Frances was standing by the window when he got home. She had the lamps turned low and was looking out across the rooftops of the borough. She’d once told Sebastian that it eased her eyes to look at distant things, when too much concentration on close work had tired them.
She looked toward the door as he came into the room. For a moment, in this light, he was reminded of some familiar painting. But he couldn’t have said which one. Sebastian wasn’t a gallery man, and got most of his art from magazines.
She said, “Elisabeth’s reading. I’ve been trying to get Robert to his bed. He insisted on waiting for you.”
“You should have left him to it,” Sebastian said, hanging his overcoat on the stand. “He’s old enough, and capable.”
Frances gave a brief, tight smile.
“Tell that to Elisabeth,” she said, and moved to gather up her sewing.
As she was leaving the room, Sebastian’s son was trying to enter with an armload of books and documents. He was so eager that he forgot to be polite, and did not step back to let her through.
“Father,” he said, “I think I have earned my money.”
“That’s very good to hear, Robert,” Sebastian said. “Can we talk about it in the morning?”
“But I’ve been waiting for you. Didn’t Frances say?”
Sebastian began to frame a reply. But Robert was bursting with energy, and Sebastian had none with which to resist. So he said, “All right.”
Robert started to clear a space on the table for the papers he’d brought. Sebastian saw that they included Sir Owain’s book. It was bristling all around with slips of paper, like a hedgehog.
“The author’s observations of the seasons are very precise,” Robert said. “And I think the few actual dates he gives may be accurate. Unless he’s fabricated Christmas.”
“How is Christmas significant?”
“From one date I can work out another. He refers to five days on the river, two days in camp, a week spent wherever. With enough detail like that I can make out a rough chronology.”
“Can you indeed,” Sebastian said.
“I made you this to explain everything.”
In the cleared space, Robert unrolled a makeshift chart made from several sheets of paper gummed together. He placed a book on either end of it, to pin it down. The chart was somewhere between a vertical time line, and a family tree. Robert’s writing was minuscule and filled many boxes, between which he’d drawn connecting lines.
He said, “Over on the left-hand side are all the dated events that I can pin down exactly. On the right are those story events that clash with the calendar and can only be false. I’ve positioned all the other events somewhere in between them on a scale of credibility. Farthest to the left is your certain truth; over to the right is your certain fiction. Most things lie somewhere in between. It’s the closest you’ll ever get to a simple answer. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Sebastian’s head swam.
“This is … very well done, Robert.”
But Robert, who was odd but no fool, could see that his father hadn’t yet grasped the point.
“It’s not just an exercise, Father,” he said.
“Of course not.”
“It’s practical,” Robert persisted, “For example. Match your firm dates to shipping records and you can track down the crew of the rescue ship that took Sir Owain to safety.”
Suddenly, Sebastian understood.
It was brilliant. With patient analysis, Robert had deconstructed the author’s method and performed a fractional separation of fact and fiction, with a precise grading of all the shades in between. It was detailed and obsessive, and-professionally speaking-a significant piece of detective work.
“That’s very impressive, Robert,” was all he could say. “Thank you.”
“And I don’t want the money,” Robert said. “It’s my contribution. To help us get by.”
Happy now, Robert went back to his room.
Alone, Sebastian paced for a while. Then he added a piece of coal to the fire, which was beginning to die. He wasn’t ready for sleep yet, and with the fire gone the room would quickly lose its heat to the night. This was one of those occasions when he could be dazed by Robert’s flights of intellect.
He thought he might tell Elisabeth. But when he went to check, she’d turned out her light. He backed off quietly, not wanting to risk disturbing her.
Back in the sitting room, he picked her rug off the chair and shook it out. Elisabeth’s recovery seemed worryingly slow. Sebastian wasn’t sure whether to blame her actual injury or the degree to which it had shaken her, but he’d seen no real improvement since the day he’d brought her home. She hardly slept. Any movement or disturbance during the night would cause her pain.
He took the poker from the grate and gave the fire one last rake-over. Then he wrapped the rug around himself and settled into a chair for the night.