Chapter One
Cambridge, March 1988
I burst through the gates of King’s College just as the chapel bells mark the hour. I’m late, and of all the appointments I could be late for, this is the worst.
A group of anorak-wearing tourists are blocking the road. I weave through them, checking my watch. I had hoped to arrive in plenty of time, to find an inconspicuous seat at the back of the room, not to barge through the doors sweaty and dishevelled.
I take the courtyard at a run and a set of damp stone stairs two at a time. My reflection flashes past in a window: rain-soaked, ratty blond fringe dripping into my eyes. I push it back and hurry towards a pair of huge oak doors.
15th March, 11.00 a.m., reads a piece of paper tacked to the noticeboard outside: Unmasking a Legend: biographer Simon Hall on the late historian, author and critic J. G. Stevenson.
I quickly rearrange the scowl that has risen to my face into a grimace of apology at the woman minding the entrance. She sniffs disapprovingly but lets me pass. Bracing myself, I ease open the heavy door. The room is packed; students and academics alike are crammed into chairs, their breath fogging up the windows. Despite my efforts, the door creaks loudly on its hinges, and the man on the podium falters, looking my way. I keep my head lowered and edge along the back row to a spare seat.
‘As I was saying,’ the speaker continues, ‘we all know what happens when a well-known person dies: they get an obituary in The Times, a new commemorative volume of work and retrospectives in journals left, right and centre.’
Some of the younger members of the audience titter, eager to show their appreciation for the lecturer’s off-hand manner.
I eye him carefully. Simon Hall, the current darling of the history scene. Whenever comment is needed, on the radio or in newspaper articles, there he is. He’s not as young as his pictures suggest, I decide. True, his curly hair and open face make him look youthful, but there are creases at the corners of his eyes and the hint of a paunch developing. I slump down a little further in my seat and try to pay attention.
‘There is nothing wrong with paying homage to a great,’ he says, ‘and no one can deny that J. G. Stevenson was a talented historian. But how much do we truly know about him? Who was the man behind the books?’
He pauses for effect, looks around the room.
‘As a biographer, it is my job to answer these questions, and that means delving into a person’s past, discovering the things they might have preferred to keep to themselves. And, ladies and gentlemen, what I have discovered is that J. G. Stevenson was no saint.’
He leans forward on the lectern, intent, inviting every person there into his confidence.
‘Recently, I was granted access to Stevenson’s private correspondence, and there I found a letter. Written to him when he was a young man in Paris, it places him firmly at the centre of a scandal, one that he kept hidden even from his own family. I will discover the truth behind this mystery, and show you all the real J. G. Stevenson.’
When it is time for questions, I fidget and try to keep my arm wedged by my side, even though I’m simmering with anger. I listen to inane comments and sharp words, until finally, at the very end, I can’t stop my hand from shooting into the air.
‘I’m rather afraid we have no more time,’ the academic in charge of the event tells me. ‘Perhaps you could—’
‘So, it’s your intention to vilify a man just to be fashionable?’ I challenge Hall. ‘Or are you taking liberties with the dead, digging through private possessions in order to get more publicity?’
A hundred plastic chairs creak as people turn to look. I feel myself flush under their scrutiny, but keep my eyes fixed on Hall. He is smiling in a puzzled way as he peers through the crowd.
‘A bold question, Miss…?’
‘Stevenson.’
A volley of whispers sweeps the audience. The academic on stage is leaning forward to whisper something in Hall’s ear. I see the shape of my name on his lips and fight to keep my expression neutral. Hall, meanwhile, is surveying me with newfound interest.
‘I understand your indignation, Miss Stevenson, but you can’t deny your grandfather had his secrets.’
Copyright © 2015 by Laura Hounsom
