Death at the Alma Mater (4 page)

“How long do you think they’d been at it before Lexy found out?” she wondered aloud. “Did anyone ever hear?”

“Really, Gwenn! It’s hardly our business.”

“Oh, come on. It was the scandal of the year, if not the decade. Don’t pretend you aren’t just a bit curious. All I ever heard was that Lexy discovered the pair of them—in flagrante, no less—and went ballistic. I never quite got the details; it was all hushed up so quickly and I never got a chance to speak with Lexy in private about it before she—before they all—left. Too bad—there’s quite a story there.”

“You wouldn’t!” Hermione stared at her friend in staggered disbelief. Gwenn shrugged her thin shoulders impatiently.

“Who wouldn’t? Once they’re all dead and gone, the truth might just out. The only thing preventing me now, really, is Lexy. I always felt sorry for her, somehow. India is a different story. She was a troublemaker always.”

“Certainly, there was always a man involved,” agreed Hermione, caught up, despite herself, in remembered outrage. “What basis there could have been for the attraction—indeed, that struck many as a mystery. Pheromones?” she wondered, calling on remembered reading in her botanical research.

“Yes, certainly something primitive like that was in play,” replied Gwenn. “But I would call it an uncanny ability to get into the head of your victim—it’s the only possible word, other than ‘target’—and charm the pants off of them.” She smiled, a slow lazy smile of reminiscence. “I suppose I mean that literally. India always had this ability—seldom wasted on the likes of me or you, I assure you—to talk on whatever subject most interested the object of her affection. It’s as if she herself doesn’t exist—all bug eyes, and little interjections of ‘ooh’ and ‘ah’ at the relevant points in the narrative. I’d say she had no personality at all but of course she has the most powerful personality I’ve ever come across. Not to mention, destructive. That son of hers is much the worse for her brand of mothering, if you ask me. That’s one unhappy kid. I ran into him earlier on the stairs, looking like thunder.”

Hermione nodded. “Sebastian is a bit of a worry.”

They sat in silence a moment, contemplating the possible future for the handsome if troubled offspring of their former fellow student.

“Have you spoken with Karl yet?” Gwenn now asked.

“No. I saw him and Constance arrive, but they must have gone straight up to their rooms.”

“He’s probably somewhere trying to work the ring out of his nose.”

Hermione allowed herself a delicate snort. She always enjoyed Gwenn’s company, almost despite her better instincts. That two women so exactly opposite should have remained friends was something Hermione always wondered at and, in her way, was grateful for. She had few friends: No one, if she but knew it, felt they could quite live up to her high moral standards. Gwenn, because she didn’t care, didn’t try.

“She does rather lead him around, doesn’t she?” agreed Hermione now. “Always has done.”

“I’ve seen Chihuahuas with more courage than Karl.”

Hermione nodded.

“And I’ve seen Rottweilers better disposed than Constance.”

–––

Constance and Karl Dunning were in the SCR, taking advantage of the rare freedom of the place, he to admire the woodwork and she surreptitiously to take a peek inside the walnut drinks cabinet.

“They do all right for themselves, these Fellows,” she said, assessing the paneled walls, the oil paintings, and the two deeply embrasured windows that looked out over the front of the college. Their window seats held padded tapestry cushions, depicting the college shield (goats and unicorns rampant), that had in 1951 been the project of the then-Master’s wife.

From the open windows of the SCR came the sweet fragrance of flowers and newly shorn grass and the faint “thwump” of a tennis ball in play. Tall leaded windows on the opposite side of the room were merely decorative.

“As for our rooms,” Constance continued, “I’ve seen better accommodation in a stable.”

“There are parallels in Christianity, of course,” said her husband mildly.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing. Take a look at this. That’s a genuine Chippendale or I miss my guess.”

She nodded, gray eyes judiciously weighing and measuring, oversized round earrings gleaming. She smoothed her skinned-back dark hair, which she habitually wore shellacked into a tight chignon at the base of her large skull, and straightened the knitted jacket of her suit.

“There’s mold somewhere in this room,” she announced. “And in my room upstairs. I can feel it, seeping into my pores. My allergies—”

“There’s mold in most Cambridge rooms. It’s probably what prevents the buildings from collapsing altogether—it acts as a sort of glue. Oxford’s far worse, I hear.”

“And the food! Remember what you said about the food! It’s all not going to be what we’re used to.”

“No, indeed, my dear.”

“We should leave now!”

“Sweetest, it’s only for a few days.”

“I’ll be in a hospital by then, I tell you. And, my room is going to be freezing at night. There is no heat coming out of that contraption on the wall. But—you just don’t care, do you?”

“Darling, I told you: The heat is at the optimum setting already. The thermostat must be broken. But it’s only for the weekend. Besides, it’s summer. Could be much worse, and probably usually is.” He gave her a hopeful, benign smile.

She leveled at him a venomous look from beneath high-arched eyebrows.

“Do I look happy?” she asked him.

As there was no need for reply, wisely, he made none.

“Then have it seen to,” she commanded. “Ask the Porter or someone.”

People wondered how Karl stood it, and why. He would be mortified to hear some of the theories and rumors that had been bruited about over the years, most of them originating with Gwenn Pengelly. Gwenn had read widely of the tales surrounding the Duchess of Windsor and her baffling hold over HRH. The story had been spread around the time of the abdication, and had gained rapid currency, that Wallis had picked up some diabolical sexual techniques during her time in China, and that she had used these to ensnare the future King. For some reason, foot fetishism was the most agreed-upon outlet for the Prince’s ardor.

But the truth, probably in the case of HRH and certainly in the case of Karl Dunning, was much simpler. Karl, introverted and shy, had been lonely when he met Constance. Insanely lonely and, thanks to his financial acumen and various inventions for which he held the patents, wealthy. Constance, with the sure instincts of her kind, had spotted the weakness and gone in for the kill, unawed by either Karl’s social status or his intellect, where lesser egos had been deferential to his genius. Far from resenting his entrapment, Karl remained grateful and deeply attached to his wife, recognizing the neediness behind the constant demands. He was one of those people who needed to be needed. Most would have agreed that according to his lights, he’d found the perfect match.

“Just get through the weekend, my dear,” he said now. Her unhappiness made him almost physically ill, so attuned was he to her moods. “Get through just these few days, and I promise you a week at the Ritz in Paris that you’ll never forget. Whatever you want is yours.”

She didn’t have to pause for thought. She kept a mental list of her latest wants constantly updated.

“You know I’ve had my eye on that cocktail ring…”

“Anything.”

“All right, then. But don’t expect me to enjoy myself for a moment.”

“You’re a saint, Constance.”

AULD ACQUAINTANCE

As the instructions accompanying
the invitation to the alumni weekend had explained, there would be an informal meal in Hall Friday night, to be followed by a formal dinner on Saturday night. Saturday day would be taken up with lectures, tours, and chances to reminisce. Augie Cramb, late of Austin, Texas, debated the choices as he walked along Sidney Street, past Sidney Sussex College, his footsteps carrying him ever farther away from St. Mike’s. He’d much prefer a pub meal and a chance to chat up the locals to what, however “informal,” would surely be the grinding bore of a meal in Hall. Even when he’d lived here as a graduate student for the two long years it took to get his Master’s, he’d avoided meals in college like the plague they often were. It wasn’t the pomp and circumstance of college life he was after, but to get to know the people. He regarded this natural inclination as the secret to his success. He understood the little man. It was the nobs he couldn’t fathom. Besides, the weekend was going to be awkward enough in spots without his having to go out of his way to have meals with the others. He was here to sightsee. Sightsee he would.

He pulled out his personal navigation device, although he knew the way perfectly well. Augie, who had made and conserved his fortune during the dot-com bubble, loved gadgets, and this small new GPS seldom left his side. He punched in the name of the pub he remembered from nearly twenty years ago. Nothing. Maybe it was another victim of the pub closings that were swamping England. More than fifty per week were shutting their doors, he’d read somewhere. The smoking ban and cheap supermarket booze had done for them. It was the real end of the British Empire as far as Augie was concerned.

Well, there was always The Eagle on Bene’t Street. That pub was so famous, so beloved of scientists and World War II buffs, it would be around even if the city fell. Heck, if there were ever any danger of the Eagle’s closing he’d buy the place himself.

He set his steps towards Petty Cury, turning there to walk towards the river. He kept his eyes on the GPS screen, not realizing how this inhibited his ability to see any actual sights. So engrossed in his gadget was he, in fact, that he had collided with Sir James before he knew it.

“Oh, I say, I’m jolly sorry,” said Sir James.

“Jamie, my boy!” shouted Augie in surprise. Several heads turned to see what the commotion was about. Augie, from the wide open spaces of Texas, where a man was free to yell all he wanted, saw no need to moderate his speech.

Sir James, hugely affronted at the familiarity (his knighthood was a source of immense pride and had been awarded not before time, in his opinion), smiled somewhat frostily and turned to his wife.

“You’ll remember India, I think,” he said, his voice deliberately kept low in the vain hope Augie Cramb would follow suit.

“Indy!” shouted Augie. He clapped her on the upper arm hard enough to send her flying into traffic; she was just prevented from such a fate by her husband’s quick thinking. Grabbing her, Sir James set her to rights. Unlike her husband, India could not be bothered to hide her antipathy: Augie Cramb had always been a buffoon, and while age had not withered him—he had to have put on two stone, and all of it around his middle—custom, she felt sure, would quickly stale his infinite variety.

“It’s my GPS.” Augie was explaining now, in excruciating detail, the device he held to within a few inches of James’ nose. “It uses satnav—satellite navigation—see? I just love this thing.”

This thang fumed India silently. Oh, my god. To think at one time she had found this prat worth putting on net stockings for.

“Then you punch in the address, see? And look, it’s even got a world travel clock with time zones, a currency converter, a measurement converter, a calculator …” James, to his credit, looked on with every appearance of polite interest. James, who could not insert a battery in the electric toothbrush and had no wish to learn how. That was what servants were for. “I was headed for the Eagle,” Augie went on. “The GPS tells me where to turn. You should get one of these things. Tells you where you are.”

“I know where I am,” said Lady Bassett.

“And surely,” said James, hesitating, “you remember the Eagle? We all spent many an afternoon there during our wasted youth.”

Augie sighed. “That’s not the point. It’s that … well you see … I can’t miss it this way.” Reluctantly, he pocketed the little device. Difficult to explain the thrill of technology to two people probably still wedded to their ABC railway guides. “Why don’t you two kids join me for a drink?”

James and India, fighting to keep the looks of desperate horror off their faces, spoke simultaneously:

“We’re due for drinks with the Master.”

“We’re having drinks with the Bursar.”

India gave her husband a subtle stomp on the instep. It would have been bearable if she hadn’t been wearing heels.

“They’ll both be there,” she finished brightly. “The Master and the Bursar, you see. Dreadfully sorry. Some other time, perhaps.” She did not allow her voice to end on an upward inflection that would turn the last sentence into a question. She would have drinks with this ruffian colonist when hell froze over and not before.

“Sure,” said Augie. They thought they were fooling someone but he knew better. The friendlier he tried to be, the more these bluebloods looked down their noses. He didn’t get it. Folk high and low were friendly where he came from.

And it’s not as if the three of them didn’t go way back together …

“Sure,” he said again. “Catch up with you later.”

–––

“I wonder when it’ll be safe to go back. They’re everywhere. Including my parents. Could this get any worse?”

Sebastian Burrows stood at the rear bar of the Eagle. After countless visits he had become oblivious to its history and the golden ambience created by its warm yellow walls. The famed ceiling, its darkened surface scorched with the writing of British and American fighter pilots, went unnoticed and unremarked.

“Insult to injury, I agree,” said Saffron Sellers. She stood behind the bar in jeans, a knee-length T-shirt, and iridescent green eye shadow.

“You want another?” She indicated the pint at his elbow. “Manager’ll never know. He’s out somewhere with the missus; they won’t be back until business picks up around five.”

“Sure, why not?” Sebastian shoved the glass in her direction. Having a girlfriend who tended bar had its perks. Besides, he wasn’t officially in training right now.

“Have you seen Lexy yet?” he asked Saffron’s turning back.

“Oh, yes. I caught a glimpse,” she sighed, expertly pulling his pint. “She’s amazing.” Saffron had lost the struggle with the knowledge there was something slightly shameful about her avid interest in their distinguished visitor. It was like having a movie idol visit the college. Not that Lexy had ever done anything but be Lexy. She had no discernable talent except for being a lesser member of the minor nobility who happened to be stylish and hugely photogenic. For some people, that was enough. By a little-understood process—little understood even to the reporters and reviewers who followed her every move—Lexy’s presence at a restaurant meant years-long success for that restaurant, however marginal may have been the meal she’d eaten there. Her being seen wearing a particular designer’s dress spelt triumph for the designer and steady employment for the knock-off designers.

Sebastian, reading the longing in Saffron’s eyes—she was the most transparent of creatures, Saffy—laughed, with a mockery that was not quite gentle in his voice. “She’s famous for her hairstyle, isn’t she? Why on earth would you care about that?”

Ruefully, Saffron ran a hand through her own tousled, multi-colored mop—a mop she styled herself, often with a straight razor.

“You wouldn’t understand,” she said.

“Anyway, the parents aren’t half in a twist about her being there. What’s odd is, I guess I’m sort of related to her. What do you call your stepfather’s ex-wife?”

“I don’t think there’s a name for it.”

“My mother has a few names for it,” said Sebastian. “None of them suitable for printing in a family newspaper. She hates Lexy’s being here.”

“It is jolly odd.”

“I wonder if Lexy thinks there’s a chance of breaking the pair of them up?”

Saffron shook her head solemnly: Dunno. What the oldies got up to in the name of amor was beyond her ken.

Sebastian had his own reasons Lexy, and the other visitors, made him uncomfortable. Just one was the unhappiness Lexy caused his mother, and James—although Sebastian cared less about the happiness of his stepfather. But he liked James, really. For a stepfather, James was all right. Like all old people, James tried too hard to get Sebastian to like him, asking about his studies and his professors and trying to show an interest. But James, had he but known it, didn’t have to try quite so hard. He seemed to make his mother happy. That was good enough for Seb.

Besides, James wasn’t stingy. Sebastian had to give him that. All Seb ever had to do was ask, and money would flow into his bank account. If he asked for a fiver, James would hand over a hundred-pound note. It drove Sebastian mad, actually—he didn’t want handouts, although sometimes he had no choice. It was bribery, besides. Seb knew that: Here’s a hundred, now go away. But like most young people, Sebastian wanted to be independent, not relying on money from the wrinklies. Money like that always came with strings attached. He was hoping very much at this moment his independence day wouldn’t be far off.

“… It’s brilliant,” Saffron was saying. “You’re a genius, Seb.”

Sebastian hoisted his pint, acknowledging the compliment.

“Working like a charm so far.”

Saffron’s attention was distracted just then by a new customer. She hadn’t seen or heard him come in, treading lightly in an expensive pair of trainers. Now he sat patiently at a far corner table, some old guy wearing a weird shirt with pointed pockets and mother-of-pearl buttons—the kind of pockets that snapped shut instead of buttoning in the normal way. A cowboy shirt, like she’d seen on the telly. Howdy! He wore an enormous belt with a buckle the size of a tea saucer. This had to be an American. Jeez, they grew them big over there. He was taller than Seb, who was well over six feet.

“Shhh,” she said to Sebastian.

She walked over to see what Matt Dillon wanted.