Death at the Alma Mater (21 page)

“Dating?” She emitted a little snort. “Dating. How quaint. Well, we’ve been dating since I got here. A little more than a year now.”

“Sorry, I’m not up on the expressions young people might use these days. I should say, you’ve been in an exclusive relationship—for one year, is that right?”

She shrugged, an attempt at insouciance that did not quite come off. St. Just, watching the slow creep of blush onto her already English-rose complexion, realized he’d accidentally hit bone. “Exclusive on my side,” she said. “I don’t have time to play around. I don’t know about Seb, but he doesn’t seem to have a lot of free time, either.”

Tempted as he was to ask, he didn’t see how Seb’s fidelity or lack of it could play into the investigation. Instead he asked, “Give me an idea of what you did, where you were, last night. From about six on.”

“I was with Seb. Here, in my room. He left about eight to work out. He did that most nights—spend a little time in the gym, then he’d take the scull out until Lighting Up.”

“This was his set routine?”

She nodded. “Almost invariable. He wants to get in the Blue Boat. If not this year, next. Eventually. Seb can be a bit driven, but that’s the only way you win. So he tells me.”

Actually, he was right, as St. Just remembered from his own time spent around rowers set on competing one day against Oxford. For months on end, rowing would come first in Seb’s priorities, behind his degree, behind Saffron.

“So, he left you about eight. Is that the last you saw of him, until perhaps after we questioned him last night?”

“Ye-e-e-s. Yes.”

“You don’t seem sure.”

She drew the duvet tighter around her, only her face and feet protruding. Even on a summer morning, it was cold in the room, the damp kind of cold that could seep into Cambridge stone and lodge there for centuries.

On the wall behind her bed, she’d nailed several dozen necklaces and bracelets—bright, gaudy beads in reds and blues and yellows that caught the light, and ropes of plastic pearls. She looked like part of an exhibit of religious artifacts, or a fortune teller. Perhaps a fertility goddess from an ancient Northern tribe.

He thought the display of costume jewelry a resourceful, not to say colorful, solution to the lack of storage space in the room, which was sparsely furnished with fittings that were antique without being valuable. He wondered if Seb’s room would be this threadbare, or if the stepson of Sir James rated better lodgings? He thought he knew the answer to that.

“We-e-ll … ” said the duvet.

“What is it?” asked St. Just, treading softly.

“It depends on what you mean by ‘saw.’”

St. Just folded his hands and looked at her, hoping this was not going to devolve into one of those “what is the meaning of ‘is’?” discussions.

She sighed, and allowed her head to emerge slightly from its duvet shell. “I saw him from the window of my room. Just there”—she indicated the large mullioned window above her desk, which stood next to the bed. St. Just walked over. Her room overlooked the back of the college, and she had a view, slightly distorted by the old glass, between the branches of a tree near the window—a view to the boathouse and the path that ran towards it.

“What exactly did you see?”

“I saw him setting out in the scull. Before you ask, I don’t know the exact time. But it’s about when I expected to see him setting out, if you follow. He hardly deviates from the program he’s set for himself.”

“You saw nothing else?”

Again, the hesitation.

“I was reading quite a good book, and I just happened to glance up. I went back to the book and thought no more about it.”

He picked up a book that lay open on the desk.

“Insanity and Criminal Responsibility?”

“Yeah. You should read it. Fascinating stuff.”

Leafing through the pages, he felt he could read it, but understanding it would be another thing.

“And this held you spellbound, did it?” he asked. “For how long?”

Again that hesitation.

“Actually, if you really have to know, I was reading P. D. James.” She indicated a shelf next to the desk. Most of the books there were crime novels. “I needed a rest from all the rubbishy academic papers. Next thing I knew, I heard all the hullaballoo, I don’t know, around ten.”

He looked at her closely. Her small face again retreated into the duvet.

“If there’s anything you know you aren’t telling me”—and he was sure there was—“now would be a good time, Miss Sellers.”

“I’ve told you.” Again the small, muffled voice.

He made as if to leave, then turned and said:

“I’d take care if I were you. I can protect you if I have all the facts. Without them, you’re on your own in what has already proven to be a deadly game. Do you understand me?”

The duvet nodded.

–––

“The girl’s lying, of course,” St. Just told Sergeant Fear. “But I don’t know that it has anything to do with the murder.”

They were in a reference room just off the main library. It was a handsome, closed area stacked high with what looked to be old ledgers, some dating back to the eighteenth century, and with two oriel windows looking out either side to the grounds of the college. The Master had emphasized to Sergeant Fear that these treasures—both windows and ledgers—were not to be touched. Fear gathered they could use the table and chairs, and that was the limit of the Master’s munificence.

“About seeing Seb? Providing him with an alibi?”

“Possibly. Very likely, in fact. Still, there’s something else. She has that view … but she claims to have been reading.”

“What was she reading, Sir?”

“Hmm? Oh, it was a P. D. James. That newest one of hers—the one about the plastic surgeon.”

“That’s suggestive, isn’t it? Maybe she likes playing detective, if she’s a crime novel fan.”

“That occurred to me, too. Damned silly game to play, if so. Silly, and dangerous.” Fleetingly, he thought of Portia. “I warned her, but people her age, they always know so much more than the previous generation, have you noticed?”

“Trouble is, I think my Emma and Devin will know more than me. I’m certain of it. Anyway, Sir, maybe this Saffron, maybe she was just embarrassed to be caught spying on her boyfriend. Pride, you know.”

“I had thought of that, too. You’re right, that’s probably it. I’ll work on her a bit more later, and make it safe for her to tell me somehow.”

“By the way, Sir. As I passed by Geraldo Valentiano’s room, it looked to me as if he might be packing.”

St. Just heaved a great, somewhat theatrical sigh, his head and shoulders dropping in an attitude of despair. Then he looked up at his sergeant and said:

“All right. Time for another little chat with him. He needs to know that simian charm of his has already worn thin. Then let’s see who’s in the SCR, shall we?”

As they were leaving, passing through the main library to reach the corridor to the stairs, they passed a Japanese student at work at one of the library’s computers. He wore a Burberry scarf, tattered jeans, and an expression of the most intense concentration.

St. Just had earlier asked Portia about him when he’d met her in passing. He seemed ever-present.

“He’s always there,” she’d confirmed. “Always. He’s been around ten years and apparently he just won’t leave. We don’t think he eats or sleeps, except perhaps for brief moments at the computer. Pay him no mind; no one else does.”

“What’s he doing?”

“We think he’s either inventing a new video game or remapping the double helix. No one really knows, and everyone is afraid to approach him. He thinks one is trying to steal his thesis if one does, you see. As if anyone could understand his thesis, including his tutor, who professes himself baffled. Kurokawa Masaki is his name, and he’s either a genius or a maniac. The tutor thinks he might be set to crack the code of the Universe, so he leaves him alone. Either way, it’s best to not disturb him.”

ALL MY BAGS ARE PACKED

Geraldo Valentiano was, as
reported, packing, folding his tailor-made shirts into a leather bag of butter-soft leather, and hanging his jackets inside a Louis Vuitton garment bag. He looked up briefly as the policemen entered (the door had stood open), gave them the once-over, and carried on with his task. His face betrayed not an ounce of concern.

“I think I just mentioned to you, Sir, that you were to remain here. We’ll probably need you for the inquest.”

Geraldo shrugged. “So I’ll return for the inquest.”

St. Just persisted. “I hope you’re not planning to ignore an official police request? That could get … complicated.”

“Could make you look guilty, like,” volunteered Sergeant Fear. “Like you were fleeing justice.”

“Fleeing justice,” mimicked Geraldo. “What an old-time concept. Justice. Is a man not allowed to pack his luggage in this country?”

“As long as that’s all you do,” said St. Just. “Were you planning on growing a beard, then?” He indicated the shaving kit already packed into the bag.

Geraldo Valentiano looked at him. “I might.”

“One question, Sir. Well, let’s make it two. Lexy was overheard asking for the payment of some money you owed her.”

Geraldo just looked stonily across the room.

“Well?” said St. Just.

“Oh. Was that a question?” said Geraldo. Then, off St. Just’s look, he said, “Well, yes, I got in a tight spot at the tables one night. She bailed me out. Just twenty-five thousand pounds—no big deal. I was going to repay it—she knew I was good for it.”

“I see,” said St. Just slowly. “Yes. All right, second question: You’ve told one of my officers that when Lexy’s room was broken into, you were playing tennis, is that right?”

“I was. An innocent pastime, no? The thing I like about tennis is that when you’re in the thick of it, it takes your mind off everything else. You stop thinking, like.”

Hardly a novel experience for you, I’d wager. Sergeant Fear fairly snorted his frustration. What more did St. Just hope to learn from this swarthy oaf?

“Who were you playing with, if not Lexy?”

Geraldo gave one of his eloquent shrugs.

“India. She was very keen. And quite a good … ” Here he paused, lifting an eyebrow sardonically. “She is quite a good player. If you catch my meaning.”

St. Just looked at him coldly.

“Will that be all, Inspector? It looks like I have some unpacking to do.”

–––

“What was that about?” fumed Sergeant Fear as they walked away from Geraldo’s room. “Is he really trying to imply he’s having some kind of affair with Lady Bassett?” Fear, having taken quite a shine to India, was in full chivalrous mode at hearing her honor maligned.

“I’d say he was. Implying, that is. It may or may not be true, of course, but it’s a convenient alibi for them both, isn’t it? Tennis, followed by … whatever.” Sergeant Fear, with an effort, managed to stifle his horrified protests. “Let’s see who’s downstairs.”

They came across Karl Dunning in the SCR. He was reading the Financial Times, closely following the type on its light salmon-pink pages as if deciphering an ancient rune.

“Ah, just the man I wanted to see,” said St. Just, taking a seat across from him. “I wanted to get some insight from you. My feeling is that you’re rather an insightful man.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Inspector,” said Karl, putting aside the paper. “What is it you want to know?”

“Nothing specific. Something general, rather. What was your sense of Lexy? I mean to say, what kind of person was she, beyond what was apparent?”

“You’re on to that, are you? You must be, to ask the question.”

“She seemed to manage rather well,” said St. Just, “for a woman who was, technically, unemployed. She also apparently wasn’t shy about asking for repayment from anyone who might owe her.”

Sergeant Fear, at a loss, looked from one man to the other.

“Everyone talks about how flighty she was,” said Karl Dunning. “Hermione goes on and on about how man-mad she was, but Hermione rather revels at times in her reputation as a crackpot spinster, don’t you agree? Anyway, all of what Hermione says may be true, but it doesn’t entirely match my experience of Lexy. She and I stumbled somehow into a conversation about the stock market, and I saw a different side of the woman, I can tell you. She was able lucidly to discuss the reasons behind the financial meltdowns in Iceland and on Wall Street, making her one of the few people alive who can. She wanted my advice, she said, but I’m not sure she really needed it. It was more like she wanted confirmation of what she’d already decided on for herself.”

“Financial advice?”

“Yes. She had some money to invest, wanted to know what I’d do with ‘a small windfall.’ I told her I’d lend her a book I had with me. It was actually a book I’d co-authored on the subject, in point of fact.”

“You were on friendly terms with Lexy, it seems.”

For the first time, the amiable Karl showed a flintier surface. “I was lending her a book, Inspector, not asking her to run away with me.”

“A windfall, you say. She wasn’t specific about the amount? Or where it came from?”

Karl Dunning shook his head. “I didn’t get the impression it was any large amount, although I realize ‘large’ is a relative term to an already wealthy person. She called it her ‘mad money’ and told me she wanted a flutter with some of the riskier stocks. But what I was saying—she liked to pretend she knew little about ‘men’s business,’ as she called it, gazing up at you from under flickering eyelashes the while, but the questions she asked were spot on. I got the impression of a sharp mind in operation—sharp when it came to money, certainly. But at the same time, she was expending a lot of useless energy trying to cover up her knowledge. In discussing the economy, she’d use a phrase like ‘collateral debt obligations’ or ‘sales-to-income stream,’ realize what she’d said, and try to pretend she was just mouthing terms, like she didn’t know what the terms meant. She knew. Do you see what I mean? It was like some tortuous Victorian-era style of flirtation. And why waste it on me? Force of habit, I guess. But she could talk the jargon with the best stockbroker.”

–––

“That was interesting,” St. Just said to Sergeant Fear as they walked along the corridor from the SCR towards the long gallery above the Fellows’ Garden.

“You think he’s a reliable witness, Sir?”

“I do. For one thing, I don’t know why he’d lie about such a thing. It’s really nothing to us whether Lexy could balance a bank statement or not. What’s interesting is that she felt it necessary to hide it. That Lexy was not as thick as she liked to pretend. That she was two personalities, if you like. I thought Mr. Dunning might be the person to ask. He may keep a low profile and let his wife do the talking, but I got the impression of a man who doesn’t miss much. I don’t think his wife is quite as silly as she appears, either. Like Lexy, she might be clever but only in certain ways. Certainly she’s clever at getting her own way. Could be the man’s had long practice with women who aren’t quite the way the world perceives them.”

They had reached the long gallery. Looking through one of the glassed-in archways, St. Just could see the back of a particular head of glossy dark hair, the thick, straight strands of which were tied back low on a long, graceful neck. The tilt of the narrow head made it recognizably Portia’s.

Plus, he knew what she was up to.

Sergeant Fear followed his gaze and tactfully said, “Right. I’ll get onto HQ about when we might expect to see some of those background reports.”

Portia was sitting on the garden bench, in the same spot that had been occupied not that long ago by Lexy Laurant.

“How morbid, you’ll be thinking,” she greeted him.

St. Just raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“Actually,” she explained, “I was doing a little unofficial investigating.”

“Thought you might be. I’ve warned you before about that.”

“I was trying,” she went on, “to see what she could see from here. Maybe that night she saw something she should not have seen. You know—something that put her in danger. Drug smuggling or something.”

St. Just looked around him at the gardens, the buildings, and the pale blue sky corrugated with narrow strips of white cloud. Peering down on them from above were two gargoyles, one at each end of the gallery roof. Only they saw, only they heard, thought St. Just. That little fellow with the claws and the pointed ears and the long tail. He saw Lexy walk away to her death.

He sat beside Portia and took her hand in his.

“I would much prefer having a little less help on this investigation,” he said. “But if you really are trying to see things from her angle, you’ll have to slump a bit. She was quite a small woman, you know. Short and petite, unlike my Portia. So zaftig.”

Portia gave him a dig in the ribcage that could have sent him flying. If ever there were a woman to whom the word zaftig could not apply, it was Portia.

“What?” he said. “Luckily for you I like a woman with meat on her bones.”

“Shut up,” she instructed him. She slumped down several inches and panned the area slowly from left to right. St. Just sat quietly, breathing deep of the complex perfume of the garden, and of the light scent Portia wore, a flowery fragrance, perhaps mixed with a little vanilla. The air lay warm and moist against his face.

“Nothing,” she said at last. “If anything, I have a more restricted view than before. The walls, the trees…she had to have been staring at the statue of the founder. Granted, he’s an eyeful.”

They both cast a baleful eye on Titus Barron, founder of St. Michael’s. He stared out from across the centuries wearing his snug-fitting doublet, with his cloak tossed rakishly across his shoulders and his legs encased in hose. He was posed ballerina-like to display shapely ankles to best effect—ankles that no doubt had helped attract the wealthy merchant’s widow he had taken as his bride, nicely shoring up his already substantial fortune. Bloodthirsty even by the standards of his day, he had been instrumental in pushing through King Henry’s infamous divorce from Catherine, and had been amply rewarded for his efforts.

At the moment, a pigeon was perched on the feather in his cap.

“Granted,” said Portia. “It’s not taken from the life, but from some late-Victorian sculptor’s idea of how a fine gentleman of that era must have looked.”

They stared at Titus awhile longer, but nothing about the sixteenth-century founder, or the pigeon, suggested to them how a twenty-first century woman might have come to meet her violent death under his self-satisfied gaze. The Fellows’ Garden, walled on all sides, seemed an oasis of calm.

“Anyway,” Portia continued, “one has to say there was not a lot to hold her attention, although I suppose the fountain’s rather nice.”

“Is it always turned on, the fountain?”

She shook her head. “It’s on a timer so it shuts off at ten. A compromise in another case of the Bursar v. the Master, the former wanting it turned off at all times to save money.”

Together they watched the fine mist play against the light and air.

“She was apparently in an emotional state,” said St. Just. “She may not have been looking at anything in particular, if you follow.”

“Yes, I do. In any event, she evidently got bored after a while, and wandered off towards the boathouse and the river. I wonder why—was it just aimless wandering, or did she go there with a purpose, to meet someone?”