Page 12 of A Debt Inherited

The Owl studied him for a long moment. “Before this inquiry concludes, you may speak to what has been laid before us. If any matter remains upon your conscience, it should be given now.”

The candles guttered, their smoke rising in thin grey threads. Bennet saw in their faces that judgement had already been measured. To speak would be to betray; to betray was an unconscionable act.

The decision required no thought at all.

“I have nothing to add, sir,” he said at last. “The record is sufficient.”

The Owl’s lips drew in. “Then the record shall stand.”

“It is the finding of this chamber that, while no malice is imputed to Mr Bennet, his actions materially enabled a scheme that ended in violence and disgrace. The University cannot continue to receive within its walls a gentleman so compromised. Accordingly, Mr Bennet is dismissed from residence and deprived of all privileges appertaining to this College.”

Bennet gripped the arms of the chair.

Expelled.

Every step he had taken since his first day in Hall was undone.

“Mr Bennet,” the Vice-Chancellor went on, “your name will be struck from the rolls of the College. All accounts are to be settled with the Bursar before departure. You will quit Trinity under the terms set forth in the formal instrument of expulsion.”

“May I inquire, sir, whether I am to answer this matter before the assizes?”

“The matter rests with the Borough Court,” said the Bull. “The assailants are not yet taken. You are not charged. Let that suffice.”

Not charged.

“Then I am free to go?”

“You are free to leave these walls,” said the Owl, inclining his head. “That is all this chamber may grant.”

Chapter 4

The corridor gave back his steps with a hollow exactness. By the time Bennet reached his rooms, the bell for prayers tolled faintly across the court, its peal drawn thin through the mist.

He shut the door and leant against it. The latch clicked; the sound settled into the quiet.

The sealed paper lay in his palm, red wax dulled to brown where his thumb had pressed it. He stared at it.

The fire had sunk to coals; one broke and fell inward. He drew the chair back and sat.

He broke the seal.

By order of the Vice-Chancellor and Fellows of Trinity College, Cambridge, it is decreed that Mr Thomas Robert Bennet be deprived of all rights and privileges appertaining to his degree...

The words blurred, then steadied. Each phrase was a lash: removed from residence… unfit for continuance… all debts to be settled forthwith.

He folded the letter again and set it down. His hands lay still upon the table. Ashby. Miss Pember. Names that once carried laughter now would not bear speaking.

He had not driven the carriage; he had not struck the blow; yet he had written the road that led them there. Had I told him—had I pressed him to wait—had I said only one word of sense—

He could not finish the thought.

After a long moment he rose. He took up the expulsion letter and carried it to the desk by the window.

There, already laid out, were two papers he knew by heart—his father’s letter, folded with habitual precision, and the summons from the Vice-Chancellor’s hand, its ink now dulled to brown. He placed the expulsion decree beside them, aligning the edges.

Three letters. Yet as his eye passed along them, something jarred. There should have been only two.

He frowned. A fourth lay slightly apart, smaller, folded twice and sealed with plain wax. No crest, no superscription. The paper was thick, faintly stained at one corner.