Episode 14: An Inn in Cambridge
Cambridge
March 1900
Miranda looked out of the window of her room in the guesthouse. She could see the gardens of Magdalene College across the road, the grass and trees and shrubs glittering with frost. And beyond them, the River Cam, grey and placid. Though it was a chilly morning, she opened the window and breathed deeply. The sky was clear, the mist was clearing, and the air was fresh, much fresher than the London air she was used to. And though spring had not quite arrived, the air seemed pregnant with the scent of new life, of moss and buds and shoots. Somewhere a bird trilled, seeming to alternate between happiness and melancholy, and another answered in the same tone.
Mr Packham’s room was on the floor above. With the guesthouse being full of delegates to the annual conference of the Independent Libraries Association, the proprietress had done what she could to separate the men and women in the most decent way possible. Miranda wondered if Mr Packham had risen yet and if he was enjoying the Cambridge airs as much as she was.
Her room was small, but very comfortable. Other than a couple of seaside holidays in her childhood, this was the first time she had been away from home, and certainly the first time she had been away on her own. Mr Packham had fussed over her from the time they met the evening before at Liverpool Street station to the time he had said goodnight to her on the stairs. It was all very kind of him but now that she had spent her first night here, woken early, washed, and dressed, she was excited at the prospect of doing a little exploration on her own.
She was not due to meet Mr Packham for breakfast for another hour. She put on her coat, hat, and gloves, and crept down the stairs, and slipped out of the front door, feeling like a burglar making her escape. Once outside, she headed towards the river.
Cambridge at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning was nothing like London at a similar hour. The road was quiet: not a cab or omnibus in sight. A horse-drawn milk cart clopped past her, and then a man pushing a barrow piled with sacks of something passed her. She saw a few other pedestrians on their way into the town centre, all working people by the looks of them. All the scholars must be still tucked up in bed, she thought. She turned a corner and saw that the man with the barrow had stopped outside what must be the gatehouse of Magdalene College.
I wonder if they’d let me… she thought, and taking a deep breath, walked through the gate to the porter’s lodge inside.
The man with the barrow had parked on it on the other side of the gatehouse and was watching Miranda with idle curiosity. The college porter, sitting at a desk behind an opening in the wall, looked up from a ledger he was writing in. He was a bull of a man, thick-necked, wide-chested, with clipped black hair and an expression of cynical detachment.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ Miranda said, feeling very much like a peasant girl at a castle gate. ‘Is it possible to visit the college gardens?’
The porter shook his head. ‘No, miss. Afraid not. No unaccompanied ladies permitted. You’d only be able to visit as a guest of a member of the college.’
There was nothing more to say. She thanked the man, wondering what she was thanking him for, and left. Back outside, she consulted the tourist map she had picked up at the railway station. She worked out that she was on Magdalene Street and that just ahead of her were Magdalene Bridge and the river.
She quickly forgot her disappointment about the college gardens. She felt a surge of joy to be out on her own in the ancient city. Though this was already tinged with regret that she would soon have to return to the guesthouse and take breakfast with Mr Packham.
I really would rather skip the conference and spend my day exploring, she thought, but it wouldn’t do. And if I suggested to Mr Packham that we sneak off an hour or two early, he wouldn’t approve, I’m sure. Never mind, I must make of this brief time what I can. Besides, there are sure to be some very interesting talks and discussions at the conference.
She reached the bridge and looked down at the turbid waters of the Cam. In the middle distance, the last of the morning’s mist clung to the river banks. A pair of swans, regal and unhurried, passed beneath her, and on a nearby jetty, a man was bailing out the punts and rowing boats tied up there.
Everything seemed made on a smaller scale than London, more human somehow. What must it be like, she wondered, to spend three years here, to study at the feet of its great teachers? But it was a rare thing for anyone to do, and even rarer for a woman. There were two colleges for women, she knew. But they don’t even get a degree at the end of it, she thought with resentment on behalf of her sex. How unfair the world is to us women.
She checked her wristwatch. Oh lor, I’d better be getting back, she thought, or Mr Packham will think I’ve run off and joined the circus.
She turned to head back up Magdalene Street and immediately noticed an inn which had escaped her attention on the way to the bridge. It was a three-storey whitewashed building that sat among the terraced houses, with an archway into a courtyard on one side.
But it was the inn sign rather than the building itself, which sparked something in Miranda’s memory. As she looked closer, she saw it was painted with a silver fish in greenish water, and below the fish, inscribed in black letters, was the name: The Pickerel Inn.
Now why did she think she had heard that name before?
Then, all at once, it came back to her. Major Lock’s visit to the library the Saturday before, their fruitless search in those scientific journals, looking for some reference to… the Pickerel Institute.
It was a coincidence, of course, one of those absurd coincidences that sometimes happened, and made her think that, after all, God did have a sense of humour. There was no other explanation for it. What connection could there be between a public house in Cambridge and some obscure and probably non-existent scientific body?
And yet…
The place was open. She was tempted to go in, just to have a look. But that was impossible on her own. She would attract immediate, unwelcome, and possibly hostile attention. Respectable young women did not do such things. Miranda imagined the place falling silent as the workmen glanced up from their beer, looking her up and down. No, if she was going to go inside, she would have to come at another time and with a chaperone. Besides, there was no time now.
She hurried back to the guesthouse, hoping she could creep back to her room without being seen, but as soon as she entered the lobby, she found that Mr Packham was waiting there, looking rather unsettled.
‘There you are!’ he said, in what Miranda thought was an unnecessarily dramatic tone. ‘I knocked on your door to see if you were ready to come down to breakfast. And, of course, there was no answer. Then when I came downstairs, Mrs Broad told me she saw you dashing out —’
Dashing? Miranda thought. I wasn’t dashing.
‘ — as if you had urgent business somewhere. I didn’t know what to think.’
Mr Packham was quite peeved.
Oh, lor, Miranda thought.
‘I went for a walk,’ she said. ‘It was such a lovely morning.’
‘I would have come with you. For a walk,’ Mr Packham said.
‘Oh, but I didn’t want to disturb you. I thought you might want to sleep in. After the journey and all.’
‘Yes, well, that was thoughtful of you, I’m sure.’
He looked so hurt and boyish that Miranda felt a stab of pity for him.
‘I’ll go and take off my hat and coat and then we’ll have breakfast,’ she said. ‘I’m famished.’
Mr Packham’s face brightened. ‘Famished. Yes, so am I.’
As the breakfast progressed, and the sausages, bacon, toast, and tea worked their comforting magic, relations between them warned again. By the time they headed off to the University Library, all was cordial between them.
The University Library was housed in the Old Schools building, a ten-minute walk from the guesthouse. They set off as part of a gaggle of librarians all headed in the same direction for the same place. Miranda looked up at the fast-clouding sky. The early morning blue was being swallowed up in a tide of threatening grey. Mrs Broad had warned them it was going was going to rain, and they had brought their umbrellas.
They turned the corner and passed by Magdalene College, following the same route Miranda had taken on her morning walk. And there, just before the bridge, was the Pickerel Inn. It’s just an ordinary inn, she told herself. But her curiosity was mounting.
After her encounter with Major Lock, she had done a little research on him. He wasn’t in Who’s Who, but there were several items mentioning him in the London Gazette, to do with military commissions and honours. From there she had gone to the Times archive and found his name in reports of campaigns in the Sudan and India. And, which excited her tremendously, reports of his geographical and scientific expeditions: Arabia, Sumatra, and Tibet.
A germ of an idea came to her.
‘Penny for them?’ Mr Packham said.
‘Oh, sorry. I was away with the fairies.’
Mr Packham didn’t press her. Instead, he said, ‘It does look like rain, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, yes, it does.’
But Miranda was too excited to think about the weather. Instead, she was wondering whether, if she could impress Major Lock sufficiently, he might take her on one of his expeditions. Why, she might even be able to talk him into backing the expedition to find Egill Skallagrímsson’s silver. With a man like Major Lock on her side, why shouldn’t it be possible? She imagined them in a richly furnished study — the Major’s study — both hunched over a map of Iceland, her with her finger tracing the outline of Mount Mosfell. Lock nodding, looking impressed, saying. ‘As to the location of the treasure, I’ll be guided by you, Miss —’
‘We turn right here, at St John’s College,’ said Mr Packham. ‘And then it’s straight along to the end of Trinity Street.’
As they passed Trinity College, Mr Packham pointed to a tree on the front lawn.
‘That’s Isaac Newton’s apple tree,’ he said authoritatively. ‘The tree he was sitting under when he first came up with the theory of gravity.’
‘Oh, but it’s not,’ Miranda said firmly. Immediately, she chided herself. Oh lor, I hope I haven’t offended him, she thought.
‘Well, not exactly, anyway.’
Mr Packham blinked at her. ‘Oh, isn’t it?’
‘No, because the story is that he was in his mother’s garden in Lincolnshire when he first got the notion of gravity. But that tree was grafted from the original tree, so it’s a descendant. I read up on Cambridge before we came, you see.’
‘Did you? That was very diligent of you. Well, I stand corrected, Miss Colston.’
Miranda smiled as sympathetically as she could. ‘Well, I wonder if that story about him sitting under an apple tree is true at all.’
They reached the Old Schools building and saw a throng of people entering through the main gate. They joined the queue and, once they passed through a grand lobby, took their seats in a lecture hall, with oak fittings, white walls, and gilded mouldings. There were almost a hundred people in attendance, with the committee of the ILA seated at a table at the front of the hall. Miranda noticed the murmur of expectation in the audience and a kind of mild excitement beneath it. She smiled to herself: librarians from all over the Britain have been let loose in Cambridge for a few days. It’s the equivalent of spring lambs frolicking in a meadow. I fear there might be some wild scenes this evening after the port. And despite her amusement, she recognized that sense of parole in herself.
Miranda paid attention to the first few minutes of the conference chairman’s opening address before her mind wandered back to the Pickerel Inn. It was all too incredible. But surely that was the point. If something was that incredible, then there must be more to it. She thought back to the lean, aloof Major Lock. Why exactly did he want to track down this organization? That he had given so little away was terribly intriguing. How mysterious… and how enthralling.
Her excitement was rising. My imaginary Icelandic expedition is all very well, she thought, but here is an opportunity for a real adventure. If I can find out something more about this inn, and what connection it has with the Pickerel Institute, then I can contact Major Lock when I’m back to London, and tell him what I’ve learned and then who knows…
Now Miranda, she told herself, you’re getting carried away again. She shook her head slightly, amused and exasperated at yet another of her flights of fancy.
‘What is it?’ Mr Packham whispered.
‘Oh, nothing,’ she said. ‘I think I might have left the window of my room open.’
‘Oh, I thought you disapproved of something the chairman just said.’
‘Not, not all,’ Miranda said truthfully.
I have to have a look at that inn, she thought. There must be some connection, though I’ve no idea what it is. But how am I to do that? It will be impossible to slip out at lunchtime. Mr Packham will want us to mingle with the other delegates over the sandwiches. And there’s a big dinner tonight…
Perhaps I could suggest we go for a stroll around Cambridge before dinner. I’m sure Mr Packham won’t let me out of his sight today, and besides, I’ll need a male companion if I’m to enter the inn. But I’ll have to think of a ruse to get us both in there. And then once we’re in there, what do I do next? Oh lor…
The conference proceeded at a stately pace. There were addresses from ILA worthies, votes on resolutions, and talks by guest speakers. Miranda found one of these especially interesting. A Sumerian expert from the British Museum summarized current research in cuneiform studies and provided a brief account of the Gilgamesh myth.
The conference closed at five o’clock. There were two hours before dinner. That left enough time to execute her scheme.
‘I think I’d like to have a stroll before dinner,’ she said, in a tone intended to be both firm and nonchalant.
‘It’s been raining all afternoon,’ Mr Packham said doubtfully. ‘I’m not sure —’
‘Shall we go and have a look?’
Outside, it was dusk and though the sky was clearing, a faint drizzle was visible in the light cast by the street lamps.
‘Hardly a drop now,’ Miranda said brightly. ‘Do let’s have a stroll. Cambridge is so beautiful and we have our umbrellas.’
‘Well, yes, an evening stroll would be pleasant,’ Mr Packham said, warming to the idea. ‘If you’ve no objection, I think we should share my umbrella. Negotiating these streets with two umbrellas… well…’
‘Yes, you’re quite right,’ Miranda said, and, after the umbrella was aloft, took the arm Mr Packham offered her.
‘I should like to see the river,’ she said once they were back on Trinity Street.
‘Would you? Well, let’s see, I think if we —’
‘We can walk back the way we came to Magdalene Bridge.’
‘It seems you know your way around already.’
‘Not really. But I have a good memory for places.’
‘Admirable,’ Mr Packham said admiringly.
They walked in silence for a few moments and then he said, ‘Did you enjoy the conference today?’
‘Not all of it, but the man from the British Museum was jolly interesting, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, wasn’t he? All those clay tablets that are older than the Bible and only a tiny fraction of them translated yet. And we’ve already had corroboration of the Great Flood from them.’
‘And the Gilgamesh myth. He said it would eventually be regarded as the Sumerian equivalent of Homer. When all the pieces are found and assembled.’
‘It’s a remarkable story.’
‘Don’t you think he skated over bits of it? Like when he said that Enkidu was civilized by Shamhat, but didn’t say how she did it.’
‘Well, given the time constraints, I suppose he had to leave something out,’ Mr Packham said with a little cough.
They strolled along Bridge Street, passing and being passed by scholars under umbrellas and on bicycles, by tradesmen pushing carts and driving horses, and by elderly ladies walking little dogs. And then the bridge and the river came into view.
‘Isn’t it a lovely little bridge?’ Miranda said.
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ Mr Packham said.
They stopped halfway across and peered into the dark waters of the river.
‘Imagine all the clever men who’ve stopped on this bridge and gazed into these waters like we’re doing,’ Miranda said. ‘It makes me feel excited and wistful at the same time.’
‘Does it?’ Mr Packham said.
‘Oh, take no notice of me. I don’t know what I mean by that either.’
She glanced in the direction of the Pickerel Inn. The interior was lit up and looking much friendlier than it had when she passed it in the morning.
‘Do you know, I’m suddenly feeling very thirsty,’ she said.
‘Are you?’
‘Yes, my throat feels quite parched. Would you mind if we stopped off at that inn for some refreshment?’
‘Well, I —’
‘We needn’t stay long, but I really feel I must have something.’
Mr Packham looked doubtful. ‘I’m sure there’s a tearoom nearby that will still be open.’
‘Oh, the inn will perfectly suit me. We needn’t stay long. And it looks so warm and cosy.’
Mr Packham frowned. ‘Well, I’m not sure. I’d prefer to find a tearoom.’
Please let him give in, just on this one point, Miranda thought.
‘Let me have a look,’ he said. ‘Just to make sure it’s decent.’
Miranda watched him enter the inn while she waited outside with his umbrella.
He returned a few moments later.
‘Well, the saloon bar looks respectable, so I suppose it won’t hurt to have some refreshments here. But we must make it quick. I don’t want to be late for the dinner this evening.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Miranda said, following Mr Packham inside, a little smile of triumph on her face.