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propose to set forth the peculiar circumstances of my life and career. As a study in hubris, it may serve as a consolation for my soul and a concession to undeserving posterity.”
    There followed, in quotation marks, four lines of poetry: Since as a child I used to lie
    Upon the leaze and watch the sky,
    Never, I own, expected I
    That life would all be fair.
    I took this to be some epigrammatic borrowing from a favourite poet of Strafford’s, but he was not named. It put me
     

P A S T C A R I N G
    29
    vaguely in mind of A.E. Housman; certainly it had his fatalistic air. But I was tired and these thoughts were best left for morning.
    I laid the book aside and turned out the light.
    I woke quite suddenly, stirred by some sound from the garden. I rose and stumbled to the window, squinting out at the glaring light of a perfect Madeiran day. Below, I could see at work the aged gardener who’d woken me. Checking my watch, I was dismayed to see that it was already past nine o’clock. So I bathed and dressed hurriedly and headed downstairs, taking the Memoir with me.
    In the drawing room, the french windows stood open and, on the verandah, I found Sellick sitting by a breakfast table, sipping coffee, with a sheaf of papers on his lap. He smiled a greeting.
    “Good morning, Martin. I trust you slept well?”
    “Thank you, yes. Perhaps too well.”
    “Certainly not. You are, after all, on holiday. Sit down, relax.
    Tomás can fix you some breakfast in no time.”
    “Nothing for me, thanks. But some of that coffee would go down well.”
    Sellick poured me some from the pot. “You’ve missed Alec, I fear. He’ll be back some time this afternoon. I felt sure that I could keep you occupied until his return—or, rather, that Mr.
    Strafford could.” He leant forward and patted the Memoir where it lay on the table. “Have you made a start?”
    “Not in earnest. I thought you were right about tackling it this morning. I’ve only glanced at the title page, which doesn’t suggest it’s a happy chronicle.”
    “One could not, in all honesty, call Strafford a happy man, as you will see. But I’m glad you haven’t started reading the Memoir yet, Martin, because before you do—bearing in mind what I told you about it last night—I have a proposition to put which might interest you.”
    “You have?”
    “Yes. Now, don’t feel that I’m prying into your affairs, but I understand from Alec that you’re not presently in any form of employment.”
     
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R O B E R T G O D D A R D
    “That’s true.” Again, here was evidence of Alec making free with his knowledge of my affairs. It was a development I didn’t care for.
    “Taking that into consideration, along with your undoubted abilities as an historian, I may be able to offer you an engagement both financially lucrative and intellectually stimulating.”
    “You’re offering me a job?” I was frankly incredulous.
    “In short, I am. I have told you what I have learnt of the Strafford mystery, that the Memoir does nothing to dispel it, only increase it. There is no more to be discovered here. I feel the answer must lie in England. I am too old and too busy to go in search of it. Besides, I would not know where to begin what is essentially an exercise in historical research. But time and youth are on your side and I can supply the money. How would you like the task of finding out who—or what—betrayed Strafford in 1910?”
    My incredulity was surpassed by my enthusiasm. A voice inside me said “Grab this offer—before it’s taken back.” The research task sounded interesting in its own right and the money that went with it could solve all my problems. But I didn’t want to seem over-eager. Only that, not suspicion, stayed my hand.
    “It sounds fascinating—and very generous.”
    “Not at all. I would finance you to find out what I want to know. If, coincidentally, you want to know it too, so much the better. But don’t give me your answer now—take a look