‘Just repeating it – Haugh. Somebody else must have thought of it.’
‘Somebody else? Who?’
‘One doesn’t know. But judging by his behaviour tonight I shouldn’t put it past Goldwasser.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘GOLDWASSER!’
Goldwasser! So it was Goldwasser at the bottom of all this pornography! Of course it was Goldwasser. It was Goldwasser who skulked about in the Heads of Departments urinal. It was Goldwasser who had put Riddle up to her petition. One look at Goldwasser and you could see he was a troublemaker, a barrack-room lawyer, a man with a chip on his shoulder. Nunn had met his type before.
He got out his diary. Under 3 March it said ‘Goldwasser.’ Under 5 December and 17 August and 23 January – ‘Goldwasser.’ Under Memo – ‘Goldwasser.’ Under National Insurance Number – ‘Goldwasser.’ Under Size in Football Boots, Law Terms, Record Breaks at Billiards – ‘Goldwasser,’ ‘Goldwasser,’ ‘Goldwasser.’ The evidence was all there. It was amazing that he had not seen it before. He wrote his conclusions down succinctly and damningly inside the back cover, thus: GOLDWASSER.
The party was beginning to reach its end. There was a last stir, as people moved around to thank the hosts, or to say hallo to people they had not been able to bear to say hallo to earlier. Goldwasser moved out from his refuge in the chancel, and found himself at once undeniably face to face with Chiddingfold.
‘Hallo,’ said Chiddingfold, neither less nor more surprised, neither less nor more enthusiastic, than before.
‘Good evening, Director,’ said Goldwasser. His mind reeled helplessly. He could not hold three conversations with Chiddingfold in one evening! It was not within the range of human endurance. For a moment he believed he would be able to turn wordlessly and run lightly out of the house. Then he believed he might be able to fall down in a dead faint. But secretly he knew all the time he would have to stand and deliver. He looked down into his glass, and swirled the non-existent contents round, then rolled them round his mouth and swallowed them noisily. He wondered wildly whether Chiddingfold even knew he was the same person, or whether his mind was now so far removed from the particular that he could not distinguish between one human being and another anyway. One thing was certain, though; this time he must think of a fresh topic of conversation.
‘As a natural Whig,’ he said with a sad elaborate whimsicality, ‘I’m afraid I view with what can only be described as mixed feelings the prospect of telling my grandchildren that I was once a member of this great church party.’
Even as he said it he realised it was the same joke. He did not dare watch the exhausted waxing and waning of Chiddingfold’s mirthless smile. But he did not have to, for at that moment there was a diversion. Riddle emerged. But a transformed Riddle – a smiling Riddle with pink cheeks and glowing sleepy eyes. Where she had been no one knew, but what she had been doing was plain enough. She put her arms around Chiddingfold’s neck, and gesturing largely towards the eastern end of the house, sang: