Violent Laughter Echoed Around My Grave

CHAPTER I

PENFIELD College's grandness did not disappoint. 

A historic granite building greeted me. Constructed in the seventeenth century, a looming clock tower struck on the hour. A murder of crows flocked and cawed. 

My briefcase was swimming with the rain that slammed against the concrete square. I ducked under the arches. Then, a figure came wading out into the night. 

Joseph Rothschild carried his body with a distinctive regality which could only be inherited from a life of hereditary wealth. The stocky build was cloaked in a rather expensive-looking Macintosh coat. 

"How are you, Monty?" he roared over the terrible winds.

"Jojo!" I couldn't help but be pleased. "Could be warmer! Thank you for coming out to see me."

Outdoor wintertime wasn't a prime place for conversation, so without word we hurried inside to seek warmth. 

The college was hardly visible. I would have to inspect the grounds in the morning, when day broke. 

"Come on, we're in the Milton wing. All of the dormitories are named after old English authors. I mean, how poncy can you get?"

"Do they treat you well?" I asked. 

"Don't think I have a grudge against old Penfield!" Joseph said. He fumbled for a set of thick brass keys from trouser pocket. "I've been here since I was sixteen. Awfully good of them to take me in. They have an excellent Latin program."

The Milton wing had a cosy living area, with a Turkish rug sprawled under an oak table with empty teapots out ready for the morning. A glow from the fireplace illuminated the room. 

He removed his coat, slick with rain. I removed my shoes. 

To my dismay, noticed that even my socks had soaked through. 

"How's your old man?" he said carefully.

"Good. He's well. They're all well."

"Glad to hear. Dear me, Monty, you're shaking. You don't look well. A brandy will fix you right. I'd ask what your poison is, but there's only a drop of whiskey left and I've got half a bottle of Cognac."

"Brandy sounds fine." I was in agreement. 

My body, shivering and exhausted, was limp in the armchair. The rich drink helped. Joseph was eager for conversation. 

During my schoolboy days, Joseph and I had been good friends.

He was from Bath. An affluent neighborhood, where I never visited, because I was worried everybody there would sneer at me. 

My father was an educator, and fought to enroll me in a 'nice' school. Most of the boys were smirking and entitled, but Joseph liked my company. 

Now a young man, Joseph was the same. I doubted he had ever participated in any hard labor. One thing I could guarantee was that he had never fretted over money. He could gush insufferably about an item at the shops, buying it without even checking the price. 

Some afternoons I would tag along, still in my uniform. That was my only ticket into those high-end stores, for everyone was familiar with the striking red blazer of Aberdale Grammar. 

I would pretend to browse the expensive cologne, leather satchels, gold watches. I used to pretend I was one of the elite. 

Now, I would die if Jojo knew about the debt. 

The wolves at the door, the shabbier state of my belongings. 

That Montgomery Gibson he had known was dead.