Death at the Alma Mater (3 page)

ARRIVISTES

It was early July,
usually nature’s cue for everyone to have long since decamped a University town for the beaches, the lakes, or the mountains. But Cambridge is so much more than a University town. For every student who leaves, five tourists tumble out of trains and buses and other conveyances to take his or her place. This yearly migration and renewal system is a welcome tradeoff for most of the town’s tradespeople, students by and large having no money.

The curved staircase in the entrance hall of St. Michael’s College also seemed to smile a greeting, sweeping up from either side of the walk-in fireplace to the landing—a landing from which the Master liked to issue the occasional sonorous proclamation; a landing which had been the scene of many an impromptu, ribald undergraduate performance. The elegance of the carved wood balustrade, the stained glass depiction of the college arms, and the thickness of the carpeted stairs were lost on most of that weekend’s visitors to St. Mike’s, however, occupied as they were with their own thoughts. Even the sight of the academic gowns hanging on pegs in the entrance, reminders that they were entering an established if not hallowed seat of learning, went unnoticed and unremarked. Besides, they had seen it all before, years before, several times a day over the course of their studies.

Two of the visitors, Sir James Bassett and his wife, having arrived not by train but by Bentley, were already in their assigned room in the Rupert Brooke wing, continuing a conversation that had begun in London and kept them occupied all the way down the M11 to Cambridge from their much-admired townhouse (which, to their mutual delight, had been featured just the month before in Tatler). Rather, they were in India’s room, the college never since its monastic days (and never until the last trumpet sounds) being organized for couples. Sir James would spend the weekend in the room next door to his wife. Needless to say, there was no adjoining door.

“What I don’t understand,” Lady Bassett was saying now, and not for the first time, “is how you could not have realized?” She held up a gauzy peignoir in a shade of dusky rose and gave it a good shake, staring at it critically as if she couldn’t quite decide what to do with it. This was likely true, as she was not used to unpacking: She always left all that to her maid. She gave the garment one more critical squint, then rolled it in a ball and stuffed it inside one of the drawers of the room’s massive oak bureau.

“I mean, you must have known she was going to be here,” she continued.

She held out to him a sheet of paper letterheaded with the college’s crest. Shook the list at him, rather, as if it were another puzzling garment from her suitcase. It contained the names of people attending the weekend gathering. With one finger, which trembled with outrage, she pointed at the offending name halfway down the list: Lexy Laurant.

Foolish of me not to have told her before, Sir James thought now. That was a miscalculation. But he’d been hoping to avert or at least delay the scene that was almost certain to arrive. He’d really doubted Lexy would attend, and couldn’t believe it when he saw the name on the final, official list. Even now he thought there was a chance she might not show. She’d claimed an undying hatred for the place at one time. It was the type of dramatic statement Lexy was given to. He spoke the thought aloud.

“She spoke of her ‘Undying Hatred’ of the place, India. Capital U, capital H. I never dreamed she’d even reply to the invitation.” He shook his head ruefully. “Dear old Lexy. Always one for melodrama.”

“Yes, dear old Lexy,” repeated India.

“She may not show up.”

“She will, if only to annoy me. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have come. I’ll spend the whole weekend avoiding her, or being forced to pretend how thrilled I am to see her. And after the letters she’s sent you, I would think you would be less than thrilled, too.”

Sir James sighed. “I know. She can’t help it, you know. She gets depressed, and she was used to thinking of me as someone she could talk openly with. ‘Share her feelings,’ is I’m sure how she’d put it.”

“You shouldn’t have burned those letters she sent. I have a bad feeling about this. It’s like she’s, well, stalking you. Us.”

He took her hand in his, and traced the blue veins showing against the sun-warmed skin. He didn’t think India’s concern was whether or not he loved her—that she knew. India was not a woman given to jealousy, one of the reasons he had grown to love her more than life. But he told her now, just in case.

“You know you are my life, my heart, and my soul. Don’t worry. It’s only for a couple of days. It will be fine.”

She disagreed, but she kissed him anyway.

–––

Several doors away, the topic of this marital conversation had indeed shown up and was removing her clothes from the scented tissue in which her maid had wrapped them for the trip. She wasn’t thinking of Sir James, however, or even of India (who she refused, in any case, to think of as Lady Bassett. Stuff that). She was thinking of all the bullshit mantras her astral therapist had given her. She’d tried, really she’d tried. The gods and goddesses knew she’d tried. But what good had it done, really?

May good befall me. Sure, fine, all right.

May I be fit for perfection. Well, she was already a size four, wasn’t she? She worked out every day. Her clothes and hair were perfect, and widely imitated. She was perfect. It wasn’t helping, though. None of the Eastern religions, in fact, seemed to have grasped the essence of her particular set of problems.

Most annoying and useless of all were the little platitudes. You must learn to be in the moment, Madame Zoerastra had told her, completely missing the point. It was the moment that Lexy so often couldn’t bear to be in. The past was better, painted rose-colored over time as only Lexy could manage. And dreams of the future were way better.

It was the Now that sucked.

In the distant and unexplored recesses of her mind, she knew her unhappiness was, on its surface, irrational. She lived in a big, white Kensington townhouse of light-filled rooms offering views into the gardens of her millionaire neighbors. She had a hectic and well-documented social life. She had, if not friends, people she could call on to take her places. She was young and admired. Sought-after, even. What more could anyone ask?

Leaning into the mirror, she took stock: bright red lips, flawless white skin, bright blue eyes. Check. Blonde hair feathered about her face and neck in a much-imitated style that had become her trademark. Check. Uncapping a tube, she darkened the cherry red stain on her full lips. Thoughtfully, she pressed her lips together as she snapped the cap back into place.

She’d tried the traditional therapists, as well. This had advantages; they could write prescriptions, for one thing. But it wasn’t, she told herself, like scoring pills for a party or whatever. Not an addiction.

Doctor Mott, one of the traditionalists, had told her she must confront her demons of the past. But some demons were best left undisturbed, surely? Even Lexy knew that. Let sleeping dogs lie. That was the ticket. What was important this weekend was that everyone see that she was over it. She really was, too. The water had long gone under that bridge. They’d see her with her dishy Argentine, who was unpacking next door at the moment and no doubt flexing his muscles as he did so. The man flexed his muscles as he brushed his teeth, for God’s sake. If seeing her with Geraldo didn’t signal to the world the end of her interest in that poo-wipe James and his donkey-faced wife, she didn’t know what did.

She reached into one of the elastic pockets lining either side of her suitcase. These, she’d packed herself. She pulled out a sheaf of financial statements that had come in the post from her broker just as she’d left for Cambridge. Yes, that would need seeing to this weekend. Keep an eye on things. Never completely trust the experts—one would have to be a fool to do that. Stashing the pages back into the pocket, she rootled around some more. Success.

She unscrewed the cap from a plastic vial, shook out a tablet.

One extra couldn’t hurt. It was going to be a long weekend, after all.

–––

“Part of the thrill of the whole weekend is that we’re all allowed to use the SCR, a room from which we were roundly banished when we were students here,” Gwennap Pengelly was saying to Hermione Jax. The women were sitting on a bench in the Fellows’ Garden, basking in the filtered sunlight. “Personally, I can’t wait. I may take off my shoes and run barefoot through the carpet. And to have allowed us the use of this heavenly garden! They must really be quite hard up for donations. Before you know it they’ll be letting all of us walk on the grass, Fellow of the college or no.” She paused to adjust the tortoise-shell slide holding back the caramel-colored curls from her square face. The teeth of the thing bit into her scalp; it felt as if it were cutting off circulation to the brain. What price beauty.

Hermione, who held Gwenn’s intellect in no high regard, might have agreed. She was shocked at hearing this truthful assessment of the college’s financial situation spoken aloud, and merely said repressively, “No indeed. I believe the Master’s only thought is that we should all enjoy ourselves.”

“Make a change then, won’t it?” Seeing her companion’s aghast countenance—she’d forgotten how Hermione worshipped the Master—she tried to jolly her along. Always rough sailing with Hermione, but still, worth a try.

“Hermione, my dear old thing. You don’t seriously think any of us is fooled by this invitation? One only has to look at the guest list to see we’re all what the Americans would call ‘loaded.’ Am I supposed to pretend this was a random sampling of old members drawn up by the Bursar? Names drawn from a hat? No indeed. Much better, really, that we all know what we’re in for. It will save ever so much need for subtlety and subterfuge on the part of the Bursar. I’ve brought my chequebook in anticipation.”

“Really, Gwenn.” Hermione stroked the nubby arms of her sweater, as if smoothing her own ruffled feathers. “You needn’t always say whatever comes into your head, you know.”

“Why ever not? It’s an inclination that made me a telly reporter, and a jolly good one. And a highly compensated one, to boot.”

Again, disapproval settled over Hermione’s lugubrious face. Such things were never spoken of when she was a girl.

“Which brings us full circle,” Gwenn continued. “I don’t think for a minute I was invited along to help this lot parse the Dead Sea scrolls. Neither were you, even though you’re probably the brightest of the bunch. Why pretend otherwise?”

Hermione, unused to praise—in fact, unused to any attention whatever, flushed, tongue-tied. But no matter. Gwenn swept on.

“You saw who else is coming, of course. How do you think that’s going to play out?”

“You mean Sir James and Lady Bassett, of course,” replied Hermione. “And Lexy. Yes, I still have reservations about that. I did mention it to the Master. He doesn’t seem to have fully realized until it was too late that there might be … a problem.”

“Too right. To invite both the ex-wife and current wife to a gathering under the same roof with the husband. Well. Bound to end in tears, especially if Lexy hasn’t changed much.”

“Lexy was always given to letting her emotions rule, yes. But not without cause in this case, as you know.”

“I never understood, really.” Giving up on beauty for the moment, Gwenn removed the slide and massaged her scalp, sending her curls flying in all directions. “James leaving Lexy for India. It was like trading in a new Rolls-Royce for a beaten up old Land Rover.” But he’d gravitated, quite obviously, to his comfort level, she thought. People did.