‘Yes.’ He studied my face. ‘Why do you not ask who consulted me? Have you no curiosity? I don’t like students who have no curiosity.’
‘I imagine it was the police.’
The old voice cackled in a wheezy sort of laugh. ‘I see I have to reassess.’
‘No, sir. It was I who found the knife on Newmarket Heath. The police took it into custody. I didn’t know they had consulted you. It was curiosity, strong and undiluted, that brought me here.’
‘What did you read?’
‘I never went to university.’
‘Pity.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I was going to have some coffee. Do you want some coffee?’
‘Yes. Thank you, I’d like some.’
He nodded busily, pulled aside the screen, and in his kitchen alcove heated water, spooned instant powder into cups and asked about milk and sugar. I stood and helped him, the small domesticity a signal of his willingness to impart.
‘I didn’t care for the two young policemen who came here,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘They called me Granddad. Patronising.’
‘Stupid of them.’
‘Yes. The shell grows old, but not the inhabiting intellect. People see the shell and call me Granddad. And Dearie. What do you think of Dearie?’
‘I’d kill ’em.’
‘Quite right.’ He cackled again. We carried the cups across to the chairs. ‘The knife the police brought here,’ he said, ‘is a modern replica of a trench knife issued to American soldiers in France in the First World War.’
‘Wow,’ I said.
‘Don’t use that ridiculous word.’
‘No, sir.’
‘The policemen asked why I thought it was a replica and not tne real thing. I told them to open their eyes. They didn’t like it.’
‘Well… er… how did you know?’
He cackled. ‘It had “Made in Taiwan” stamped into the metal. Go on, say it.’
I said, ‘Taiwan wasn’t called Taiwan in World War One.’
‘Correct. It was Formosa. And at that point in its history, it was not an industrial island.’ He sat and tasted his coffee, which, like mine, was weak. ‘The police wanted to know who owned the knife. How could I possibly know? I said it wasn’t legal in England to carry such a knife in a public place, and I asked where they had found it.’
‘What did they say?’
‘They didn’t. They said it didn’t concern me. Granddad.’
I told him in detail how the police had acquired their trophy and he said, mocking me, ‘Wow.’
I was becoming accustomed to him and to his crowded room, aware now of the walls of bookshelves, so like Valentine’s, and of his cluttered old antique walnut desk, of the single brass lamp with green metal shade throwing inadequate light, of rusty-green velvet curtains hanging from great brown rings on a pole, of an incongruously modern television set beside a worn old typewriter, of dried faded hydrangeas in a cloisonne vase and a brass roman-numeralled clock ticking away the remains of a life.
The room, neat and orderly, smelled of old books, of old leather, of old coffee, of old pipe smoke, of old man. There was no heating, despite the chilly evening. An old three-barred electric fire stood black and cold. The professor wore a sweater, a scarf, a shabby tweed jacket with elbow patches, and indoor slippers of brown checked wool. Bifocals gave him sight, and he had meticulously shaved: he might be old and short of cash, but standards had nowhere slipped.
On the desk, in a silver frame, there was an indistinct old photograph of a younger himself standing beside a woman, both of them smiling.
‘My wife,’ he explained, seeing where I was looking. ‘She died.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It happens,’ he said. ‘It was long ago.’
I drank my unexciting coffee, and he delicately brought up the subject of his fee.
‘I haven’t forgotten,’ I said, ‘but there’s another knife I’d like to ask you about.’
‘What knife?’
‘Two knives, actually.’ I paused. ‘One has a handle of polished striped wood that I think may be rosewood. It has a black hilt and a black double-edged blade an inch wide and almost six inches long.’
‘A black blade?’
I confirmed it. ‘It’s a strong, purposeful and good looking weapon. Would you know it from that description?’
He put his empty cup carefully on his desk and took mine also.
He said, ‘The best-known black-bladed knife is the British commando knife. Useful for killing sentries on dark nights.’
I nearly said ‘wow’ again, not so much at the content of what he said, but at his acceptance that the purpose of such knives was death.
‘They usually come in olive-khaki webbing sheaths,’ he said, ‘with a slot for a belt and cords for tying the bottom of the sheath