Death at the Alma Mater (19 page)

“It’s a ‘facial regenerator,’” he reported. “That’s aftershave, to you and me. Complete with Vitamin B5 and antioxidants. Whatever next?”

“I wouldn’t scoff too quickly, Sergeant. What you’re holding there may be the very secret to his reported success with the ladies.”

They tackled India’s room—Lady Bassett’s—next. While as messy as Lexy’s and Geraldo’s, the frilly, lacy, demimonde aspect was missing. Here were sensible clothes, tweedily expensive and made to last, whereas Lexy’s had every appearance of being expensive and made to be replaced each season. The few pieces of jewelry in a small travel case were of heirloom quality. Here a magazine was left open to an article on gardening, much marked and annotated by the reader. A tennis racket, perhaps forgotten by the room’s usual occupant, leaned against the back of the wardrobe. She was evidently a diabetic; a packet of low-dosage insulin and needles were tucked hidden in the wardrobe.

“It’s a much larger room than Lexy’s or Geraldo’s,” noted St. Just. “You can see where the college was hoping most of the money was going to come from.”

“Sir James’ title probably helped turn the Master’s head.”

Their survey of the next rooms produced nothing of interest, at least from a police standpoint. Gwennap Pengelly’s room, in addition to being surprisingly neat, was a fortress of IT equipment and wires. Augie Cramb’s room also reflected a passion for gadgets, camera equipment, and the like. Hermione Jax’s room was as sparse as a nun’s, explainable perhaps in part by the fact she had had less far to travel than the others. The separate rooms of the Dunnings reflected the differences in their characters: his toiletries and clothing were laid out neatly, while hers had been flung about with abandon. Her room was saturated by a perfume St. Just didn’t recognize, but found profoundly disagreeable in such large doses.

“Phew,” said Sergeant Fear.

On the desk by the window, a stack of postcards lay ready for mailing. St. Just picked one up at random—a beautiful scene of the Backs—and turning it over read the commentary. It was, as he expected, a litany of complaints to someone back home, a litany that ignored the beauty of both the card and her surroundings. Again he remarked at the attraction that could hold together two people of seemingly polar-opposite temperaments and inclinations like Karl and Constance Dunning. He didn’t think he himself could stand to have Constance Dunning in his house.

Sergeant Fear looked up from the Master’s diagram and said, “Only Sir James’ room to go.”

St. Just, recalled from his reflections, said something that sounded like, “Humph?” Then he said, “Go ahead and have a look ’round, will you? I doubt you’ll find anything.”

“What exactly is it we’re looking for, Sir?”

St. Just shrugged.

“The personality of the occupant. They’ve all left us some clues, even in the short time they’ve been here.”

Sergeant Fear returned in a few minutes.

“Neat as a pin, everything he owns is hand-tailored, expensive looking. You know,” and here he adopted a fruitily upper-class voice: “‘Spare no expense, my good man! And don’t spare the horses!’ He’s reading,” and here the sergeant referred to his notes, “something called Baudolino.”

St. Just barked out a laugh. “Please tell me you’re joking. How far along is he in it?”

Puzzled, Sergeant Fear replied, “He’s bookmarked it about halfway through.”

“He must have more leisure time than I.” St. Just carefully replaced the postcard on the desk. “Anyway, I think it’s time we sloped off for a word with the Porter and a few others. Come along.”

They got no further than the foot of the main staircase before running into Hermione Jax. St. Just had the distinct impression that, like Portia the night before, she had positioned herself there to wait for them. It turned out he was right.

“There you are at last,” she said accusingly, as if they had missed a pre-arranged appointment. She gave a resounding thump! with her walking stick. “I have something to tell you. Something I’ve just remembered. It’s about the Master.”

“Really?” St. Just arranged his expression into one of polite attention.

“Yes. You see, I had completely forgotten this in all the excitement. I didn’t go straight into the SCR from my room but I decided to pop in on the Master in his study. This was right after dinner—immediately after. There was something I forgot to tell him, you see.”

“And what was that?”

“Hmm?”

“What was it you had forgotten to tell the Master?”

She continued to stare blankly at him for a moment, then said testily, “You can’t expect me to remember that, not after all that’s happened.”

“Well, then, perhaps you can tell us how you knew where to find him. Wouldn’t the SCR have been a more likely place to look?”

“Not at all. He’s always in his study.”

“I see.”

She seemed to change subjects, although later St. Just wondered if her thoughts weren’t all on the same train. The mess must be cleaned up quickly, and the college, in the form of the Master, must not be dragged through any mud.

“Really, Inspector, this kind of thing can’t be allowed, you know,” she said. “Murder is of course a shocking thing, but in this case we must take the long view.”

“How so?”

“We moderns like to think of ourselves as superior but if I could do away with my enemies as tidily as did Henry VIII, would I not? Of course I would. So would you—I dare say it. No doubt something of the kind has transpired here.”

St. Just struggled to keep up with her reasoning. She seemed to be saying there was no need for this fuss—murder was a commonplace of the human condition. “You mean,” he said, “like that tedious person at the next carrel in the library, snapping away at his chewing gum? If only we could just get out a writ or whatever they had in those days and have him done away with?”

“Precisely. Especially people who snap their chewing gum.”

“It is a tempting thought, I must say.”

“There you are. I rest my case.”

“But one leading to civil chaos,” he concluded.

Her umbrage wrapped around her like a cloak, Hermione Jax, with a valedictory thump of her cane, turned and stalked out of the main hall. She disappeared into one of the doorways leading into the bowels of the college. St. Just remarked to Sergeant Fear, “Is she covering for the Master, or is she trying to shorten the length of time she was away from the group, and thus without an alibi? And I wonder: Does her dog-like devotion to the Master cut both ways?”

She had left open the door through which she had disappeared, allowing in a distant gush of baroque organ music. The two men peered through the opening. A sign pointed them the way to the college chapel, where the service had evidently just ended. St. Just had forgotten it was Sunday. The Master had petitioned to allow the service to go on as planned, with the choir singing a much-rehearsed “Coronation Mass” by Mozart. St. Just had seen no reason to refuse, although he sent in a team to search the chapel before he released it to college use once more. A grateful Master was overheard to say later, “So reasonable. It’s hard to believe he’s a policeman. Peterhouse man, though. Pity, that.”

A figure robed in vestments—almost certainly the Reverend Otis—stood talking, his back to them, with Sir James and Lady Bassett, their tones low and sorrowful. The policemen saw the back of what looked like a tonsured head, the hairstyle owing to genetics rather than religious practice. The Dean’s shiny skull had an unusually pronounced ridge of bones. St. Just, always captivated by the variety of the human form, realized that the prominent bones formed an upside-down “Y”—precisely like a peace symbol. It reminded him of T. S. Eliot’s “skull beneath the skin,” and of Sebastian in his scull, and from there led him to thinking how inconvenient for the murderer had been Sebastian’s slavish devotion to his schedule. The finding of the body might otherwise have happened hours later than it had.

Sergeant Fear raised his eyebrows inquiringly—Should we interrupt?—and St. Just shook his head. Time enough to talk with the Reverend Otis, and given the Master’s anxiety on the subject, St. Just felt it might be more useful to catch the man when he was quite alone.

With the Master they were in luck—and the Bursar, with whom they’d not yet spoken, was with him. Both men looked up rather guiltily as Sergeant Fear knocked on the door and immediately pulled it open for St. Just.

The Master made the introductions. It transpired that the Bursar’s “civilian” name was Mr. Bowles, and he seemed to have joined the Master in a state of shock.

“The press have got wind of this, you see,” the Bursar explained. In fact, the press could be heard faintly beyond the crinkle-crankle college wall, yipping like starving sans culottes in search of a bread line.

To St. Just, the Bursar looked like a particularly alert, newly hatched bird, his eyes large behind his glasses, his beak sharp, his attention avid. “Well, we knew it couldn’t be kept from them forever, but you’d think they’d have the decency to wait.”

“Not high on their list of priorities, I’m afraid, at the best of times. Decency. Nor patience,” said St. Just. “In fairness, it is going to be a big story for them. None of them will want to miss out. They have editors to answer to.”

“Fairness,” said the Master, scoffing at the word. “It’s that Gwenn Pengelly behind this, you mark my words. She had the absolute gall to ask if I would allow her television crew in so she could interview the guests for her show. Just imagine!”

“That would probably be accurate, Sir—the story would have leaked through Ms. Pengelly almost immediately. Can’t be helped.” St. Just added, “Now, we’ll eventually have to question all the staff who were on duty last night.”

The Master puffed out his thin cheeks in a blustery outrage, “Oh, surely not. There are no windows in the kitchen overlooking the grounds. It’s highly doubtful any of them saw anything, let alone did anything.”

“But during dinner, they were best placed of all to observe,” countered St. Just. “No one, in my experience, really notices the staff. Which leaves them a world of time to notice the guests.”

BOATHOUSE

“Did I ever tell
you I used to row, Sergeant?” St. Just and Sergeant Fear were strolling through the grounds that led to the boathouse. “In my college days?”

He hadn’t, but Sergeant Fear wasn’t surprised. St. Just was built for the sport, with his long muscular legs, solid as tree trunks. They would act as pistons propelling the boat, with his long arms getting the maximum reach out of the oars.

“You’ve the build for it, Sir.”

“Thank you, Sergeant, that’s very flattering, but that’s really not why I brought the subject up. This college is uniquely set up for rowing, with the boathouse being right here. Most colleges have to convene elsewhere. Makes it handy.”

“For what?”

St. Just turned his head to look at Fear.

“I’m not sure yet.”

They reached the scene of the crime. A fresh collection of constables stood guarding the area as a modified search team continued to see by daylight what, if anything, had been missed the night before. A woman uniformed in a sleeveless yellow Day-Glo jerkin stood to one side, quietly observing. St. Just remembered an exchange he’d once overheard between a similarly clad young woman and an inquiring member of the public:

“You’re a copper, right?”

“No, the jacket was on sale. It’s a difficult color to wear for some people, irradiated yellow. Of course, I’m a ruddy copper. What do you want?”

Lexy’s body had long since been removed, along with the SOCO tent and other paraphernalia required to investigate the doing away of one human being by another.

St. Just conferred with the others on his team, who reported no new findings.

“They keep these college grounds as clean as the Queen’s stables, Sir,” said Constable Brummond. “If there was anything left behind by your killer, it would stick out like a tart in church. We’ve practically found nothing worth bagging. No helpful cigarette butts with traces of DNA on the filters. All the villains seem to have packed it in, anyway. Bad for their health.”

Brummond was a twenty-year man, with all the grace and instincts of an alley cat on the prowl. More than once, he’d been put on gardening leave for one infraction or another, but he always came back. He’d never risen beyond the rank of Constable, but whether from inclination or temperament, St. Just never asked. He just requisitioned him whenever he could. Brummond had the sharpest pair of eyes in the force. Sergeant Fear, on the other hand, had more restful qualities. St. Just swore having Fear with him helped him think.

“There’s nothing here, Sir,” Brummond went on, “except a bit of gravel disturbance over there nearest the boathouse, where she was found.”

They walked over to the point where their careful footsteps began making crunching noises against the small stones.

Brummond pointed some feet away. “Since this is the kind of place that practically has the gravel counted each day,” he said, “the slightest trace of disorder shows. Could have been the scene of the struggle, likely it was. He left her where he’d killed her.”

St. Just looked up at the building. Brummond followed the path of his gaze.

“We’re out of luck there, as you know, Sir. They’re using a mixture of dummy cameras and live ones. But they’ve got the lot trained on the river. After all, they’re thinking in terms of protecting the contents of the boathouse. Some of these boats are worth many thousands of pounds—in fact, they all are. Anyone coming by water to steal would be captured. But it’s an outdated CCTV system, which relies on an old time-lapse system linked to analog cameras. The intended use was never, I’ll warrant, to capture a killer lurking on the grounds. It wouldn’t have occurred to them. These college blokes are all living in the sixteenth century, seems to me.”

“If they were, they might be better prepared to deal with violent death, as well as theft. Cambridge in the sixteenth century was not for the faint of heart.”

Brummond nodded. “I see your point, Sir. Anyway, that kid—Sebastian—was apparently trusted with the keys, along with a few others. You want to have a look inside? By the way, inside we found what is probably the twin of the scull that was used to attack the victim. Forensics bagged it.”

The men walked through the large doorway into the capacious lower level of the wide, two-story building. The room was stacked with racks holding different types of racing boats; rowing blades and sculls, riggers, and related equipment filled the rest of the available space. They squeezed past this equipment to reach a set of stairs in the rear that led up to a gym filled with rowing machines, weights, and other fitness equipment. At the back were showers and a changing area; to one side, a well-equipped bar and meeting room.

St. Just whistled.

“In my day we were lucky to have access to a couple of eights that hadn’t had their riggers bent all to hell.”

“It’s an expensive sport, Sir, and increasingly popular,” said Brummond. “It looks like St. Michael’s is rolling in it.”

That wasn’t the impression St. Just had gotten from Portia. The Bursar may have pinched his pennies elsewhere, but not here, evidently.

They spent a few minutes admiring the bar room with its flat-screen television and its sumptuous chairs and sofas, then walked downstairs and out of the boathouse. A movement caught St. Just’s eye; Sebastian was standing several yards away. Hovering anxiously, was St. Just’s impression. When he saw St. Just looking at him, Sebastian quickly turned and walked away.

St. Just turned to the other two policemen and said, “I suppose we might have a look through all those lockers in the changing area. Organize it with the Porter or whoever would be in charge of that, would you? Better yet, I’ll have a word with him now.”

So St. Just and Sergeant Fear next headed towards the elaborate, fan-vaulted cage that housed the Porter. An ex-Army man like many of his kind, William Trinity readily agreed to organize the locker search, but could throw little light on the overall situation. He had today regained some of his usual unflappable manner, honed over years of dealing with hordes of anxious first-year students. But he had little information to share with the detectives. Yes, it was unusual that he would have been here the night before in addition to today, he agreed in reply to questioning, but they were down one man this week. He also replied that there had been a great fuss over nothing when the lady had reported her room broken into. She herself admitted nothing was taken.

“How long have you been working here?” St. Just asked him.

“Twenty year now.”

“Was the lady known to you from her time as a student here?”

“She may have been. I’ve seen thousands pass through here though, Sir. Can’t expect me to remember them all. In fact, I only tend to remember the troublemakers.”

“It’s always difficult, patrolling an environment like this, with so many nooks and crannies to it,” St. Just observed. “It’s what makes both Cambridge and Oxford hard to police.”

“Too right.”

“I imagine you’ve seen it all.”

“I have indeed.”

“Drugs and so forth?”

The Porter seemed to take this as a personal affront. He carefully adjusted his bowler before replying, patting it squarely atop his head.

“No indeed. Not at St. Michael’s.”

St. Just doubted very much that St. Mike’s had a special dispensation in that regard when every other college was fighting a running battle against the noxious stuff, but he decided not to risk further losing the goodwill of this particular witness. Just then another constable approached to tell them someone in the college kitchen wanted a word.

“All right,” said St. Just. “Tell them we’ll be right there.” He left his card with William Trinity with instructions on how to get in touch.

The college kitchen looked as if a factory from the time of the industrial revolution had been dropped into the center of an old monastery. The stone floor had worn smooth as glass over the centuries by the continual tread of feet going from the walk-in fireplace—big enough to roast an ox, to which use it probably had been put—to the enormous central refectory-style table. It was otherwise typical, St. Just supposed, of any kitchen attached to a large restaurant or school; the need to feed hundreds of rapacious students and their instructors several times a day necessitated a ruthless efficiency. Several young men and women were engaged in food preparation. As he watched, they all looked up from their chores simultaneously, as if harkening to the same bell.

“What is that?” St. Just heard one of them say.

His eye was caught just then by an enormous, fierce-looking tom. Evidently the mouser trade was booming. He sat in the dead center of the room, an Oberbürgermeister of a cat, sleek, fat, and complacent as a robber baron, concentrating now on his post-meal wash. It was a meticulous, demanding job, every claw requiring equal, specialized attention. St. Just would not have been surprised if the cat had next begun cleaning his teeth with a silver toothpick. He wore his mantle of power lightly, but it was clear a successful mouser answered to no one.

“Tom Jones,” said a sharp voice. “You know you’re not allowed in here.”

A short, squat woman approached, drying her hands on an apron that nearly reached the floor. The cat, looking over his shoulder, gave her a glancing once-over before resuming his ablutions.

St. Just said, “Someone wanted a word?”

“That would be me.” She was nearly as wide as she was tall, and she had arms like a stevedore’s, the muscles rippling as she kneaded the white cloth. St. Just reflected that Philip Marlowe might have described her as a woman built like a refrigerator and twice as cold. “I’m the chef here,” she said, squinting at the men in turn, taking their measure from under thatched eyebrows. Seemingly satisfied, she extended one ropy arm to shake hands and said:

“Mary Goose—and I’ve heard all the jokes already, ta very much.” She paused to ruffle the salt-and-pepper hair she wore in a choppy no-frills cut. “Anyway, I saw her, you see. The blonde that was done in. In the garden that night. I was there. I wasn’t supposed to be, and I’d appreciate your keeping that information under your hat.”

She suddenly turned and shouted, “Fuck away from that!” St. Just saw the cat, a large fish in its mouth, moving with swift feline grace towards the exit.

“Bugger it.” She rolled her eyes in a display of colossal annoyance, then informed St. Just, “I’ll be finding the bones all over the garden now. Bloody hell. As if I don’t have enough to do. Where was I? Oh, right, in the garden.”

“How did you happen to be there?” he asked.

“Stepped out for a smoke, see. The Master frowns on that. It was in the middle of the shift, see. But the meal was finished, there was nothing that needed doing right then, so I stepped out into a corner of the cloister walk. The members had all left the Hall by the gallery at that point. That’s when I saw them. A blonde woman sitting on the bench in the Fellows’ Garden, talking with this dark-haired man.”

“Did you know either of them?”

“Never saw either of them before. I’ve not been at St. Mike’s as long as all that.”

“Could you hear what they were saying?”

She nodded emphatically. “Yes, I could. Clear as day. He said, ‘We were happy together, Lexy. Cling to that memory. I do. Those were wonderful times.’ Something like that—it wouldn’t half have made you sick to listen to him. He was sweet-talking her, you see, but really, trying to get away from her.”

This was a break, thought St. Just. Mary Goose was the only witness so far who could have overheard the conversation, the gallery used by the others being glassed in.