The Blasphemer: A Novel by Nigel Farndale

enjoying this, Wetherby thought: something about the way the man was looking at him; about his voice not fitting his station. When they reached the Lodge, the guard asked him his name.
    ‘Wetherby … Professor Laurence Wetherby,Vice Provost,Trinity College, London.’ He paused for effect. ‘I have been teaching here since I was twenty-four.’ Pause. ‘I am forty-nine now.’ Pause. ‘That is a quarter of a century.’
    The guard was undaunted. ‘And could I have your pass for a second, miss.’
    The student handed it over. The guard tried to read out the name.
    ‘Don’t worry, no one can pronounce it,’ the student said. ‘It’s Hai-iki buizi Yzu.’
    ‘Thank you, miss. It is a bit of a mouthful.’
    The student grinned. ‘Think of the sound of a wasp trapped in a jar.’
    The guard grinned back. ‘Thanks, I’ll remember that.’ He wrote the name down carefully and handed Wetherby his temporary pass. ‘There we go. Sorry to have kept you, professor. I do recognize you now. Must have been the trilby.’
    ‘Fedora.’
    ‘If you could remember your pass in future it would be a big help.’
    Wetherby cast an unenthusiastic eye around the Porter’s Lodge. As he took in the clipboard, the rack of keys, the boiling kettle andthe pictures of the guard’s family – three teenage children – he nodded to himself. There was also a collection of books about the First World War, a model of a Vickers machine gun and a mug with a poppy on it. When he turned his gaze back upon the guard he fancied he caught the edge of a smile.
    ‘Got one yet?’ The guard was rattling a red, plastic poppy-appeal collection box in one hand and holding out a bunch of poppies in the other.
    ‘Yes,’ Wetherby said.
    ‘I give tours of the Flanders battlefields during the summer holidays,’ the guard said.
    ‘Do you.’
    ‘Ever fancied doing one?’
    ‘No.’
    The guard put the collection box back on the shelf. He looked deflated. ‘Soon you won’t be able to get in without an electronic pass,’ he said. ‘They’re installing automated barriers.’
    ‘I look forward to it with vigorous anticipation.’
    Hai-iki was back outside, walking towards the Octagon Building under the central dome. She was rubbing her arms. When Wetherby caught up with her he said. ‘Must be annoying, people making fun of your name like that.’
    ‘You get used to it.’
    ‘You should not have to.’
    The student cocked her head as she reflected on this. ‘It can be a bit frustrating.’ She rubbed her hands together. ‘I tell you what I haven’t got used to … this weather.’
    ‘I would prefer a heatwave to this, and I despise heatwaves.’
    The student laughed. ‘I heard you talking on Radio 3 last night.’
    Wetherby gave her a sidelong glance. He knew she had a music scholarship – she was a highly promising pianist – but hadn’t paid her much attention until now. She had clear skin and a black fringe, as well as a soft, expressive mouth. She wasn’t obviously attractive and she barely came up to his chest – which made him feel selfconscious about his own height – but she had the confident, hip-rolling walk of a long-legged model. ‘You will be the onlyperson in this place who did hear me,’ he said gently. ‘These philistines,’ he nodded towards the staff room, ‘would not know where to find the Third Programme on the dial.’
    ‘The Third Programme?’
    ‘Radio 3. I am still in denial about the name change.’
    ‘When was that?’
    ‘Nineteen sixty-seven.’
    As they reached the East Cloister he held the door open for her while he stamped the snow off his shoes and said. ‘Do you have a moment?’
    She gave a friendly, open shrug.
    ‘I want to show you something in my office.’ He led the way along a corridor lined with portraits of philosophers and statues of scientists and engineers, the leather soles of his shoes echoing dully on the marble floor. She padded after him noiselessly, as if velvetfooted. When they