A few weeks later, I had proof of the validity of their assessment. Notwithstanding my heavy teaching load and other commitments in Singapore, I had been working steadily on my doctoral thesis. Our library’s holding were adequate for my research of the English and Commonwealth law in point but, as was to be expected, had few materials from other jurisdictions. To get them, I had to spend some time in Oxford.
As soon as my teaching courses ended when the academic session was over – about one year after my arrival in Singapore – I obtained two months study leave. Having spent two weeks in Vienna with my father, I proceeded to London. After a series of visits to banks and to libraries in the City, I went up to Oxford. The two main law libraries – the law reading rooms in the Bodleian and the Codrington – became, once again, my Mecca. The only drawback was the working environment. The French and German law collections had to be read in the dark and poorly heated reading room of the Codrington. Any attempt to close one of the windows with the hope of curbing the drafts was frowned upon by the icy librarian. The Bodleian, in contrast, had warm and well-lit rooms but, alas, American cases were stored in freezing underground stacks, where you had to read to the light of a table lamp placed on one of the ramshackle desks in the vast hall.
One day, after a chilling spell of three hours in these stacks, I limped over to the old coffee house in Broad Street, ordering a steaming soup and a cup of hot tea. I was beginning to feel better when a voice said:
“I heard you were back in Oxford, Peter.”
“Lillo!” I exclaimed, shocked. It had taken me a few moments to recognise her. The shabbily dressed and poorly groomed woman facing me bore little resemblance to the elegant girl I used to see in Ranjan’s company.
“Do I look so different?” she asked, sitting down opposite me.
“Have you been unwell?” I could not help asking.
“You could say that,” she retorted.
“What went wrong?”
“Don’t you know? I thought you joined Ranjan’s University.”
“I have indeed,” I confirmed.
“Didn’t you ask about me?”
“I did,” I told her with foreboding. “He said you split. The way he put it, I thought you left him. So, I didn’t ask any more questions.”
“He always knew how to handle people, Peter,” she replied with a strained smile. “No, Peter, I didn’t leave him. He jilted me!”
I looked at her in sheer disbelief. Why should Ranjan have taken such a step? He knew only too well that given time, Lillo would be an asset in his political career. Mrs. de Silva – neé Stiglitz – illustrated the point. Further, there could be no doubt about Lillo’s loyalty and love for him.
“I don’t understand,” I said lamely. “What did he tell you?”
“He didn’t tell me a thing; he just left!”
“Just like that?” I asked.
“Just like that,” she confirmed.
After the farewell party in Oxford, Ranjan moved from his rooms in college to her apartment. Everything seemed right. All plans had been set. A few weeks before the proposed date of departure, they went down to London and rented a serviced apartment. On the day before the flight, they had a sumptuous dinner and, Lillo admitted shamefacedly, too much wine. When she woke up next morning, Ranjan was not in the apartment. On the dining table was an envelope with a letter announcing his decision to leave.
“But didn’t he give any reason?” I asked, dismayed.
“He said he couldn’t live up to my expectations.”
“Good God,” I exclaimed. Then, in an attempt to regain my composure, I asked: “So what did you do?”
Lillo stayed put in the serviced apartment for one week, hoping against hope that Ranjan would come back. She then went up to Oxford, hoping to get more information from myself but was told by my landlady I would be away for about two months. The landlady had told her she did not have a forwarding address.
Feeling lonely and out of her depth, Lillo went back to her parents’ home in Zürich. She sent two letters to Ranjan but received no reply. Initially, she intended to remain in Switzerland but her longings for Ranjan and her inability to find her feet in her native town drove her back to Oxford. By sheer chance, her old room had just been vacated by its Nigerian tenant and her former landlady was pleased to let it to Lillo.
Once again, Lillo tried to contact me but soon discovered I had left. After a while she started to date a Sinhalese, called Joseph X who, like Ranjan before him, had come to read for the BCL. Joseph, though good looking, was nothing like Ranjan. Lillo did not fall in love with him.
“Do you think Ranjan would come back to me?” she asked, gazing at me anxiously.
“I have no idea,” I tried to dodge the issue and, then, prodded by my conscience, added: “Ranjan is not inclined to retrace his steps.”
“But does he have some other woman out there?”
“He’s not going steady with any girl,” I answered with relief.
“But he’s not just on his own, is he?”
“Well, no; he goes out with girls he meets in the University. But I don’t know of any attachment … you know what I mean.”
“I did everything he wanted,” wailed Lillo. “Honestly, Peter, he won’t find a more supportive or loyal girl. I love him; and I can’t make myself forget him.”
For a while both of us remained silent. I had nothing to say. Lillo was fidgeting, uncertain whether to unburden herself any further. She resumed her story when both us felt that the silence was getting oppressive. She told me they had planned to renovate Ranjan’s family home in Colombo, had intended to purchase a second house and had made plans for raising a family.
“But how were you going to get enough money? Ranjan’s father lost their wealth.”
“I gave him all I had,” she told me. “My grandmother left me a lot of money in her will.”
“How much did he take?” I asked, once again shocked.
“About five thousand pounds.”
I looked at her closely. In those days, five thousand pounds was a fortune. You could easily purchase a house in Summertown – one of Oxford’s best suburbs – for less than that. Had Ranjan asked her to give him the money or had she offered it to him in an attempt to bind him as closely as possible?
My recollection of a conversation I had with Ranjan supported Lillo’s assertion. He had asked me to recommend a Swiss bank with a sound record in international investments. I pointed out that any such bank would accept a customer only if he was in a position to invest a few thousand pounds.
“That’s fine,” Ranjan had countered.
Lillo’s narrative threw light on the source of his funds. My assumption that he had made a killing on the Singapore Stock Exchange – natural as it had been – had been misguided.
“But didn’t he offer to pay it back to you?” I asked Lillo.
“Well, he didn’t; and I did not ask. You see, I wanted – still want – him. I have enough money, Peter; and it can’t make me happy.”
At this point our conversation was interrupted. Joseph X., Lillo’s current boyfriend, looked at me suspiciously when he made a beeline for our table. He was out of breath and flustered.
“You must have met Peter,” Lillo regained her composure as she addressed him.
“We met in a seminar,” I volunteered. “Please join us.”
“Lillo, did you forget we have tickets for the concert?” blurted Joseph.
“I did rather,” admitted Lillo as she rose in a hurry. “I’ll have to go now, Peter; but look me up when you have a free moment. Here is my address.”
As they departed in haste, I felt sympathy for Joseph. Like Ranjan, he was a tall, broad shouldered and good looking fellow. But he lacked Ranjan’s self-assurance and patrician airs. Lillo was not deceived by his veneer. She had captivated him; but the bond was one sided.
I left the library that evening with the intention of looking Lillo up during my weekend. True, she had completed her tale or, at the very least, the gist of it. I knew I could not comfort her. Yet, I felt the need of lending a supporting shoulder. Somebody had to tell this attractive girl that her relationship with Ranjan was over. She had to turn her head from the past to the future.
Unfortunately, I came down with a severe cold, which soon turned into bronchitis. When I was back on my feet – after some ten days – I had to catch up on my work. Lillo and her lot appeared remote.
Some two weeks prior to my return flight to Singapore, as I was having a hot soup and a sandwich in the Broad Street coffee house, the cashier’s glance directed a plainly dressed man to my table.
“I am Inspector Jack Oliver,” he told me. “I wonder if I could take a few minutes of your time?”
“Of course,” I replied, startled.
“Do you know this girl?” he asked as I looked at a photograph produced by him.
Lillo’s countenance looked stiff and, I thought, still. Yet her mouth was agape and her eyes closed.
“She looks like a girl I know. Her name is Lillo … Sorry, I can’t recall her surname.”
“Are you certain it’s her?”
“Well, yes,” I confirmed and added: “Is something wrong with her?”
“Her body was fished out of the Cherwell.”
“How ghastly. How did it happen?”
“That’s what we investigate. What can you tell me about her?”
Inspector Oliver went on to explain that Lillo’s body had not been identified. They found no documents or other identification on her. Judging by her clothes and age, he assumed she had been a student. When nobody in the women’s colleges recognised her, he showed the photograph to staff in the haunts frequented by the younger generation. The cashier in the Broad Street coffee house told him she had seen her conversing with one of their patrons. He came over in the hope of spotting that acquaintance.
Inspector Oliver asked me to tell him what I knew about her. When I finished my account, he asked if I knew where she lived. Having noted the address, he observed that the landlady had put in a missing person report, but the police had failed to connect it with the body found in the river. He was going to call on the landlady but, before he did, wanted me to identify the body. On the way to the mortuary, he told me that a dead body was an unpleasant sight.
“I thought the dead look serene and calm,” I muttered.
“Not when they have drowned,” he cautioned and, after a short break, added: “This girl passed the point of no return before she jumped or was pushed. A block of concrete was tied to her neck. She struggled.”
“How was she found?” I wanted to know.
“Her body floated when the rope came loose.”
When we left the mortuary Inspector Oliver offered me a cup of coffee. He could see I had been shaken by the sight of poor Lillo’s listless body. Sounding apologetic, he asked me to attend the inquest, in case my evidence was needed. He undertook to do his best to keep Ranjan’s name out of the proceedings.
In the event, my evidence was not required. Joseph X testified that Lillo had agreed to marry him. He could not understand what had happened. His family was ready to accept her with open arms; and he felt confident she had a bright future in front of her as his wife in Ceylon. Appearing ill at ease and bewildered, Joseph did not try to hide his grief and disappointment. Everyone in court felt sorry for him.
Following a brief account by Lillo’s landlady – who described her late tenant as a respectable and considerate girl – the stand was taken by Lillo’s father, an ageing man, wearing a dark grey suit and a discreet old-fashioned tie. Maintaining his composure and intoning his words, Frank Beer described his daughter’s background and home life. He left no doubt as to the family’s affection for his late daughter. One detail mentioned by him threw light on Lillo’s disposition and motivation. She had apparently gone into a severe depression after having failed some examinations in high school.
“We were afraid she could do something silly then,” he volunteered. “But my wife and her sister talked to her and made her calm down; and I told her it was not the end of the world. So, we persuaded her to try again; and she listened. Next time she passed with good grades.”
As expected, the coroner’s verdict was of death by the deceased’s own hand whilst in a state of temporary insanity. As we milled out of the courtroom, Frank Beer asked whether I was Ranjan’s colleague in Singapore. To my surprise, he invited me for afternoon tea at the Randolph.
“Inspector Oliver,” he went straight to the point after placing our orders, “told me you knew my daughter and her fiancé before he went to Singapore.”
“I did,” I confirmed; “and look – I am from Vienna; so we can speak German if you prefer.”
“How well did you know them?” asked Frank Beer, declining to switch to German.
“We went to concerts together and we had a few dinners in Oxford.”
“Was he in love with her?”
“I thought so; I was sure they were going to get married.”
“But what did Ranjan tell you in Singapore? You were not surprised she was not there?”
“He told me they had split; so I didn’t ask any further questions. Then – here in Oxford – Lillo told me he had sort of left her – I mean left without telling her.”
“You didn’t expect anything like this – I mean when you went out with them here?”
“I certainly didn’t; I still can’t understand it.”
For a while, we conversed about Lillo’s childhood and youth in Zürich. She had been highly strung and difficult to handle during her adolescence. Ranjan was not her first boyfriend. She had been going steady with a young banker in Zürich but – for no apparent reason – broke off the engagement.
“My son and other daughter are more steady. They take after me,” confided Frank Beer. “They married young and so now we are grandparents.”
His wife had taken the blow hard. She blamed herself for what had happened. All along, she had been wary of her daughter marrying a non-European. But she was reluctant to voice her doubts. Now she was worn out by her grief and feelings of guilt. Frank Beer thought it best to come to Oxford on his own.
“Perhaps Lillo tried too hard,” he mused.
“She might have,” I agreed, adding as an after-thought: “She told me she gave him some money.”
“She did,” confirmed Frank Beer. “I’ve seen her bank statements.”
“Should I tell him to pay it back?” I asked.
“Please don’t! We don’t need the money; and she gave it to him. So let him keep it.”
Shortly after my return to Singapore I ran into Ranjan in the Law School. He looked well, and displayed his usual business-like airs. Pleased to see me, he was keen to hear the news about Oxford. It was obvious that the sad tale of Lillo’s end had not reached his ears.
Ranjan’s reaction to the news was subdued. When I finished my narration of the facts, he asked – in his direct manner – whether his name had been mentioned at the inquest.
“I managed to keep your name out, Ranjan,” I assured him. “The detective in charge was most helpful. And Lillo’s father did not want to have his daughter’s personal life further exposed. And, Ranjan, did you know she was engaged to marry Joseph X?”
“I didn’t; but I should have expected something like it,” he told me.
“She was still in love with you, Ranjan. When I spoke to her she hoped you’d come back.”
“That was not on, Peter,” he told me firmly.
“Why did you ditch her, Ranjan?”
His eyes strayed away from mine. When the silence had become oppressive, he asked: “Didn’t you realise things were not that simple, Peter? You went out with us quite a few times. Don’t tell me you didn’t form your own conclusions!”
“Perhaps I closed my eyes,” I admitted. “But one thing was clear: the girl was in love with you – to the hilt!”
“I know,” he affirmed.
“And she shone at your farewell party! She was looking forward to the future!”
“Don’t rub it in,” he replied, dejected.
“But why, Ranjan – why?”
“There are things an outsider cannot see, Peter. I’d rather not say any more. We can’t bring her back – you know that!”
It was my turn to avert my eyes. All in all, it was pointless to dwell on poor Lillo’s fate. The curtain had fallen. Why should I fret whether Ranjan had reason to feel guilty or had merely asserted his right to freedom. It was not my business. In any event, Lillo had been a mere acquaintance. Ranjan, in contrast, had become a close friend. My loyalty was due to him, not to her memory. All the same, I had to have an answer to one question. Trying hard to keep my composure, I told Ranjan what Lillo had said about the money.
“I suppose it’s true – I mean, not a fairy tale?”
“It is,” he conceded. “Do you think her family wants it back?”
“I had tea with her father. He saw her bank statements; but they don’t want it back.”
“Well, I can put it to good use,” said Ranjan.
“But do you need it?” I asked indiscreetly.
“I do, rather” he told me.