A Scattering of Light

Chapter 1 of a Serialized Novel: A guileless American student gets caught up in the world of espionage in 1970s London

Chapter 1

"Excuse me, I'm in here!" I cried, beating on the locked door.

"I'm terribly sorry," a tremulous male voice responded from the stairwell outside.

I rattled the glass knob. "Then please let me out."

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure," the voice continued in a patrician drawl, devoid of the slightest hint of urgency, "but I'm afraid I've dropped the key.”

My hands began to perspire. The closet was miniscule, with a sharply canted ceiling, making it impossible for me to stand upright. A dusty, low-wattage light bulb dangled inches from my head. I closed my eyes. A faint pong of mildew wafted through the air.

It had been a frustrating morning. I'd already wasted nearly an hour rambling around the Courtauld’s disorganized library in search of a monograph on an obscure Renaissance architect, and when I'd finally tracked it down in a closet off the back staircase, the door had been slammed shut and locked almost immediately, trapping me inside. As an American already feeling disoriented by my new life in London, I found myself even more unsettled by this turn of events.

The Courtauld Institute was quartered in an eighteenth-century townhouse on a leafy square in central London, and although the building was almost breathtakingly beautiful, it was inconveniently laid out for its modern-day incarnation as a study center. Its vast collection of books snaked in and out of the building’s sumptuous drawing rooms, spilled downward into its utilitarian basement, and burst up again along its featureless top-floor corridors. There were even rows of leather-bound periodicals in the toilets on the ground floor.

After a lengthy delay the key was inserted shakily into the lock, and the door creaked open. Before me stood a gaunt, elderly man with bristly eyebrows and unkempt hair. He wore a shapeless navy cardigan and a clumsily-knotted crimson and green rep tie. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom of the windowless staircase my captor’s face began to swim into focus: it was Sir Anthony Blunt, the Institute’s former director and permanent eminence grise.

“I’m profoundly sorry,” Sir Anthony said. “It’s an old habit from the war years, when I used to live at the top of the building. I simply can’t help myself. I close and lock every door I see. What a nuisance I am. You must think I’m quite mad.”

“My grandfather used to do the same thing sometimes,” I said. “It drove my grandmother insane.”

Sir Anthony’s expressive, angular face crinkled in mock dismay. "Oh dear, I remind you of your grandfather. How depressing."

“I didn't mean that!" I exclaimed.

He smiled insincerely, revealing large yellow teeth. “What a charming liar you are.”

Eager to extricate myself, I stepped out onto the landing and ventured down a couple of steps.

“And may one know your name?” Sir Anthony asked, cocking his head to one side.

“I'm sorry. Paul Gardner.”

The old man extended a dry, long-fingered hand. “Anthony Blunt.” His grip was surprisingly firm.

“Yes, I know. I heard your lecture on baroque architecture the other day. It was amazing.”

He made a self-deprecating gesture. “You flatter me. I’ve had a ghastly cold the past few weeks. I'm sure I sounded like a foghorn. Still, it's an endlessly fascinating subject.”

A short, awkward silence followed. “I love Bernini’s statue of Longinus,” I said impulsively, circling back to the details of his lecture. “He looks like he’s about to belt out a Broadway tune.”

Sir Anthony peered at me with amusement, and after a brief, arid pause he laughed. “Yes, I believe he rather does.” He continued studying me as if trying to solve a puzzle. “We don't get many Americans at the Institute. Are you a...recent acquisition?" he asked, reverting archly to the language of connoisseurship.

I laughed it off easily. "Brand new. I was acquired just this month."

"I'm delighted we snapped you up," Sir Anthony said. “We’ll need to stamp you with the Institute’s initials in some unobtrusive spot.”

I glanced skittishly down the staircase, longing to escape.

“Afraid I’ll lock you up in the cupboard again?” he asked, clearly delighting in my discomfort.

“No, but...Palladio's waiting,” I said, for lack of something cleverer at hand. My specialty, at least for the moment, was the neoclassical architect Andrea Palladio, who had almost single-handedly changed the course of Western architecture in the sixteenth century.

He frowned slightly. “Dear old boring Palladio.”

“You don’t approve?”

“Oh god no,” he shuddered. “All those straight lines.”

“Well,” I said, edging down another step. “It was an honor meeting you.”

But Sir Anthony wasn't about to be dismissed so lightly. “I expect you should come to dinner.”

I shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “Oh yes?”

“I’d feel better about our little misadventure if you’d let me give you a bite of dinner,” he purred. I opened my mouth to protest but he pushed on insistently. “Let’s say Friday night. I’ll put a card with the address in your mailbox downstairs. Eight-ish, I should think. Quite informal.”

I gazed up through the dim, zig-zagging stairwell, as if seeking guidance from on high. “My name is Gardner.”

“As you said. First name Paul, I seem to recall through the mists of memory,” Sir Anthony mocked.

“Sorry,“ I murmured, clutching my book moistly, acutely aware that the old man was attempting to charm me. “Friday at eight, then. Should I bring anything?”

He grinned unpleasantly. “Your wits.”