A Quiver Full of Arrows

Sir William’s colleagues all knew within the hour. College lunch that day was spent in a silence broken only by the Senior Tutor inquiring of the Master if some food should be taken up to the Merton professor.

“I think not,” said the Master. Nothing more was said.

Professors, Fellows and students alike crossed the front quadrangle in silence and when they gathered for dinner that evening still no one felt like conversation. At the end of the meal the Senior Tutor suggested once again that something should be taken up to Sir William. This time the Master nodded his agreement and a light meal was prepared by the college chef. The Master and the Senior Tutor climbed the worn stone steps to Sir William’s room and while one held the tray the other gently knocked on the door. There was no reply, so the Master, used to William’s ways, pushed the door ajar and looked in.

The old man lay motionless on the wooden floor in a pool of blood, a small pistol by his side. The two men walked in and stared down. In his right hand, William was holding the Collected Works of John Skelton. The book was opened at The Tunnyng of Elynour Rummyng, and the word “whym-wham” was underlined.

a 1529, Skelton, E. Rummyng 75

After the Sarasyns gyse,

Woth a whym wham,

Knyt with a trym tram,

Upon her brayne pan.

Sir William, in his neat hand, had written a note in the margin: “Forgive me, but I had to let her know.”

“Know what, I wonder?” said the Master softly to himself as he attempted to remove the book from Sir William’s hand, but the fingers were already stiff and cold around it.

* * *

Legend has it that they were never apart for more than a few hours.

THE PERFECT GENTLEMAN

I would never have met Edward Shrimpton if he hadn’t needed a towel. He stood naked by my side staring down at the bench in front of him, muttering, “I could have sworn I left the damn thing there.”

I had just come out of the sauna, swathed in towels, so I took one off my shoulder and passed it to him. He thanked me and put out his hand.

“Edward Shrimpton,” he said, smiling. I took his hand and wondered what we must have looked like standing there in the gymnasium locker room of the Metropolitan Club in the early evening, two grown men shaking hands in the nude.

“I don’t remember seeing you in the club before,” he added.

“No, I’m an overseas member.”

“Ah, from England. What brings you to New York?”

“I’m pursuing an American novelist whom my company would like to publish in England.”

“And are you having any success?”

“Yes, I think I’ll close the deal this week—as long as the agent stops trying to convince me that his author is a cross between Tolstoy and Dickens and should be paid accordingly.”

“Neither was paid particularly well, if I remember correctly,” offered Edward Shrimpton as he energetically rubbed the towel up and down his back.

“A fact I pointed out to the agent at the time, who only countered by reminding me that it was my house who had published Dickens originally.”

“I suggest,” said Edward Shrimpton, “that you remind him that the end result turned out to be successful for all concerned.”

“I did, but I fear this agent is more interested in ‘up front’ than posterity.”

“As a banker that’s a sentiment of which I could hardly disapprove, since the one thing we have in common with publishers is that our clients are always trying to tell us a good tale.”

“Perhaps you should sit down and write one of them for me?” I said politely.

“Heaven forbid, you must be sick of being told that there’s a book in every one of us, so I hasten to assure you that there isn’t one in me.”