The Age of Treachery (6 page)

It was dark by the time he got to the river and she was already waiting for him, wearing a pale mackintosh and headscarf, pacing up and down, her breath producing little clouds in the cold. Harassed, distraught, without make-up, she was still effortlessly capable of making his heart stand still. She wasted no time on preliminaries as they walked down to the towpath beside the black water.

“They’ve taken him in for questioning,” she said. Forrester’s heart sank: he realised he’d been assuming all along that Clark had managed to get away.

“Where did they find him?”

She seemed surprised. “Why, here, of course. At home.”

“He didn’t try to leave the country?”

“Of course not. Why should he?”

Forrester paused to consider this, but before he could speak she had taken his hands. She had never taken his hands before. Hers were pleasingly cold, the flesh soft; he could feel the delicate bones beneath. “You know, don’t you?” she said. “About David and me. He told you, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“You must promise me you won’t tell the police.” Forrester stared at her. She went on quickly. “It would look so bad. As if he had a motive.”

“He did have a motive,” said Forrester.

“Yes, but there’s no reason for the police to know that. They might jump to the wrong conclusion.”

Forrester’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t believe he did it,” he said.

She looked at him, astonished. “Of course he didn’t. Can you imagine Gordon stabbing someone?”

Forrester could imagine it perfectly well. “The murder happened in his rooms,” he said. “Lyall fell out of
his
window. We all saw the body.”

“He didn’t kill him,” said Margaret Clark firmly.

“How can you be certain?”

“Because when David was killed, Gordon was at home with me.”

Forrester blinked. “That’s what you’ve told the police?”

“It’s the truth.”

“Do the police accept that?”

“They might not if they knew about David and me,” she said. “That’s why you mustn’t tell them.”

They were passing a hotel now, and its lights flickered on the dark water. Forrester stared at them, almost hypnotised, and it was several minutes before he spoke. “You’re asking me to withhold evidence.”

“But it’s evidence Gordon gave you himself. You wouldn’t know unless he’d told you.”

“I’m not sure what difference that makes.”

“You can’t just go passing on confidences.”

“Except in a murder enquiry,” said Forrester.

She stopped; a lamp in the trees illuminated her flushed face, her bright eyes. “Gordon’s your friend,” she said. “What’s more important, following the rules or saving his life?”

“They’ll find out from somebody else.”

“They may do, they may not. I’m asking you to promise me they won’t find it out from you.”

After a moment Forrester said, “Was he really at home with you when Lyall was killed?” He watched her closely as he put the question to her, saw the brief movement of her pupils as they darted away from him before she replied.

“Of course,” she said. “You don’t think I’m a liar, do you?”

“You’re asking me to be one,” said Forrester. “To the police.”

“For Gordon’s sake,” she said.

She took his hands again, pulling him closer. Forrester felt weak with desire, weak with the effort of hiding it. “Listen,” she said. “I’ve been a total bitch to that man. He didn’t deserve what I did. I’m bitterly ashamed. But if he hangs because of it, I’ll never forgive myself. Please help him, Duncan. Please.” Her wide, desperate eyes were cornflower blue. Her lips were just inches from his; all he wanted was to kiss them. When he spoke it was as much as anything to stop himself doing just that.

“Alright,” he said. “I won’t mention what Gordon told me.”

“Thank you,” she breathed, and her lips touched his cheek. “Thank you, Duncan.”

Almost before he knew it she had released his hand and melted away into the darkness, leaving him feeling like a man who has just sprung into the air off a diving board only to realise that the pool beneath him is empty.

* * *

Forrester dined in the hall that night, but spoke to no-one; very few Fellows were present and none of them seemed to have anything to say to one another. The undergraduates eyed them curiously, and whispered among themselves, but none of them dared ask any questions. After an indifferent meal and some indifferent port, Forrester retired early and fell swiftly asleep.

* * *

As Forrester slept, Arne Haraldson checked that there was no night nurse in the ward, and rose from his bed. Again, he paused, checked that all the other patients were sleeping, and walked quietly to the dispensary, closing the door gently behind him.

When he emerged, ten minutes later, only his eyes were visible beneath the bandages which swathed his face. In his hand he was carrying a surgical scalpel.

Nurse Elizabeth Tremain returned to the ward just as the man emerged from the dispensary, and as she pushed the heavy swing door back and stood there blinking while her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she was unaware that he was standing behind her, hidden by the door. Unaware on one level – but some intuition told her there was something wrong, and she was about to turn round and come face to face with him when the patient in the left-hand bed at the far end of the ward cried out.

Without further thought Nurse Tremain strode down towards him between the beds, and as she did so the man with the bandaged face stepped out of the ward before the swing doors had even closed.

When he reached the ground floor the only obstacle between him and the outer door was the porter, who was seated reading that day’s copy of the
Oxford Mail
, in which David Lyall’s murder was fully reported. Hearing a footstep in the hall he looked up and saw – nothing.

The bandaged man was already outside in the night. The time was approximately 2.30 a.m.

* * *

In his rooms, Forrester had been alternating between sleep and wakefulness, disturbed by the usual dreams. Suddenly – he reckoned later it was just after 3.00 a.m. – he found himself sitting upright, sweat pouring from his forehead. He sat there for some time, and knew sleep would not readily return. Finally, he got dressed, put on his overcoat and walked out into the night.

Snow lay thick on the ground and it was oddly soothing to walk through the cloisters and across the quadrangles of the college while everyone slept. There was an innocence about a community asleep that made Forrester feel oddly protective towards both the students and his fellow dons. And even, somehow, to the generations of scholars who had lain and dreamt there since the Middle Ages. When he came to the Lady Tower he stopped and looked up, hoping to see the stars; but there were no stars tonight, just the silhouette of the scaffolding Norton had put up for the repair work. The cloud cover was thick over the Oxford Valley that night, and Forrester knew it was going to snow again.

What he did not know was that Haraldson was standing directly behind him, in the shadow of the tower, and the scalpel he had taken from the Churchill Hospital was just inches from Forrester’s jugular vein.

Haraldson was significantly taller than Forrester, and the scalpel was raised in his right hand so that it would sweep down diagonally, connecting with Forrester’s neck just below his right ear. Behind the bandages, the dark eyes glittered in the reflected light of the snow as Forrester stared up at the boarded up window of Gordon Clark’s room, asking himself what had really happened there.

Had he turned back towards the Lady Tower, the sight of Haraldson’s bandaged face would probably have been the last thing he saw; but as it was, not knowing the significance of what he was doing, he stepped out onto the lawn and walked across the snow to the place where David Lyall’s body had lain. He then stood there, contemplating the spot, for a long moment. Behind him, Haraldson watched intently and then padded silently along the cloisters and up the stairs to David Lyall’s rooms, where he pushed the bandages away from his eyes and resumed the search he had begun the night before.

* * *

Detective Inspector Barber appeared in Forrester’s rooms early that morning and stood at the window with his back to him, his drooping eye studying the quadrangle as Forrester struggled into his clothes. “History,” said Barber, almost to himself. “History oozing out of every pore.”

Dons and undergraduates went back and forth across the snow, their gowns flapping behind them. Forrester knew Barber had positioned himself so that he was silhouetted against the window and the light would fall on Forrester when he began to question him. So before Barber could begin Forrester came and stood beside him, looking out at the same view.

“I find the view very soothing,” he said. “Puts things into perspective, looking out there. Do sit down.” And he pulled a hard chair behind the desk out for himself and gestured for Barber to take the comfortable one in front of it.

Which put him in the precise spot Barber had intended to take.

Forrester had been interrogated by professionals and knew the advantages of keeping the light out of your eyes as they probed. So did Barber, clearly, who accepted this small defeat gracefully and sank into the chair. “So, this assault on Professor Haraldson,” he said. “What was all that about?”

“I have no idea,” said Forrester without rancour. “As I told you at the time I had nothing to do with it.”

“And yet I found you struggling with him. Violently struggling.”

“You saw yourself he was concussed and confused. He struck out blindly and I was trying to calm him. I imagine if you’ve talked to him since he’ll have clarified what happened.”

“I visited him yesterday. He intimated that he had seen a light on in Dr. Lyall’s room, and went to investigate. He was struck from behind.”

“And you believe him?”

Barber ignored the question. “You and Dr. Clark were close,” he stated, paused briefly to allow Forrester to demur if he so wished, and then went on, “Did he tell you why he killed David Lyall?”

“I’ve no reason to believe he did kill Dr. Lyall,” said Forrester, levelly.

“You have some reason to doubt he was the perpetrator?”

“It’s not a question of ‘reason to doubt’,” said Forrester. “It just never occurred to me that he had anything to do with it.”

“Despite the fact that the murder occurred in his rooms? And that you were there when the body fell from his window?”

“It may have been the window of his college rooms, but I understand he was at home when Lyall was killed.”

“Oh, yes?” said Barber swiftly. “Who told you that?”

Forrester caught himself in time.

“The Master,” he said. “The Master went up to Clark’s rooms and called down from the window that he wasn’t there and must therefore be at home.” Barber looked quizzically at him and then glanced at his notebook.

“Actually I believe the Master simply announced that the room was empty and it was you who told him Clark must be at home.”

“I stand corrected,” said Forrester, apparently graciously conceding a point of no importance. Barber looked at him sharply.

“This is a murder enquiry, sir,” he said. “Your friendship with Dr. Clark does not give you license to obstruct our enquiries. I should warn you there is a crime known as ‘accessory to murder’. I’m sure I need hardly point out that a charge to that effect would hardly be good for your standing in this university.” It was a shrewd blow. Forrester knew he had to regain the initiative.

“I hardly think making the assumption that Dr. Clark was at home would give grounds for accusing me of either obstructing the police or being an accessory to murder, Inspector,” he said. “It may or may not have been a false assumption but it was a perfectly natural one. Unlike yourself, I am not, after all, a professional investigator.”

Barber opened his mouth to reply but Forrester went on quickly.

“Let me be clear,” he said, “Gordon was – is – my friend; but if he killed Lyall he has to face justice and I’m not going to do anything to stand in the way of it. It’s just that I find it hard to believe he committed this crime, a belief to which I think I’m entitled. Is that fair enough?”

He said this looking straight back at Barber, inviting him to question his good faith. Barber clearly decided his best move was to capitalise on this moment of intimacy. “But surely, sir, all appearances suggest your friend stabbed Dr. Lyall in a fit of jealous rage.” Forrester’s stomach sank: so they already knew about Margaret and Lyall.

“Jealous rage?” he temporised.

“Didn’t he have reason to be jealous?” said Barber. So they were coming to the crunch at last.

“What reason?” said Forrester.

“I would have thought you would have known that perfectly well, sir,” said Barber.

“I’m sorry, I’m not following you.”

“Are you telling me you were unaware of any reason for Gordon Clark to be jealous of David Lyall?”

And there it was, the trap door in the floor, held politely open for him to step into. He saw Margaret Clark’s face in the lamplight, looking up at him, her lips slightly open. He thought of Barber’s threat if he did not co-operate. He made his decision. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

“I see,” said Barber, and let the silence gather. “I have to say I’m a little disappointed in you, Dr. Forrester.”

Forrester said nothing. He had played his cards and he would accept the consequences.

Barber moved in for the kill. “You’re not going to tell me you’re unaware of the Rotherfield Lectureship?”

Forrester’s mouth fell open. The Rotherfield Lectureship?

“Yes, I know about it, of course. But what does that have to do with—”

Barber stabbed the air with his forefinger.

“Are you saying you were unaware of the fact that although Dr. Clark believed himself best qualified to get it, the recommendation was that it should be awarded to Dr. Lyall?”

Forrester stared at him, relief welling up in him. Academic jealousy! The man had been talking about academic jealousy. Which meant he, Forrester, was back on firm ground.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. I had no idea about who was going to get the Rotherfield. I did know both men were in the running, but I didn’t know Lyall had been awarded it. I’m pretty sure Gordon Clark didn’t either, because he didn’t mention it to me. Who told you about this?”