Death at the Alma Mater (22 page)

“I have wondered the same. Some party from completely outside our group of suspects, someone from her life in London, perhaps … an old flame, perhaps. She had been a single woman for some time. We’re of course looking into that angle, but it seems unlikely someone not connected with the college would be guilty of this crime. Do you know: Was there much in the way of gossip about her?”

“Oh, yes, she was fodder for the gossip magazines of a glossier sort,” said Portia. “Always photographed doing something glamorous, and managing to look better than the average mortal as she did it.”

“Was she generally photographed with an escort of some kind?”

“Oh, generally. But it was her clothing that was of interest. The men tended not to be in the picture. Literally.”

“Yes, well, we’ll have to look into all that, I suppose. Disrupt a few lives, perhaps needlessly. It’s jolly hard to imagine someone following her from London to lurk about in the grounds all weekend, awaiting the chance to strike. It requires a degree of lunacy, that kind of patience and planning—a sustained rage as well. One would think there would have been signs of that all along in the outward behavior of our killer, if this was indeed a crime of passion or revenge. That should make our job all the easier. But … ”

“But?”

“But somehow I should be very much surprised to find that kind of solution. For one thing, this crime speaks of an intimate knowledge of this college’s doings, or at least its doings during this kind of old members’ knees-up. Without that knowledge, there is too much left to chance in the crime. Far easier, in fact, to believe in the passing lunatic or addict doing her in for the thrill of it. And that kind of crime is mercifully rare in this city. Without robbery as a motive … ”

“I wonder … she had no purse, no evening bag? She had one when I saw her on the stairs.”

“One was found next to the body. It contained a little jeweled, mirrored container of face powder, a handkerchief, and a comb. The key to her room, and a ten-pound note. That was all.”

“Face powder, but no lipstick?”

“Actually, a lipstick was found here, by the bench,” he told her. “They’re testing but the assumption is it was hers. It matched the design of the container of face powder.”

“Hmm. I suppose that also speaks to the degree of her upset—that she dropped it or it fell out of her purse somehow, and she didn’t notice.”

St. Just nodded, and said, “Again, the circumstances—barring that she was killed by someone who just happened upon her—the circumstances argue for someone with some knowledge of the layout of this college. If they came here deliberately to meet her, to quarrel with her, to kill her, some knowledge of the setup is indicated.”

“There was a quarrel, you think?”

“No, come to that, I do not. The physical evidence suggests she was surprised. There was no struggle to speak of; she was quickly overcome.”

“Pity there was no one on the river to see,” said Portia.

“It was getting too dark for most. Yes. Getting too late, and the boathouse is well out of the way for a puntful of tourists to wander off course and discover. The last punt rented out that night from any of the hire services went out at eight from Silver Street and was safely returned an hour later. We’re asking the boat club and the colleges if any of their keener rowers would have been out practicing, like young Seb, but if they had they’d have been out of their usual range, perhaps in violation of the myriad of regulations that govern use of the river. And there are very few students around, anyway, as you know. The river is never quite deserted but at night, this time of year …”

“Fishermen?”

“We’ve got inquiries afoot. Or afloat, in this case. But if anyone saw anything we’ll get a response from the appeal to the public that’s appearing in tomorrow’s paper. It will bring out the eccentrics in a town famous for its eccentrics, but it has to be done.”

Just then the pigeon flew away, first having left a deposit on Titus Barron to mark its visit.

INNOCENT ABROAD

St. Just left Portia
some time later and walked back towards the incident room to see what news, if any, might have come in. In the college’s entrance hall, the Reverend Otis had just pushed through the main door, carrying an enormous mixed bouquet of wildflowers.

“So cheering, don’t you think?” he asked the detective, with a little bleat of happiness. “I thought we needed something to dispel the gloom.”

St. Just nodded and said, “I wondered if I could have a word.”

“Certainly.” The Reverend Otis smiled kindly at the detective, if a little reservedly. His eyes, already magnified behind thick spectacles, grew rounder. It was like being scrutinized by a friendly but inquisitive sheep.

“I wondered when you would get around to talking with me,” said the Reverend Otis. “I have watched every Commander Adam Dalgliesh episode, you know. I have them on tape. So I know how these things go. All the suspects have to be interviewed until someone gives the game away.”

St. Just, wishing real investigations were as easy, merely smiled and indicated that the Reverend should take a seat on the ancient wooden bench at one side of the entrance hall.

“The problem is, of course,” said the Reverend Otis, settling onto the bench and placing the bouquet beside him, “that I know nothing that can help you.”

“Just your impressions would be helpful,” said St. Just. “I would imagine that in your line of work you gain some particular facility for picking up on the nuances.” Thank God, he thought, the Master can’t overhear me.

The otherwise humble Dean seemed to take this as his due. He dipped his balding head in acknowledgement and said, “That is a large part of my sacred calling, yes. Not giving advice, as some tend to think. But listening, noticing, and advising only when asked.”

“Your impressions of what transpired this weekend, then. Was there anything leading up to the time of the murder that struck you as unusual?”

“That’s just it—you’ve put your finger on the problem. There was nothing that seemed particularly out of place to me. I have thought and thought about it, you see. We have held these reunions before, of course. Sometimes there is a bit of … competition among the participants. These are all extremely clever people, you know. This particular group, being so successful—my impression was that there was less posturing than usual. They all had less to prove, perhaps.”

St. Just asked, “Was that true in the case of Lexy Laurant, as well?”

“Ah,” said the Reverend Otis. “Well.” He looked at St. Just, bewildered anew, perhaps, by the fact of a murder having been committed on his watch.

St. Just said, “There was some tension there, was there not? I rather gather that Lexy was in competition with Lady Bassett, trying to gain the attention of Sir James.”

The bewilderment on the older man’s face deepened.

“Whoever told you that?” he asked, in his slow, gentle voice. St. Just had to lean in to hear him clearly. “No, no. Not at all. My impression was definitely that Lexy had other fish to fry. Sir James’ hold on her had weakened considerably. Divorce is never pleasant and never the best option, but I did wonder how two such different personalities as Lexy and Sir James had ever come together in the first place. She was … a bit frivolous; he was far more serious-minded by nature. I think she had come to realize this for herself. I overheard her call him a dried-up stick.”

The same phrase used by Gwennap, thought St. Just.

“Really?” he said. “But surely that could be taken as anger, not indifference?”

The Reverend Otis shrugged. You might very well think that.

“Regardless,” he said. “He was simply too serious a personality for Lexy. An author, you know. A creative artist. And quite a good one, too, don’t misunderstand. Terribly serious with it all, is what I mean to convey. Some of his later works met with increasing puzzlement amongst the reading public. I daresay he felt the same…the works were disjointed somehow. Experimental and daring, I suppose. But Cygnus and the Northern Cross, along with one or two others, were spiffing good yarns. Pity about the title—difficult to remember. Perhaps they’ll change it if and when it’s filmed. No doubt they will.”

“You seem to know a great deal about his career.”

The Reverend Otis blushed.

“I am writing a novel myself. A children’s book. It’s a detective story, actually, with Biblical characters. I don’t suppose you’d like to—? No, no, I can see you’re rather busy right now. Anyway, I subscribe to a newsletter that keeps me up to date on all this sort of thing: happenings in the literary world. Do you know, Inspector, I even thought I had a theory about all this. You see, when I first saw Lexy in the Fellows’ Garden, I thought she was with Geraldo. Well, quite naturally, one would, wouldn’t one?”

“I don’t follow.”

“Sir James’ back was turned, as he was looking at the fountain when I first saw him. And viewed from the back, he and Geraldo look remarkably alike. They both have sleek dark hair, although Sir James is losing his in front. But from the back they look identical—trim, well-built, dark-haired men. You do see what I mean, don’t you?”

The Reverend Otis blethered on a bit in this vein. St. Just looked at him. Was it possible that some of the other witnesses had in fact seen Lexy not with Sir James, but, fleetingly, with Geraldo? Would Geraldo lie about that, simply to distance himself as completely from the case as possible? Were Sir James and Geraldo in cahoots somehow?

Just then, the door opened, and Sebastian entered the hall. St. Just realized his mistake in conducting this interview in such a highly trafficked area. But Seb merely nodded and headed upstairs, taking the steps two at a time.

“Ah, youth,” said the Reverend. “It’s been years since I’ve been able to do that without courting the danger of tumbling straight back down. But then, to be honest, I never had that sort of commitment to sports. Seb has the reputation for being a bit of a lad, but he works extremely hard, you know. I see him going to and from the boathouse all the time, or coming in late from the laboratory. It’s so heartening to see that kind of dedication among the young people. Chemistry can’t be the easiest subject. It certainly wouldn’t be in my case.”

“Mine either, I’m afraid.” Privately, St. Just wondered. Wouldn’t Seb be more likely to be coming in late from a party? He’d gained no impression of him as a scholar—the “bit of a lad” reputation seemed more fitting. St. Just was beginning to think the Reverend Otis might be one of those kind people forever blinded to the faults of others. What was it Portia had said? Something about how he needed a constant eye kept on him or he’d be swindled every time he set foot outside the college.

“When is the last time you saw Lexy?” St. Just asked him.

“At dinner. Just after, in fact. She was in the garden.”

“The garden is always kept locked to outsiders at night? The Master mentioned something about a donkey.”

“Such a sweet creature. After curfew, yes, the oak door that leads into the grounds is bolted and locked by the Porter. Until then, it is open to all. Until ten o’clock, that is. The students know better than to use it as a shortcut into the building, however. Not too helpful to your investigation, I’m afraid. Anyone would be free to come and go before ten.”

–––

Parting from the Reverend Otis a few minutes later, St. Just made his way towards the incident room upstairs. As he walked through the main library area to the makeshift police headquarters in the reference room, he found Sir James working at one of the room’s large tables ranged against the walls.

“Progress?” he asked him.

“No. Maybe. Of a sort.” Sir James, removing his glasses, tiredly pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Just trying to take my mind off things, really. I don’t think any writer ever has a clue if progress is being made. There is a lot of faith involved. Putting one foot in front of another and hoping for the best at the end of the road.”

“Surely you must be used to that … uncertainty … by now?”

Sir James shook his head. “It’s a strange kind of pressure and it never goes away. People, after all, have put down their ten pounds or more sterling to be entertained. One feels obligated to, at a minimum, reveal the secrets of the Universe, if not the key to all happiness. Which of course no one can—at least, not for ten pounds. It’s just the pressure the author places on himself somehow.”

Politely signaling the end of his interest in the conversation, Sir James began to turn back towards his work. St. Just said his farewells and moved on. He next spotted Sebastian Burrows hunched over a laptop at one of the oak study carrels that occupied the center of the room, the computer plugged into an outlet built into the desk for that purpose. The room was chilly, and Seb wore a black-and-white Arab scarf wrapped several times around his neck. St. Just thought it might be a fashion statement rather than a sign Sebastian was thinking of joining the PLO.

He saw the Inspector approaching and, shutting the lid of the laptop, sat back in his chair, arms crossed.

“Any luck, Inspector?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I think we’re getting somewhere.”

In fact, he doubted this very much, but Sebastian’s reaction was interesting. He became still. It was an unnatural stillness, as if his muscles were gathering themselves for flight, and as if his hearing had suddenly become particularly acute.

“Really?” In what must have been a painful reminder of an adolescence not that far back in his past, Seb’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again at a lower register. “Really? And how is that?” Now he sounded like Bette Davis announcing a bumpy night.

“You will be told all in good time,” said St. Just in his most avuncular manner. There, he thought. Enough to keep Seb on his toes without scaring the bejesus out of him, rendering him useless to the investigation. “You know, you have a very loyal girlfriend.”

“Who, Saffron?” He shrugged. “Yeah. She’s all right. But she’s more my friend than a girlfriend, you know.”

“Oh, yes, I know your generation likes to make these fine distinctions. But you are sleeping with her, aren’t you?”

“What’s that to do with you?” demanded Sebastian, not unreasonably, thought St. Just.

“I’ll offer you a bit of advice,” St. Just said. “You may not think that makes Saffron your girlfriend, but I would be willing to bet she thinks it does. She is in love with you, if you didn’t know it. And my impression is she’d do anything for you. Why, she might even lie for you, Sebastian. Do you think she’d do that, Seb?” He leaned onto the oak desk. “Do you think she’d lie for you?” he asked softly.

A mulish expression blunted the soft planes of Sebastian’s face, a face which had not yet hardened into that of the man he would become. St. Just stood so close he could see the little spot of blood where Seb had cut his chin shaving, and could smell his stupendously dreadful, musky aftershave.

Sebastian looked away. He began to play with the cord of his computer, winding it ’round and ’round his index finger, then unwinding it in the other direction.

“Leave that and look at me,” said St. Just sharply. The ever-present Japanese student near the window looked about, annoyed, to see what was the matter. “If you know something germane to this case,” St. Just went on, “you’d best tell me now. If Saffron knows something, she’d be wise to tell us, even if it means turning her back on you. She probably won’t, of course. She doesn’t know yet how expendable she is, does she?”