from the note on Linda’s desk) lived from 1612 to 1659. Someday, no doubt, all the information I need will be stored on a computer and reached by pressing a few keys on a keyboard, but until that glorious electronic revolution arrives, it has to be done the painstaking manual way.

  The first Robert Cudlip I find within the appropriate dates was a hill farmer on the Welsh borders, who came to the authorities’ attention because (according to the neighbouring farmers) he had a great penchant for selling sheep at the local market which were not exactly his own property. He was duly arrested, tried at Ludlow Assizes, and found guilty of sheep stealing. The judge then placed a square of black cloth (known for some reason as a black cap) atop his wig, and sentenced Cudlip to be hanged by the neck until dead – no doubt to the great joy of the locals, whose favourite form of entertainment was a public execution. This was on 12 August 1659. If the condemned sheep rustler had ever turned his hand to poetry before he did his dance of death on the gallows, there is certainly no mention of it in any of the records.

  The second Robert Cudlip was a ship’s captain, whose exploits have only been noted because he was involved in a protracted legal dispute with the ship’s owner over the question of how to split the profits on a cargo of slaves he transported from Africa to the New World. This merchant in human misery doesn’t sound much like a poet either.

  There is a Robert Cudlip the blacksmith, and Robert Cudlip the vicar of a small parish in Yorkshire, but there is no mention of my Robert Cudlip. More to the point, I can find no reference to the poetry of Robert Cudlip.

  At the end of three hours, I am absolutely certain that Robert Cudlip the poet never existed.

  Creating Cudlip has been an elaborate game, which was probably initiated by Crispin Hetherington, I decide, but I can discern no practical purpose to most of the process, especially composing the poem, so Hetherington probably did that just for his own amusement. The only thing that really matters – the only bit of the game which can be seen as cocking a snook at the established authorities – is the name of the society itself, because that’s the only part that Charlie Swift and the dean will ever get to see.

  And looked at from that perspective, the society’s name simply has to be a code which, if you understand it, says, ‘This is what we’re doing.’

  But how does the code work?

  Do I have to substitute other words for the ones actually used, in order to understand the meaning?

  Might the real name – the hidden name – of the society be something like ‘Terrified Retreat’ or ‘Freezing Swivel’?

  Yes, that’s perfectly possible – but those names don’t mean any more than ‘Shivering Turn’ does.

  It’s time to go, because the library is getting ready to close. Besides, I’m developing a tension headache, and I know from previous experience exactly what I need to do to cure it.

  There are times when my whole being is so tightly wound that I know gin and tonic won’t work its usual miracle, and the only thing that will unknot me is wild, unbridled sex. So when I feel my body starting to seize up, as I have this afternoon, my first thought is to find a suitable partner for the night.

  This suitable partner does not have to be charming, interesting or amusing – although I am prepared to tolerate all those things in him as long as he only employs them in moderation.

  He doesn’t need to be dashingly handsome, or particularly muscle-bound, either.

  What he must have – in spades – is a sexual energy which glows around him as though he’s been dipped in a radioactive bath.

  And detachment – I like detachment very much. My ideal partner is a lone wolf who takes his pleasure from me (and gives me pleasure in return) then lopes away into the dark night – and never thinks of me again.

  Sigmund Freud, the venerated head-shrinker, would probably say this search for detachment in my sex life is evidence of a severely detached childhood.

  Well screw you, you old Viennese charlatan – this is who I am, and I feel no pressing need to apologize for it.

  At any rate, it is this need within which has brought me to the bar in the Randolph Hotel, a place which, in the past, has proved to be an excellent hunting ground.

  I have already spotted a likely target. He’s in his late thirties, and is tall and handsome – the kind of man, in other words, that gypsy fortune-tellers are always promising you you’re going to meet. I’m guessing that he’s a salesman – not the door-to-door sort (‘If you have trouble cleaning behind your toilet, madam, this brush will do the trick’), but one of those who sign big contracts with large organizations after very expensive lunches – because he has an assurance about him which, if it’s not actually genuine, is a pretty damn good imitation.

  I turn my back in order to give him the opportunity to make the first move, because experience has taught me that men are always happier if they feel they’re in control.

  It does not take him long. Less than five minutes later, he’s sitting on the bar stool next to mine.

  I hope he’s not going to accidentally-on-purpose spill my drink and offer to buy me another one, because if that’s the way he normally breaks the ice, I’m out of here before you can say, ‘get some technique, you moron.’

  He doesn’t come close to threatening a booze spill.

  Instead he says, ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

  Just that – none of the ‘can I buy a pretty lady a drink?’ crap I sometimes have to put up with.

  ‘Gin and tonic,’ I tell him.

  I’ve dated men who’ve used this as an opening to show off their sensitive sides.

  ‘Now, let me see, what brand of gin would you be likely to enjoy the most?’ they tend to muse, as if they can see straight into your soul. ‘You’re intelligent and imaginative, and you’re obviously very discerning or you wouldn’t be going out with me (ho, ho!). So I would say your favourite is – (dramatic pause) – Bombay Sapphire. Am I right?’

  And because he’s been so nice about you (the creep!), you’re expected to say that he’s so clever to have guessed, and yes, Bombay Sapphire is your absolute favourite – even if you can’t stand the bloody stuff.

  This man doesn’t do that, either. He just says, ‘Would Beefeater be all right for you?’

  ‘Beefeater would be fine.’

  He holds out his hand to me. ‘My name is Philip.’

  Not, ‘My name is Philip Curly Wurly blah-de-blah and I’m the managing director of Really Big Important blah-de-blah,’ I note with some pleasure.

  So far, he’s registered so many brownie points with me that he’s in serious danger of shooting off the top of the ‘Jennie Redhead Suitable Men to Go to Bed With’ Scale.

  Philip’s flat is on St Thomas’ Street.

  ‘It’s convenient for the railway station – and I do a lot of travelling,’ he says, as he opens the front door.

  And I’m thinking, Oh Philip, don’t go spoiling it now by bringing in personal details.

  He leads me into the living room. It is expensively and tastefully furnished, the heavy masculinity of the leather armchairs contrasting beautifully with the delicacy of the rosewood cocktail cabinet.

  ‘Shall I mix us a drink?’ he asks.

  ‘I think we’ve both had plenty to drink already,’ I tell him. ‘Where’s the bedroom?’

  ‘This way,’ he says.

  It’s a big bedroom, with a nice big bouncy double bed. I notice there are mirrors on the ceiling, too, which I quite like.

  Since we’ve already done the passionate kissing stage while we were walking down the street and climbing the stairs, I move straight into the getting undressed stage, but then he says, ‘Stop! You haven’t decided what you’re wearing yet.’

  ‘I wasn’t intending to wear anything,’ I reply.

  ‘You’ll like this,’ he tells me.

  When men say that, I begin to feel a little uneasy, because what they really mean is that they’ll like it.

  He walks over to the fitted wardrobe, and slides it open with a magician’s flourish.

  ‘How about that?’ he asks.

  The wardrobe is crammed with costumes – there are French maids’ outfits, nuns’ and priests’ habits, Nazi uniforms …

  ‘I don’t do that,’ I say.

  ‘You’ll like it,’ he promises me.

  ‘I don’t do that,’ I repeat.

  He reaches into the wardrobe, takes out a nurse’s uniform, and holds it up for my inspection.

  ‘How about this?’ he asks.

  ‘I’ve told you twice, I don’t do that.’

  ‘I never took you for an uptight little puritan,’ he says, trying to shame and embarrass me into doing what he wants.

  ‘I’m not the slightest bit uptight,’ I say. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m very imaginative in bed.’

  ‘Well, then …?’

  ‘But I don’t like role-playing. If we’re going to screw, let’s screw each other, rather than pretend we’re two other people.’

  ‘I want you to wear a costume,’ he says, almost sulky now.

  ‘I’m sorry, this has been a mistake,’ I say.

  I head for the door, but he quickly steps in the way to block my exit.

  ‘You’re not leaving,’ he says.

  ‘You’re making a mistake,’ I tell him.

  ‘Oh really? Making a mistake, am I? And what kind of mistake might that be?’

  ‘If you don’t let me go, I’m going to have to hurt you.’

  He laughs. And, in a way, I can see his point, because he is at least four inches taller than I am, and considerably stronger.

  The thing is, in my experience strong men place all their reliance on that strength of theirs, whereas feisty little redheads have to learn skills to compensate for their relative weakness.

  As if to emphasize his power, he puts a large hand on each of my shoulders, and begins to shake me.

  ‘You’re not bloody leaving,’ he says as he shakes. ‘You’re going to stay, and you’re going to do exactly what I want you to do.’

  I use my left arm to knock his right hand off my shoulder, and raise my right hand to find the pressure point on his right palm.

  The first look that comes to his face is one of surprise, but that is soon replaced by pain, and his left hand drops helplessly to his side.

  His instinct is telling him to pull away, but his brain is counselling him that, as bad as the pain is now, it will be much worse if he makes any violent moves.

  ‘You’re … hurting … me,’ he gasps.

  He wants to bring his left arm back up – to either push me away or punch me in the face – but his nervous system is so concentrated on the one spot of agony that it has no energy left for anything else.

  I shift the pressure slightly, and force him to his knees.

  ‘Do you try to rape any girl who doesn’t do exactly what you want?’ I ask, relaxing the pressure a little, because I don’t want him to pass out on me.

  ‘They … they don’t usually mind,’ he says.

  ‘Well, the next time one does, will you remember what happened tonight, and just let her go?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you promise?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I know that at this point he’d promise to slowly torture his own grandmother to death if it would take away the pain, but maybe – just maybe – he will think twice next time.

  ‘I’m going to let you go now, and I don’t want any trouble,’ I say. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I release my grip. He gingerly places his injured right hand into the protective covering of his left armpit, and I step around him.

  As I go down the stairs to the front corridor – where my faithful bicycle awaits me – I realize that all my tension is quite gone.

  Who would have guessed?

  ELEVEN

  By the time I’m cycling past Queen’s College, it’s nearly half-past eleven. Philip has not yet been completed banished from my mind, but I’ve already started to forget what he looked like – which is a good start – and my thoughts have turned back to the investigation.

  What kind of code could the Shivering Turn be?

  If directly substituting synonyms for the words gets me nowhere, then maybe – given the way Crispin Hetherington’s brain probably works – I need to expand my mental search to include synonyms that have appeared in other texts.

  Is there anything in Measure for Measure that corresponds to ‘shivering turn’? I wonder.

  Or in King Lear?

  The thing is, I don’t think it can be that complicated, because Crispin (and I’m sure it is Crispin, rather than any of others) must have realized that if he was being so obscurely clever that no one could ever guess it, then he wasn’t really being clever at all.

  No, what he will have aimed at is a code so simple that anyone he explains it to will feel a fool for not having spotted it themselves.

  I cross the River Cherwell, take the right fork at St Clement’s, and I’m on the Iffley Road.

  Could ‘shivering’ stand for cold, I ask myself. And is ‘turn’ a punning misspelling of ‘tern’?

  Cold bird?

  This is getting ridiculous.

  Apart from the street lamps, the road on which I live is in darkness. It doesn’t surprise me. A few of the houses have been converted into flats, but most of them are still single family dwellings, and the people who live in them are, by and large, quiet, conservative folk, who were probably born within two or three miles of where they ended up.

  I admire them – these people with ordinary jobs who go to bed well before midnight, and wash their cars every Sunday morning. They are the backbone of the country, but I would not like to live their lives, any more than they would like to live mine.

  I have reached my front door. I get off my bike, and reach into my bag – which is hanging off the handlebars – for my front door keys.

  And that is when I see them – emerging like malevolent spirits from their hiding places between the parked cars.

  There are three of them. They are all carrying baseball bats in their hands, and they are all – bizarrely – wearing full-face William Shakespeare masks.

  Well, at least I’m about to be beaten up by someone literary, says one tiny – crazed – corner of my brain.

  I look up and down the street. It is empty – and I am alone.

  I could scream, in the hope of alerting someone in one of those darkened bedrooms, who might well then call the police – but by the time the cops get here, it will be too late. Besides, if I do scream, these three Shakespearian thugs will attack me immediately, and, as things stand, it might still be possible to talk my way out of this situation.

  They are approaching me from three different angles – one each side, one directly in front of me.

  I could try to open the front door and seek sanctuary inside, but they are so close that I would never make it.

  I could jump on my bike and make a break for it, but one swing of a baseball bat and I would be lying in the gutter.

  When they get within two yards of me, they come to a halt.

  ‘You know what this is about, don’t you?’ one of them asks, in what he probably imagines is a rough working-class accent, but which his posh vowels easily override.

  ‘How did you decide which three of you would do the dirty work?’ I ask. ‘Did you draw straws for it – because if you did, I’d put my money on Crispin being in the toilet when the draw was being made.’