The Age of Treachery (8 page)

“What would be most useful for me,” said Harrison, “would be if you just told me what happened that night as if I knew nothing. I’ve only heard bits and pieces anyway; but pretend I know nothing.” So Forrester did, only leaving out, because of his promise to Margaret Clark, the Senior Tutor’s revelation about his wife’s affair with David Lyall.

During the narrative Harrison puffed gently on his pipe and when it was over he found that it had gone out and required the usual ritual cleaning, refilling and relighting. During this he said, “What about the wife?”

“You mean, did she kill David Lyall?”

“Yes.”

“Why would she do that?”

“I saw them together, once. Well, more than once, actually.”

“Together?”

“On the riverbank. There was something about the way they stood – well, I suspected they were… close.”

Forrester thought about this. If even Harrison had been aware of something going on between Margaret and Lyall, it wasn’t going to be long before the police found out.

“So why should she kill him?” he temporised.

“Lovers’ quarrel? Crime of passion? I don’t know but that’s the sort of thing that has to be considered, isn’t it?”

Forrester thought about this – and realised it gave him an opportunity to get something out into the open without breaking a confidence.

“Surely if they were having an affair,” he said, “the person who’s most likely to have done the killing would be Clark himself?”

“But you don’t think he did, so I’m discounting that,” replied Harrison. That didn’t get them much further, but Forrester felt obscurely gratified by Harrison’s confidence.

“And there’s another thing,” said Harrison. “You’ve told me the police have witnesses proving she wasn’t at home when she said she was. Could
she
have been up at the college?”

Forrester felt a cold shiver as Harrison spoke; it was an image he didn’t want to contemplate. Had Margaret been there, waiting for Lyall with a knife, in Clark’s own rooms?

“Well, I don’t know where the witnesses who said she wasn’t at home actually said she was,” he replied carefully. “But if she killed Lyall in Gordon’s college rooms she was deliberately setting him up as the guilty party. Are you saying she’d let her husband hang for a murder she’d committed?”

“I don’t know how she felt about her husband,” replied Harrison reasonably. “If she was having an affair with Lyall I’m guessing that there were at least some problems with the marriage.”

Forrester thought about this. “She tried to give him an alibi,” he said.

“It was an alibi for her too.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Forrester, because he hadn’t. He got up and began to walk about the room. “Alright, let’s note that possibility. I’m not discounting it, we shouldn’t discount it, but I somehow don’t believe it. Knowing both of them, I can’t really give it credence. Let’s talk about some other options.”

“Well, what about Dr. Norton? According to you, Lyall was fairly beastly to him at High Table and Norton wasn’t at the saga reading. He had motive and opportunity. Why haven’t the police arrested him?”

“I don’t know. I’m assuming he has an alibi.”

“We should check that out.”

“How do you mean, ‘check it out’?”

“Get him into conversation, find out what he told the police about where he was. Would that be practical for you? Just in casual conversation? I could try but it might seem a bit awkward coming from an undergraduate as opposed to one of his colleagues.”

“No, it’s a good idea. And there’s no reason why I shouldn’t ask him.”

“There were an awful lot of people in the Lodge that night,” said Harrison regretfully. “But if I understand you rightly it wasn’t physically possible for any of them to have done it, right?”

“Not really,” said Forrester. “And as I was in the same room with them I’m afraid I’m part of their alibi.”

“What about this chap Haraldson? The one you found knocked out in Lyall’s rooms? Do you think he told the police the truth? About going up there because he saw somebody poking about? I mean, there’s no proof of that, is there? Barber only has his word for it.”

“True,” said Forrester. “And in fact I’m somewhat doubtful about his story.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because he was lying on top of the torch.”

“The torch that was supposed to have hit him?”

“Exactly. It doesn’t prove he wasn’t hit with the torch, but it seems odd.”

“But Haraldson was definitely in the Master’s Lodge with you when Lyall was killed?”

“He was up in the minstrels’ gallery, reading an Icelandic saga.”

“And there were a couple of Icelanders there too?”

“Yes. Engineering students. Hakon and Oskar something.”

“And some German chap?”

“Peter Dorfmann. Apparently one of the ‘Good Germans’. But he wasn’t one of the readers – he was down in the main room with me and the others.”

“Any relationship between him and Lyall?”

“None that I know of. Dorfmann knows Charles Calthrop, though – the Foreign Office chap who was also at High Table. I saw them together in Whitehall yesterday.”

“What about Calthrop? Did he have anything to do with Lyall?”

“He talked to him; perfectly civilised conversation about the state of Europe, that kind of thing. I’ve no reason to think they’d ever met before last night.”

Harrison was silent for a while.

“I take it there’s no doubt Lyall definitely fell from Clark’s window?”

“Not really – there were no footprints in the snow leading to the spot where he was lying, so he couldn’t have walked there. The only way he could have got there was through that window. And there was broken glass all around him.”

“Alright,” said Harrison. “Shall we draw up a plan of attack, then?”

Forrester smiled wryly. “It has the right military ring to it,” he said. Harrison grinned.

“I suppose we both thought we were done with that sort of rot on VE Day.”

“I certainly did,” said Forrester, “but you’re right. If I’m going to do anything for Gordon I’d better get organised. But I
am
very reluctant to draw you away from your studies. This isn’t your affair.”

“Unless I choose to
make
it my affair,” said Harrison. “And in effect, I have.”

Forrester looked at him: solid, optimistic, the pipe clamped determinedly between his teeth – and felt he was extremely glad to have Harrison on his side. “Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate that very much.”

He picked up a notepad and began to write as Harrison, for the umpteenth time, tried to get his pipe alight again.

Forrester took the Master aside before High Table that evening and asked if he could speak to him afterwards. When the meal was over he accompanied him to the Lodge. Once inside, Winters seated him by the fire and offered him some port.

As the rich, dark wine ran over his tongue, Forrester felt a sense of ease that had long eluded him. The fire crackled in the hearth and its light gilded the spines of the books on the shelves lining the room. There was a fine Shiraz prayer rug in the space between the two chairs and its dusty pink fibres glowed gently as if with an inner light.

But it was more than that. Professor Michael Winters was a profoundly reassuring presence: massive, comfortable in himself, at ease with the world. Forrester remembered that Winters’ father had been a general in the first war; he could imagine him sitting by a fire in some French chateau, talking confidentially to Field Marshal Haig about the next big push. He wondered if Winters’ interest in the Viking sagas was his oblique response to his father’s military valour.

Forrester’s father had been in the first war too, of course; as a private. He’d survived it too, only to come back to the almost equally dangerous life of a North Sea trawlerman. His anger at the incompetence of the generals never abated; nor did his bitterness about the incompetence of the peace that followed. But Forrester had had enough of bitterness; he found refuge in Winters’ comfortable view of the world.

“So, my dear Forrester, what can I do for you?” asked the Master, when they had savoured the port.

“I believe Gordon Clark is innocent, Master,” he said, “and I’m doing my best to find evidence to prove it.”

“I applaud you,” said Winters. “Dr. Clark is your friend and deserves every effort you can make on his behalf. As Plautus said, ‘
Is est amicus, qui in re dubia te juvat, ubi re est opus
.’”

“He is a true friend…” said Forrester, touched, “who, under doubtful circumstances…”

“Aids in deed, where deeds are necessary,” the Master finished. “As you are doing for Gordon. Needless to say I’ll do anything I can to help you.” Then he paused, weighing his words. “I ought to make it clear, though, Forrester, that I myself don’t share your view. I simply can’t see any other explanation for the facts as we know them.”

“I understand that, Master,” said Forrester. “And I appreciate you giving me your support anyway. Here’s what I want to ask you: the police initially told me they believed there was bad blood between Gordon and Lyall because Lyall had been awarded the Rotherfield Lectureship when Gordon believed he’d get it. Now Gordon has told me he didn’t know that had happened. I certainly hadn’t heard of it. Did he know?”

The Master thought for a moment.

“I can’t answer that with any certainty. I know
I
didn’t tell him. I don’t believe the official letters have gone out yet. The decision wasn’t mine, of course: it was made by the Special Lectureships Committee. It’s conceivable someone on that committee let the information slip, but who knows? Tell me, if you believe Gordon didn’t do it, who do you think did?”

Forrester sipped his port.

“Well, Alan Norton has to be a candidate,” he said carefully. “Everyone heard the row between him and Gordon that night.”

“Indeed they did,” replied the Master. “Lyall deliberately provoked Norton and Norton is a very prickly character. I’m assuming he must have some sort of alibi which has satisfied the police?”

“I’m trying to find out about that, but I was wondering if you could tell me anything more about Peter Dorfmann. Apart from the fact that he’s some sort of German politician I don’t know anything about him.”

“I think of him more as a scholar than a politician,” replied the Master. “He was in the Literature Department of Berlin University, specialising in the Enlightenment – Goethe and so on. Managed to keep his head down during the war, which means he’s eligible as a candidate in the next elections. Social Democrat, I believe.”

“Why is he here?”

“As part of some programme run by the Foreign Office to make sure the new German politicians understand what democracy’s all about. He wanted to visit some Oxford contacts and I offered to put him up at the college. As it turns out not a gesture that did much good for the image of British academia.”

Forrester nodded. If the Foreign Office was involved with the democratisation programme in Germany that explained why Dorfmann and Calthrop had been together in Whitehall the afternoon after the murder.

“But surely Dorfmann is out of the picture anyway?” asked Winters. “You yourself were in this room with him when Lyall was killed.”

“I was,” said Forrester, “which I agree makes it unlikely for him to have slipped out, gone up to Clark’s room and killed David Lyall.” The Master smiled.

“He would have had to be pretty fast on his feet to do that and get back inside the Lodge without anyone noticing. Even if one could come up with a reason for him to do so.”

“Exactly,” said Forrester. “And I suppose the same thing applies to everyone in the minstrels’ gallery.”

“I’m afraid my days as an athlete are long past, Forrester,” said Winters, smiling, “and as for the others up there during the reading, I can assure you none of them left his seat until Lady Hilary looked out of the window and raised the alarm.”

“I know,” said Forrester ruefully. “Otherwise I’d have taken a closer look at them, particularly Haraldson. You know I found him unconscious in Lyall’s rooms?”

“Yes, that was very odd. Did he explain what he was doing there?”

“No. But I have a suspicion he was looking for something. Someone had certainly been searching the place.”

“What on earth for?”

“I’m afraid I have no idea,” said Forrester.

Winters brooded on this for a moment. “I don’t know Haraldson well, but I’ve never heard a word against him. He fought with British forces during the Norway campaign in 1940 and was evacuated with our chaps when we pulled out. I think he was wounded. He’s a very distinguished scholar, as you know. And of course he was beside me in the minstrels’ gallery until Lyall’s body was found. Whatever he was doing in Lyall’s rooms after the murder, I can vouch for his whereabouts beforehand. And I’m pleased to say he’s sufficiently recovered from his injuries to get in a little research at the Bodleian before he returns home.”

“Good,” said Forrester, and stood up. “Thank you, Master. I simply wanted to let you know what I was up to and ask for your blessing on the enterprise. If anything does occur to you that might help me, I’d really appreciate it.”

“Of course,” said Winters. “And I think what you’re doing is splendid. If I was ever in trouble I’d want to have a friend like you on the case.”

“I only wish I had more confidence I’m going about it the right way,” he said.

“I’m sure you are,” said the Master. “And if you do find yourself uncertain about a course of action, feel free to come back and consult.”

As Forrester reached the front door of the Lodge, Lady Hilary came down the stairs and put a hand on his arm. “I just wanted to thank you,” she said, “for being so supportive on that dreadful night.”

Forrester gave her a reassuring smile. “I thought you held up pretty well,” he said. “We were all in shock.”

“You comforted me,” said Lady Hilary, “and I appreciate it.”

“I’m glad,” said Forrester. “How are you feeling now?” Forrester’s own assessment was that she was still in shock, her face pale, with blotches of high colour.

“Much better, thank you, Duncan,” she said. “Much better.”