I took it up, examining it with a mild curiosity. I had mentioned to several of my friends at Sidney Sussex that I would be spending part of the vac at Tyme's End, but I knew their handwriting, and the postmark was local and the envelope cheap and lightweight. I opened it.

I am aware that I am taking a colossal liberty in writing to you like this, but I ask for your forbearance quite sincerely. I know you will think this very bad form. I would have done so, once. But I ask you no, I beg you, it will not surprise you if I do not stand on my dignity to read this without throwing it into the fire. Read it. Throw it away if you must, but read it, first.

I sat very still, and it was some time before I could bring myself to read the rest. The writing was thin and pernickety, and I had never seen it before; but I knew, after those few lines, whose it was.

God knows what you thought of me, when we met a few days ago. I dread to think. At your age I would have felt nothing but contempt or, rather, dismissed myself as an irrelevant sort of fellow, the type that other chaps might end up like. But I come from a good family, and I was as you know, of course one of Martin's associates at Cambridge. I was also very handsome. I mention that in the hope that you will see some similarities between my case and yours.

My friendship with Martin was probably the most intense of my life. He inspired me to everything I achieved, good and bad. He had a great power of influence, something which I see has increased with his age, especially now that he has attained some small measure of celebrity. Perhaps no, certainly you will despise me if I warn you against that. I mean, against him. But it is through no malice, no jealousy, that I urge you not to pursue his acquaintance. It is simply that I think if I had not met him, I would have been a better and happier man. I know it. I am not referring simply to the incident which led to my being sent down if I am bitter about that, it is because Jack did not get sent down, not because I did. I mean that his influence, absorbed over a long period of time, is noxious, like one of those poisons which can kill while hardly making their presence felt.

The conventional phrases are not quite applicable. I don't mean they are not true. I could write to you of questionable moral character, or hidden scandal. But that is not what I am trying to tell you. It is old-fashioned to talk of Evil, particularly in reference to any one human being. Most of us who were in the trenches can no longer conceive of Evil as anything but that huge, impersonal horror. It would seem bathetic, almost obscene, to call a man evil. There was no room for men to be evil in that war stupid, callous, cruel, but not the other. But I am unusual among my comrades. Martin is evil. That is the best word, and the only one.

Of course, being the young, intelligent man that you undoubtedly are, you will demand some evidence of this assertion. I am unable to supply any. There is no evidence, except what I and Martin both know to be true. Perhaps, one day, the world will learn what he is. Until that day, if it comes, there is nothing, either in his manner, his professed views, or his verifiable deeds to support my contention. In short, there is no reason to believe me, especially as Martin will if you tell him of this letter, a course I again beg you not to take attribute my position to nothing more than jealousy. He will probably laugh.

However, I am writing this in the hope that you will not communicate my anxiety to him. Believe me, it takes no little measure of courage and conviction to write this, and excuse me that I cannot write more plainly. This is the first unselfish action I have taken for more than fifteen years. You must forgive me if I cannot do it without flinching, a little. But I cannot put into words what I fear for you, if Martin begins to exert an undue influence upon you. Perhaps nothing more than disillusionment, perhaps something worse. When I knew him well he was dangerous. The War, I think, has hardened him, confirmed him in that venomous tendency. He is a great and deadly man. Most people see only the greatness, and most people, not attracting his attention, run no risk. But you are different. As I was.

I charge you, on your honour as a scholar and a gentleman, do not let him know of this letter. Burn it if you must. But keep it hidden.

I remain, etc., Jas. Fraser, Esq.

I looked at the paper for a long time. I couldn't bring myself to read it again so I stared at the blotchy, spidery signature. It was like Fraser himself: it hinted at the ruins of something better.

The edge of a shadow that fell across the table darkened and sharpened, and when I looked up I saw that the sun had burnt off the clouds. From outside there was the clack of a croquet mallet on a ball, and Edie's voice raised in protest, strident, but seeming to come from a long way away.

It was malicious, that was all: a childish, contemptible attempt to get at Jack through me. The sheer melodrama of the language told me as much. Dangerous? Venomous? It was so ridiculous I propped my chin in my hands and laughed. A subtler, more intelligent man might have done a better job. It was unpleasant, of course childish and manipulative and upsetting, my laughter notwithstanding. But I had seen Fraser with my own eyes, and knew him to be untrustworthy; and it would have been naive, I thought, to be surprised that Jack had enemies. All great men did.

Most people see only the greatness . . .

How could Fraser think that I would take his letter seriously? What kind of man did he think I was what kind of man was he? I could only suppose that he was desperate, throwing aside all concerns of decency and self-respect. I looked again at the messy, rather pathetic signature, and wanted to pity him. It was terrible, that a man could end up like that.

But I couldn't pity him. I remembered the way he'd met my eyes: as if he pitied me.

And for a moment my certainty was shaken. It was as if the room around me the table, the chair I was sitting on, even the garden outside trembled. Suppose the world I thought was solid was not. Just suppose . . .

I folded the letter into two, and then into four, and shoved it deep into my pocket. I should tell Jack as soon as I saw him. Fraser was right: he would laugh. And that would make everything all right.

I had been halfway through a slice of bread and marmalade, but when I caught sight of it on the table it looked odd and alien, emphatically not the kind of thing I wanted to put in my mouth. I stood up, pushing my chair back, and went to find Jack.

But when I went outside Edie and Anthony were quarrelling, and Jack was nowhere to be seen. I hovered, impatient, while Anthony swung his croquet mallet carelessly, practising shots, and Edie stood with her hands on her hips, glaring. She was in the middle of a tirade a long, fluent dissection of Anthony's manners, politics, appearance and parentage that would have been amusing under different circumstances. Anthony glanced up and gave me a complicit smile that must have been calculated to infuriate her. He said, 'Edie, darling, is it my fault if you want to be something completely different from what le bon Dieu had in mind for you?'

'Oh, you smug little jumped-up little you're simply insufferable. I suppose it's positively unthinkable that there's anything wrong with you. Well, let me tell you '

'Let you? If only,' Anthony murmured, flicking me another look.

I said, 'Have you seen Jack?'

Edie said, 'You're a fool and a blackguard and a snob.' She turned to me. 'Yes well, that is, no, he went into Falconhurst with Philip, to see him on to the train. He'll be back presently.'

'Oh.' I could feel the letter in my pocket, digging stiff edges of paper into me.

Edie watched me, brushing the tangle of reddish hair away from her face. 'I say, is everything quite all right?'

'Oh, yes, thank you.'

'Jolly good.' She turned back to Anthony, but the pause seemed to have taken the wind out of her sails. She opened her mouth, waited for a few seconds, as if for inspiration, and then closed it again.

Anthony said, 'Run away, Gardner. Edie and I are having a heart-to-heart.'

'So I heard.' I kicked a loose piece of stone that was on the terrace and it skittered and rebounded off the wall of the house. If Jack wasn't here, there was no use hanging around; I might as well find a book to read, or go for a bathe by myself, or . . . But I couldn't think of anything I wanted to do.

Edie's gaze had followed the stone as it ricocheted off the wall, and now she caught my eye. 'Ignore him, Oliver. Let's get a drink.' She walked past me, grasping my upper arm. I felt the dampness of her hand through the fabric of my shirt. 'Stir your stumps. It's terribly rude to keep a lady waiting.'

Anthony said, 'For God's sake, woman, it's hardly ten o'clock.' But by the time he'd finished his sentence we were inside, and Edie was making her way towards the decanter and soda siphon that were kept on a tray in the little sitting room. She poured two drinks, one much heavier on the soda than the other, and passed me the stronger one. I took it gratefully, and drank half of it in a gulp.

She sipped her own drink, watching me with her eyes narrowed. She said, 'All right, then, Oliver, what's up?'

'Nothing. Why should there be?'

She tilted her head towards my half-emptied glass with silent eloquence.

I felt my cheeks prickle as I flushed. I said, 'Very well, then. It's nothing, really, but I ' I stopped.

Edie held my look, her face unchanging.

'Edie, when you the day I arrived, you met me at the station, and you warned me. About Jack. You said I should go home.'

'Oh.' She put her drink on the sideboard and strode back to the door, standing looking over the lawn with her hands in her pockets. Her hair was tousled and had lost its wave; from behind she looked like a boy.

'What did you mean?'

'What I said,' she said shortly. 'Look at Anthony playing croquet by himself. He's so desperate to win.'

'All right, but why?'

'No reason.'

'Edie, please.'

She glanced over her shoulder and paused, heaving a deep breath. 'I thought I thought you'd be unhappy here. With Anthony making remarks about your your father's profession, and '

'It was Jack you were warning me about.'

'Nonsense. You can't be remembering it properly. You told me your father was a clerk in a factory, and I looked at you and thought you hadn't a chance, Anthony would tear you to pieces, like one of Actaeon's hounds. Was it Actaeon? Do you know? Never mind, I'll ask Jack, when he gets back. He loves being asked questions when he knows the answers, he might have been the Delphic oracle in a previous incarnation. It's funny, Anthony isn't a bit like that, he only likes questions to which he doesn't know the '

'You told me Jack would be a very bad replacement for my father.'

'Did I? How terribly tactless.'

I pressed my hand against my pocket until the letter dug its little claws into me. 'Edie. Please tell me. What did you mean?'

'I ' She took another deep breath and sat down, reaching for her drink. It glowed amber in the sunlight from the window, and she stared into it as if it held a secret. She said, very slowly, 'If you don't know by now, then I was wrong.'

'I want you to tell me.'

Her eyes slid to my face and away again. She opened her mouth, and I noticed how neat her teeth were, how white and straight, like an animal's.

I heard a noise from the doorway behind me. Jack's voice said, 'Good Lord, is it time for whisky already? Just as well Philip's gone or he'd be horribly shocked.'

Edie stood up smoothly. 'Anthony and I had a bust-up, and Oliver has been too, too sweet. He's even drinking just to keep me company imagine. You do have an eye for charming young men, don't you?'

Jack shot a glance at me, his mouth curved at one corner. 'I dare say,' he said. 'Gardner, will you come outside for a moment? I want to tell you something.'

I glanced at Edie. Her face was closed, her brows drawn together. I felt a rush of disappointment or was it relief? that Jack had interrupted her just as she was about to tell me . . . but it wasn't serious. I would have to ask her again; sooner or later she'd tell me whatever she had been about to say.

I drank the rest of my whisky and soda and followed Jack out on to the terrace.

IV.

We walked across the grass, past Anthony's solitary game of croquet, towards the little copse of trees on the far side of the lawn. I glanced at Jack, but he was looking at the ground, his mouth in a half-smile. He had a pensive, absorbed air, as if he were alone.

After a while he seemed to remember that I was there. He looked at me and his half-smile turned into a grin. 'Forgive me,' he said. 'I'm in a brown study. Did you sleep well?'

It seemed so long since I had got up that it took me a moment to understand what he meant. Then, looking at his face, I was sure that he knew I'd had a nightmare. I'd been relieved that I hadn't shouted out when I awoke: but perhaps I had, without hearing my own voice. From the glint in his eyes, it appeared that I had. I said, 'Yes, thank you. Very well indeed.'

'I'm glad.' He knew I was lying, but there was nothing in his voice but amusement.

We carried on walking. I could feel the sweat starting out on my skin as the sunshine slid over me. I wondered if it would soak through my clothes, and cupped my hand over my pocket protectively. I was going to burn Fraser's letter, but in the meantime, I wanted to keep it intact, legible. I already had parts of it by heart.

Martin is evil. That is the best word, and the only one.

I said, 'Jack '

He tilted his head back into the sunlight, closing his eyes. He said, 'Do you think this is beautiful? Do you think Tyme's End is beautiful?'

'Yes, of course.'

'You've been happy here?'

'Yes. You know I have. Jack '

'Good. One day it'll be yours. I went to my solicitor this morning to change my will.'

I shook my head, laughing, momentarily distracted from what I had wanted to say. 'Well,' I said, 'in that case I shall have to start considering what bits of furniture I shall want to keep when I move in.'

'It may not be for years. And only if you outlive me, of course. But I have a feeling about you. I rather think you will.'

'I should hope so. You've got twenty years' head start. You could be my father. It's only fair that you should cop it before I do.'

'You ungrateful cub,' he said, punching me lightly. 'Aren't you even going to thank me?'

'For what?'

'For leaving you Tyme's End. And my not inconsiderable fortune, naturally. Although,' he added, 'by then I suppose it might be more inconsiderable.'

'All right. Thanks. Jack, this morning I '

He started to laugh, turning on his heel to face me, as if he wanted to see me properly. 'My God, Gardner, you're a cool customer, aren't you?'

'What?' I stood still and shoved my hands into my pockets, wishing he'd stop laughing and listen to me. 'Jack, I '

'I had no idea you were such a serene young devil. Happens to you every day, does it, someone offering you riches beyond the dreams of avarice?'

'No, of course not, I simply ' I stopped, staring at him. 'You're not Jack, you're not serious?'

'Certainly I'm serious.'

'You're going to leave Tyme's End to me?'

'Didn't I just say so?'

'But you mean it?'

'I mean it.' He smiled into my eyes. 'I think you'll be happy here.'