Death in an Ivory Tower (Dotsy Lamb Travel Mysteries) (25 page)

“But not one of you will ever call me!”

The shout came from my right. I turned, as did everyone in the hall, and saw Mignon, now standing, sweeping her jiggly arm around to include the entire assembled group. It felt as if she pointed directly at me, but I suspected we all felt the same. Her eyes danced with anger.

“You’re blind! All of you! King Arthur was real.
Is real.
The greatest king England will ever know, and not one of you will allow his name to be spoken in this bloody ivory tower, unless the word ‘myth’ goes with it. Well, you almost got corrected! Almost, but not quite, because Bram Fitzwaring died before he could set you straight.”

Harold Wetmore thumped on his microphone, for attention I supposed, but it didn’t work. He looked chagrined, peering toward the back and side doors, as if he’d give his kingdom for a horse—or a policeman—or anyone who knew what to do in a situation like this.

Mignon went on. “Bram had a thousand pounds with him and he intended to use it to obtain the proof you all need to open your stupid eyes, but he didn’t get the chance. I’ll give you a hint. The proof is right here in Oxford!”

Stirrings around the room.

“But I don’t know where Bram’s money is. Undoubtedly someone here stole it from his room. All I need is a thousand pounds, and I’ll show you proof positive that King Arthur and Queen Guinevere were as real as you or I!”

Harold’s voice boomed through the microphone. “You insult us, then ask us to give you a thousand pounds? That’s not likely to happen, Miss Beaulieu.”

Nervous laughter.

Mignon lurched forward as if she were about to trample over the people in front of her, then staggered left and into the center aisle. But before she could reach the front of the room, Harold had scurried for the steps at the side of the dais and a number of men from the audience had risen to block Mignon’s progress. They surrounded her. I didn’t wait to see the rest. I slipped out the back.

I felt my phone vibrate in the purse I held clinched under my arm. Pulling the phone out and checking the screen, I hoped it was Lettie calling, but it was the airline with its automatic “time to check in” prompt. I wasn’t ready for this! Home tomorrow? No way. Could I wrap this mess up before tomorrow? Could I leave not knowing what the lab would find on or in those syringes? Not knowing who shot Lindsey? Not knowing why Bram upended his furniture in the middle of the night, and then died?

Could I leave without ever seeing Arthur’s bones? I had to admit it. I was more than curious. Bram must have taken
something
to the radiocarbon dating lab. What was it? Would Mignon raise the thousand pounds, call a press conference, sign a major book deal, and stun the world as I watched from my TV back home?

When I reached the center of the East Quad, the windows all around began to sway. Low blood sugar. I’d eaten no lunch and it was four o’clock. I didn’t think I could make it up all those stairs to my room so I stumbled to the bench and sat. I could feel my brain pulsating behind my eyeballs.

“What did I tell you?” For a second I thought it was my mother chiding me because I’d done it again. I turned toward the sound of the voice and saw Larry Roberts, waving like a stalk of corn in the wind. “What did I tell you? Complete wackos. Both of them.”

“I need something with sugar. Go up to my room, and get the cookies on my tray.”

Larry knew about my condition. “Where’s your room key?”

“In my purse.”

He grabbed it off the bench, dumped the contents on the ground, and picked up the key with the magic button attached. “What’s your room number? Never mind, it says six right here.” He must have flown the whole way because I was still conscious when he returned. “Cookies,” he said, handing me two cellophane-wrapped packages. “And I found your orange juice.” He punched the attached straw through the foil opening on top and handed it to me.

I waited for the sugar rush, hoping I wouldn’t throw up first. When it came, like a blessed chorus of angels, I smiled. Larry was still standing there. I heard him ask some passersby to wait in case we needed more help. “I’m better, now.”

Larry insisted I wait a minute and volunteered to find me a proper meal, but I didn’t need one now. “You were in the meeting just now?” he asked. “You saw Mignon’s performance?” I let him gloat for a minute, but he was getting on my nerves. When I get low blood sugar everything gets on my nerves.

“Where did they take her?” I asked.

“Harold told them to bring her to the Master’s Lodgings.”

“They aren’t hurting her, are they?”

“Of course not. What kind of people do you think they are?”

“I don’t suppose Harold’s writing her a check for a thousand pounds.”

Larry laughed. For a second it was like old times, as if we were back in Charlottesville, discussing Shakespeare and
Macbeth.

Outside the college gate, I hailed a cab and headed for the hospital. I rode the elevator to the third floor and walked to Lindsey’s room. It was empty. Fresh sheets on the bed, and the flowers I’d brought her were gone. My heart leaped. The room felt cold and sterile, and I felt faint.
Did I get off the elevator on the wrong floor?
I hoped. Somewhat shakily, I walked to the nurses’ station where they told me Lindsey had been released a couple of hours earlier.

My main reason for coming here was not to see Lindsey, but to gain entrance to the research wing. I wanted to see St. Giles Bell’s lab again and I wanted to talk to Keith Bunsen. I knew Keith wasn’t in his rooms at St. Ormond’s, but he might still be talking to the police or he might be here. If he was here, he’d probably be in his lab. This presented a couple of problems. I couldn’t walk into the research wing without clearance. The only other time I’d been there, Lindsey had called ahead, given her name, and someone had buzzed us through.

I started to tell a nurse at the station that I had a message from Lindsey for Dr. Bell and I needed to deliver it personally. That wouldn’t work now because I’d just expressed surprise that she wasn’t here, so when would she have given me this message? And if talk around this hospital was like most hospitals, every nurse in the building knew all about Lindsey, about St. Giles, and about Lindsey tagging Georgina as her shooter. They’d know Lindsey had given strict instructions that St. Giles was not to be allowed anywhere near her hospital room. So what excuse could I use?

I retreated to a nearby visitors’ waiting area and pretended to make a call, then sauntered over to the station again, and called one nurse over. Whispering, I said, “I suppose you know that Dr. Bell and Dr. Scoggin were seeing each other?” I waited for an affirmative nod, but my confidant wasn’t willing to make that commitment. “Well, they were. And that set him up as the police’s prime suspect.”

“But Dr. Bell was . . .”

“In London. I know.”

“But here’s the thing. Dr. Scoggin and Dr. Bell have had a misunderstanding. So sad, but she was so angry with him yesterday she never wanted to see him again.”

“Wasn’t there another woman?” The nurse stiffened as if she’d revealed more than she’d intended—which she had.

“Dr. Scoggin thought so, but that’s been cleared up. Anyway, I just called her. She’s at home now and she gave me a message to give Dr. Bell. It’s confidential, I’m afraid, but I promised I’d try to find him and give him the message personally.”

“Why doesn’t she call him herself?”

“I said the misunderstanding has been cleared up. I didn’t say she was ready to talk to him yet. She’s at home now with her mother and her children. She’s on pain meds and she’s simply had all the trauma she can deal with for the moment.”

“I quite understand. One moment. I’ll see if Dr. Bell is in the building.” She pushed another nurse away from the phone, made a couple of calls, and at length I heard her say, “A Mrs. Lamb is here. She’s a friend of Dr. Scoggin and she has a message for you. May I send her down?” Hanging up, she told me, “He’s in his laboratory on ground floor. Take the elevator down and ask at the front desk. They’ll see you get there straight away.”

A couple of white-coated assistants were working in Keith Bunsen’s lab across the hall from Bell’s lab. I saw them through the bulletproof glass wall, but I didn’t see Keith. On the opposite side of the hall, Bell’s door was closed. I peeked through the glass wall beside it wondering if I should knock or what. I knocked. A minute later St. Giles opened the door and ushered me in with more amiable hospitality than I deserved. I’d forgotten how attractive he was.

“You have a message for me? From Lindsey?”

“I’m afraid I misled the nurse upstairs. Actually, I want to talk to you
about
Lindsey.” The room smelled like a tidal mud flat, with oysters bathing in pans of toxic soup.

“Come in, come in.” He looked around, ran his hand through his hair, and frowned. “There’s no comfortable place to sit here. Let’s go to my office across the hall.” He led me across to a door that was only a foot or so from the door to Bunsen’s lab, plied the knob with a key, and waved me in.

I’d been here before. This was the same room in which I’d talked to Keith about Bram’s participation in the diabetes study. On that occasion, Keith and I had walked in from the opposite side of the room. I recognized the partition that separated this office space from Keith’s laboratory.

“Dr. Bunsen and I share this. His work is on diabetes.”

“I know. When I was here before, I talked to him and he brought me in here.” The two desks on opposite walls, each with its own computer, chair, and filing cabinets, made sense now. I grabbed the chair at Keith’s desk and turned it around. “By the way, I was talking to someone the other day about shellfish poisoning, and I recalled the work you told me about. What was the name of the chemical you are using?”

St. Giles blushed, then stammered, “Are you talking about saxitoxin?”

“I think that’s it. A friend of mine died recently after showing symptoms oddly similar to shellfish poisoning, and after both he and I ate some mussels and got sick. I’m sure he didn’t eat enough to kill him, but with my visit here fresh on my mind, I wondered. Is it possible someone could have stolen this—what did you call it—saxitoxin and injected him with a strong dose?”

“From my lab? No. I keep careful records.” He smiled bravely in spite of the fact that my question carried with it an accusation of sloppy record-keeping.

“Of course. I didn’t mean that. But suppose someone broke in and stole some of your supply. Unless they left traces of the break-in, you wouldn’t know about it until you compared your supply with your records.”

Was it my imagination, or did I see beads of sweat in his hairline?

“Look. Here’s where I keep my supply.” Without standing, he swirled his wheeled desk chair around to a safe mounted under the counter near his own workspace. He blocked my view of the dial with his body and opened the thick metal door. I peered around him and saw several glass vials inside. “See? This is it. After I purify the saxitoxin in my oysters, I record it and put it in here. It’s a time-lock safe. After hours, even I can’t open this safe. Even on orders from the queen. And how many people know the combination?” He held up one finger. “Me. No one else.”

“What about Dr. Bunsen?”

“He has his own safe. It’s around the corner.”

“But anyone who has ever watched you open it could have ...”

“I’m careful, Mrs. Lamb.” His tone told me I’d taken this far enough. “I thought you wanted to talk to me about Lindsey.”

“I suppose you’ve heard Lindsey told the police she thinks it was Georgina Wetmore who shot her.”

He nodded.

“Do you know Georgina?”

“No. The police have already interviewed me today. I told them I haven’t the vaguest idea who Georgina Wetmore is.”

“Lindsey’s mother told me Lindsey found Georgina’s picture in your desk.”

“What?”

“You didn’t know that?”

“The police asked me about her, but they didn’t mention a photograph.”

“Didn’t they ask to see inside your desk?’

“I was at home at the time.”

I looked at the desks on both sides of this small room. “Which desk is yours?”

St. Giles rolled himself back to the desk opposite the one at which I was sitting. “This one, but I also have a desk in my office upstairs and in my home office as well.” As he talked, he slid open the drawer above the kneehole space. “Bloody hell!”

He pulled out a full color, eleven by fourteen photo of the lovely young woman who’d blown bubbles with Lindsey’s children. He turned it toward me and I couldn’t help noticing she was completely nude. I read the inscription:
All my love forever, Georgina.

“I swear to God, I’ve never seen this in my life!”

“And this is Keith Bunsen’s desk?” I pulled out the drawer nearest my chair. Inside it lay a scattering of pens, rubber tubes, and USB cables. “It’s obvious what happened. Whoever put the photo in your desk—probably Georgina—got the desks mixed up.”

St. Giles nodded, studied the photo, and tapped the face. “I’ve seen her, but I can’t think where.”

“Right here, probably,” I said.

Before I had a chance to explain, the phone on St. Giles’s desk rang. I picked up my purse and, as I slipped out, heard, “How long? Yes, Chief Inspector Child, I’ll be here. I’ll tell the front desk you’re on your way.”

Lindsey was dozing, Lettie told me. At her flat, I found Claire and Caleb both in manic states, hugely relieved that their mother was home again, but also suffering from cabin fever. I promised I’d walk to the store with them after I talked to their grandmother.

Lettie thought my news was important enough to wake Lindsey. She led me up the stairs and into a darkened bedroom. Lindsey was sleeping on her back, snoring softly. I imagined her throat was still raw from the breathing tube. When Lettie pulled the blinds open, her daughter moaned and squinted, smacking her dry lips as she raised her arm to shield her eyes.

“Dotsy’s here,” Lettie said. “And she’s made a very interesting discovery.”