Besides a couple of shopkeepers who sold them cigarettes, this is the first friendly face he's encountered in St Andrews. He forces himself to remember the man's surname. 'Mr Spencer?'
'Arthur, please,' the Hebdomidar says.
He gulps the Chardonnay down and relaxes. 'You said it was a dreadful shame?'
Arthur takes a breath, cocks his head to one side, makes an attempt to speak and then stops.
'What?'
'Well, how well do you know Eliot?'
He welcomes the inquiry; it gives him the opportunity to seek reassurance.
'I met him a couple of days ago, for the first time, and he was all right then.'
Arthur smiles, and nods at what sounds like a familiar story. 'So the research, and this talk of his book. How did this come about?'
'Banquet for the Damned is my favourite book. Our next album will be a conceptual record about it. And I've been writing to Eliot, on and off, for a year. A few weeks ago, he suggested I become his research assistant. To help with his second book, so I jumped at the chance. To meet him more than anything. And it'll help our music. You know, being close. It's an acoustic project.'
'Really,' Arthur says, frowning. 'You mean to say you never met the man before? Extraordinary.'
'Yeah, never even spoke to him on the phone. Maybe I should have done, before he went and arranged our accommodation and everything.'
There is a perceptible hardening of the man's features after his mention of accommodation. 'We?' he asks.
'My friend, Tom, came too. He's the guitarist in the band.'
'I see. And you had no, how shall I put it, no prior knowledge of Eliot other than his book and the letters?'
'That's right. But don't look so surprised, we were desperate to get out of Birmingham. It turned into quite an adventure, with that arm on the beach and everything.' Dante wants to continue and tell Arthur about the scream, but the man becomes immediately uncomfortable at his mention of the arm. There is an awkward silence, until Arthur ends it. 'You are a writer?'
'No. Besides lyrics for songs, if that counts.'
'But Eliot has a publisher for the second book?'
'I don't know. Maybe he'll write it first and then, you know, look around.'
'Look around, of course.' Arthur seems to deflate with relief. Then his face adopts a quizzical expression. 'Do you think a publisher will be receptive to a book by Eliot?'
Dante nods. 'Of course. Banquet is a classic. It's a crime it's still out of print. But things do come back and what Eliot said is important.
Although,' Dante adds sheepishly, 'you might not think so.'
'On the contrary. It's a fine read. Although I haven't perused it for years. A little unsavoury in parts I fear, and there are far healthier ways to achieve enlightenment than experimenting with the black arts.'
'I see that as just a metaphor, for raising your consciousness. You know, like with poetry or meditation.'
The man nods, studying him for a time before speaking in the tone of a confidant. 'Well Dante, it may surprise you, but I have known Eliot for practically all of my adult life. We were at Oxford together.'
'I envy you that,' Dante says, out of his depth again.
'He has always been a good friend. But . . . and this might be hard for you to digest, particularly after coming so far, Eliot is not the man he was.'
Dante holds his breath.
'I can see confusion in you already, Dante, despite your admiration for him. But there have been hard times in his life and it is best that you are made aware of certain facts. It's only fair that I put you in the picture. He has problems. Serious problems. He is subject to embarrassing digressions and, well, some quite abnormal behaviour. You see, I doubt whether he's capable of writing the book.'
Arthur sighs. 'This is so hard. I find it so touching that his book has been such a positive influence on a young man, and on a musician too. But Eliot has been unwell recently. You could say he never really recovered from an unconventional youth. And to be absolutely honest, and you deserve nothing less, it was his travelling and certain episodes that Banquet was based upon that began his illness.' He emphasises the word 'illness', and raises his eyebrows as if to impart a further cryptic embellishment.
'But don't take this the wrong way, Dante. He was once a force to be reckoned with, and made an excellent contribution to his faculty.