The Cambridge Theorem (7 page)

“Quite right, quite right. Yes, not long after Simon recovered I went abroad for the whole summer. I'm an archaeologist, you see. Hittites, particularly. I'd been working to arrange a dig for years.”

“Where was that, sir?”

Davies seemed momentarily disoriented that Smailes was interested in his work. He stammered slightly. “Well, well, Anatolia, of course. Modern Turkey, and a bit of Syria. We were at Halpa. It's called Aleppo today. Part of Turkey until 1914, when Syria annexed it.”

“And so you came back at the start of the academic year, when Simon Bowles began his graduate work?”

“Yes, that's right. You can only dig for a season, you see, while the weather holds, although I had hoped to stay until October or November, and then perhaps resume the following Spring. It had all been approved by the college. But we ran into, well, funding problems, and had to come back early. Very frustrating, actually.”

“And you became Bowles' tutor again when you came back? Was that your idea?”

“Yes, yes it was, although it didn't happen right away. I suggested it to Hawken, to Dr. Hawken, sometime in the Michaelmas term, I think, and he agreed we should, well, recommend it to Simon. Simon agreed, and I saw him usually once or twice a term, I think. I made him promise to come and see me if anything was bothering him. He did promise, and, you know, I believed him.”

Davies' manner had grown noticeably agitated again, and there was something about his story that did not make sense. Smailes paused to take notes, and then asked, “So you resumed the relationship, even though you were planning to return to, where was it, Syria, the next year?”

“Oh no, that had fallen through. Still problems with money, you see, then the damned Syrian government began to give me problems about the permit. I had to cancel the whole thing, and go back out there for a month last summer to cajole the bloody people, and see what was left of our work. It's finally all straightened out. I leave again this summer, in July.”

“Difficult people to work with, I expect, sir.”

“The Syrians? Not too bad, actually. A little sticky, but they want to show they're civilized, I suspect. Lebanon's a non-starter, of course, and the Turks, the antiquities department people, are hopeless. But I'm digressing…”

“Yes, I'm sorry. When was it you last saw Mr. Bowles, sir?”

“I last saw Simon about the beginning of the term, and he seemed fine.”

“In your office, sir?”

“In my rooms, of course, yes.”

“He didn't seem under any unusual pressures?”

“Well, he told me he was working flat out and that his latest research would make his Kennedy investigation seem insignificant. Insignificant, he said.”

“Do you know what he was working on?”

“No. No idea and no interest. Told him again he should take up stamps, but he only laughed.”

Smailes paused to catch up with his note-taking and saw that Davies had begun pulling at the green polyester tie again.

“Professor, do you think Simon Bowles would have come and told you if he had been worried or afraid of something?” asked Smailes. To his relief, Davies did not take offense at the remark, as Hawken would have.

“Well, you know, Simon was different than a lot of the men,” Davies began. “A lot of them have absolutely no feeling for the place. Just regard Cambridge as a place to mess around before they have to go off and get a job. They certainly don't appreciate having to talk to a tutor once or twice a term, and the meetings are often very difficult, embarassing. I think those people are most foolish, arrogant, you know, and that they are missing the whole point. I mean, just because we're a bit older and make a living as teachers and scholars doesn't mean that we're not human, that we can't lend a sympathetic ear and perhaps even be helpful now and again. Of course, the fact that we represent the authority of the University can sometimes make things awkward, but basically there's no contradiction.”

Like hell, thought Smailes. He wondered if he would want to see this hyperactive Welshman if he really had something on his mind. Compared with Hawken, though, he was all right. He got the impression there was no love lost between the two dons.

“But Simon wasn't like that. Wasn't stuck up at all. He had a sort of child-like quality to him, tremendous enthusiasms, but very little guile, you know. No guile.

“So I think he was frank with me. He didn't have many close friends and we had gotten along well over the years. Another man might have been offended or embarassed to meet with a tutor as a graduate fellow, you know, but Simon didn't seem to mind. Yes, I think he would have mentioned it if he was worried about something.”

Reluctantly, Smailes unrolled the standard question, as he had with Hawken.

“Do you know of any difficulties with money, girlfriends or drugs which might have got him into trouble?” he asked.

“Simon? No, he really wasn't the type, I don't think. I got the impression he lived quite a quiet life.”

“Was he a religious man, to your knowledge?”

“Simon? No, I'm sure he wasn't. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, a poster in his room. It's Albert Schweitzer, I think.”

“No, no, that's Russell. Bertrand Russell. One of his heroes, I suppose.”

“Yes, that would make sense,” said Smailes, writing carefully in his notebook. “So you have no idea why he might have taken his own life?”

“No, officer, I really don't. It's a mystery. A mystery, you know.”

Smailes thought for a moment then got up from the desk and walked to the leaded window overlooking the soupy water of the Cam. The faded graffiti against the red brick caused a sudden flicker of recognition.

“I know that,” he said to himself, absently.

“What's that?” said Davies, and Smailes remembered he had an audience.

“That's Norman Mailer,” he said.

“Eh, what's that?” asked Davies again, advancing towards the window as if to see the old pugilist punting up the river. Smailes was embarrassed, but he had committed himself.

“Those words—VIETNAM HOT DAMN—they're the last line of Norman Mailer's
Why Are We in Vietnam
.”

“Yes,” said Davies. “Bloody vandals.”

Smailes felt like a fool and the two men stood in silence watching the river. The phone rang and the detective caught it in the third ring. It was Hawken, being business-like.

“Ah, Mr. Smailes, I thought you'd like to know. Beecroft has ascertained with whom Mr. Bowles spent last evening, or at least the latter part of it. It seems he was in the college bar with two friends—a Mr. Giles Allerton and an unidentified young woman. He is attempting to locate them now. Would you care to interview them?”

Smailes' attention was distracted by Davies, who had resumed his agitated pacing around the room. He asked Hawken to hold, cupping his hand over the receiver. He told Davies he could leave if he had other commitments, that they might need him to make a statement for the coroner.

Davies seemed relieved. “Oh certainly. Of course, whenever you need me, whenever at all, you know. My rooms are in Second Court, opposite Simon's staircase.” He made an awkward bowing movement and turned toward the door.

“Excuse me, just finishing with Dr. Davies,” Smailes said into the receiver. “Of course I would like to speak with them, but perhaps later. I should get back to the station and make sure the reports have been filed correctly. Can we arrange a meeting for two o'clock?”

“I'm sure,” said Hawken.

“Meanwhile, can you ensure that Bowles' room remains locked and out of bounds to everyone?”

“Indeed,” came the dry response.

The truth was Hawken's sherry had whetted his appetite and he realized he was starving for lunch. Death often had this effect on him, it made him ravenous. And it might be prudent to check the paperwork before it went upstairs. It was after all his investigation.

Nigel Hawken watched the detective from his window as he strode purposefully around the court, his hands thrust deep into his raincoat pockets, leaning slightly into the wind. He stood to the side so he would not be seen if the policeman chanced to look up. He did not entirely trust his ingenuousness. It would be wise to be cautious around him.

For the twentieth time that morning he rehearsed the possibilities and probabilities that would result from this unforunate development. The phone call had been a gross error in judgement, but it had least given him several extra hours to prepare his response. It was all so stupid and unnecessary, but as he looked at the situation dispassionately, he knew it was unlikely anything could be traced to him. He could count on his friend's discretion, he was almost sure, and since nothing was known of the association, the rest would hinge on the acuity, or lack of it, of Mr. Smailes. All things being equal, the matter would probably blow over with the inquest.

Yet he had felt acutely anxious when he saw the second group of policemen arrive with their suitcases and photographic equipment and when he realized that he was powerless now to prevent the police from doing whatever they liked in his college. He hated that feeling. He was also trying to avoid the more painful thought that hovered on the edge of his consciousness, that he was foolish to risk any exposure whatsoever, that his predilection was shameful and weak. Perhaps, but his subterfuge had worked so well for so long, his habits were so ingrained, that he could not believe he could be uncovered now by a provincial policeman, no matter how sharp.

He looked at his watch. It was time to call Sir Felix, to counter his feeble protests that he should return to Cambridge at once to respond to the crisis. It would not be difficult for Hawken to convince him there was no crisis, that there was no reason for Sir Felix to alarm himself, that everything was under control. Sir Felix had deferred to him ever since he had been told that Hawken worked for the Government. The knowledge had allowed Sir Felix to relax about whether he was really supposed to do anything at Cambridge, and to return to the full-time pursuit of his peerage. The arrangement suited them both admirably, and allowed them to maintain the guise that Hawken was Sir Felix's subordinate.

Hawken considered returning to Bowles' room to take a last look around for himself, but dismissed the idea as too risky. He had examined the premises as thoroughly and as carefully as possible before the first arrival of the police, and had seen nothing remotely compromising. Of course, he had not had time to examine the files themselves, as he would have liked. But it was all now too late. And after all, there was no cause for alarm.

S
ERGEANT HARRY SMAILES
had been no ordinary policeman. His family had been grocers in Newnham village for generations, but he himself had joined the force in his teens after the Depression had put his father out of business. He had served on the beat for twenty years before winning his sergeant's stripes, and by the time Derek was a teenager he was a desk officer with all manner of important administrative duties.

The tales of his bravery were legion and he was an almost legendary figure in the town. He seemed to know everyone. On Saturday mornings, when Derek was a boy, if they went to town to Woolworth's or Marks and Spencer, his father would continually stop to swap news with someone from his vast acquaintance. Occasionally, Derek would be examined by some strong-breathed stranger or chucked under the chin by a lady in a hat. He hated these encounters but would endure them in silence.

Harry Smailes was a huge man, with the large hands and feet he had passed on to his son, a bulbous pitted nose and black hair that flowed back from his forehead in brilliantined waves like a washboard. He took great pride in his appearance and his uniform was always immaculate. Derek's first memories of his father were that he was like a fairy-tale giant. He was afraid of him.

His father was never off duty. He translated the sacrifice of police service into an unyielding sternness, and ran his household with a calm tyranny which kept Derek's mother in a continuous state of anxiety. His elder sister Denise adopted sullen defiance, and he himself alternated between conciliation and resentment. He had always been desperate to please his father, who had an heroic and terrifying stature for him, but he had never found how.

Derek Smailes was big for his age and good at sports, and his physical recklessness made him a first-rate goal-keeper. His father rarely missed the home games of the football teams he played on, but no matter how well he played, his father always seemed unimpressed. Derek could never understand why he continued to attend, unless it was to silently remonstrate with him, to remind him that his performance was lacking. He began to prefer the away games, the absence of the accusatory presence on the edge of his vision.

Report time was always a time of particular terror. He usually scored well in English, but the other subjects were always in the Inadequate or Must Try Harder category. His father would sit opposite him at the dining table, the report card between them like a felon's statement. Then he would wag the stem of his pipe at it and tell him he was letting himself down. Derek's cheeks would burn with anger and shame. School bored him. He passed most subjects—why couldn't his father acknowledge that? And anyway, his father behaved as if he didn't want him to go to University. His mother, who doted on him, let him know privately that if her Derek didn't do so well at school, it was all right with her. He would ask her to reason with his father, but she would only look at him helplessly. Harry Smailes' household authority was an absolute she dared not challenge.