Death at the Alma Mater (8 page)

Portia commented on the elegance of her suit.

Lexy nodded, abstractedly acknowledging the compliment. Her manner was jumpy, which might have been explained by her next words:

“Someone broke into my room—I guess while we were at the wine tasting today,” she said. “Went through my things.”

“Oh, no. I am sorry. That kind of thing is rare around here, you know. The students will ‘liberate’ the occasional food item from one of the communal kitchens, but that’s only because they’re starving half the time, poor things.”

“Well, it’s happened now.”

“We’ll have to make sure the Master knows. What was taken?”

Lexy hesitated, a frown creasing her otherwise flawless complexion. “That’s just it. Nothing is missing, that I can see. It’s just … a bit creepy, is all. Considering.”

Portia didn’t have time to wonder what she was meant to consider, for Lexy had gone on to a new topic:

“You’ll be at High Table, I suppose? What a bore. I was going to ask you to sit with me and Geraldo.”

Portia thought this would probably be more entertaining than what went on at High Table, and said so.

“The thing is,” said Lexy confidingly, peering up at Portia out of her legendarily blue eyes, “I’m rather afraid Sir James may try to sit next to me.”

Portia, who had gained the impression Lexy thought that an outcome devoutly to be wished, was confused. The famous Lexy might do many things, she felt, but confide in the likes of a perfect stranger like Portia wasn’t one of them. Not without an ulterior motive.

“Afraid?” she prompted.

“Oh, I don’t mean afraid afraid. It’s just jolly awkward. You do see?”

“You think he’s carrying a torch, do you?”

“All indications are so, yes.” Lexy blushed becomingly. “What do you think?”

Portia smiled. “I’m hardly in a position to know. Has he been bothering you?”

“Oh. Well, no, not exactly. James is too much the gentleman for that. It’s more this hangdog look whenever he sees me. The sad eyes following me everywhere. It’s obvious he wants to get me alone. I can only guess why.”

Portia, who didn’t really believe Lexy’s answer to a request for a chat would be “no,” pondered the meaning behind this extraordinary conversation. While Portia knew Lexy in the way one did know someone who was constantly in the news, Lexy could have no idea who Portia was. Portia was used to being confided in—she had that kind of face, she guessed—but this was … different. It had, thought Portia (beginning to descend the stairs, Lexy glued to her side), all the hallmarks of a woman scorned wishing to be vindicated before the world of society, the world in which Lexy operated, the only world Lexy knew. If anything, Portia was certain Lexy would welcome Sir James’ approaches, if only so she could turn around and leave him in a publicly splashy way.

Now, how to get myself out of the middle here? she wondered.

Fortunately, they had reached the SCR by this point, where the buzz of animated conversation could be heard even through the heavy wood door.

“I’m sure it will be all right,” Portia, who had no such certainty, told Lexy. “Oh! I think I hear your friend Geraldo.”

Geraldo Valentiano was indeed in the room, talking loudly about polo in what seemed to be his trademark predatory fashion with none other than Sir James’ wife. He might have been leaning in a bit too close, but India, for her part, was openly admiring his biceps. Portia slid a glance over to Lexy to see how she was taking this, and was surprised to see a look of genuine indifference on her lovely face. Her eyes were seeking someone else. Three guesses who that might be, thought Portia.

Then Portia noticed the search operation was mutual—that is, Sir James stood near the drinks tray looking vaguely around the room, but at the sight of Lexy his gaze, anxious and worried, settled immediately on her. Portia wondered if there weren’t some truth in Lexy’s take on the situation. Odder things have happened, she thought, than old flames reigniting.

But Lexy headed straight for Geraldo, who had left India with the promise of fetching her a drink. He had stopped, however, to admire his profile in a gold-framed mirror, a distraction which had temporarily derailed his mission. Lexy, with a meaningful glance at Sir James, was heard to tell Geraldo and the assembly in a loud voice that someone had broken into her room.

Sir James looked about to respond, but a couple walked in just then, looking unmistakably American in a way Portia found hard to define. Perhaps it was that their clothes looked starchily brand new, as if fresh out of the boxes. The man wore a Masters’ gown, also shining in its newness. The woman Portia assumed was his wife wore a dress straight from the Paris couture collections, but of an unbecoming shade of purple under her own academic status gown.

Just after the pair came Hermione Jax, Fellow of the college and one of its most stalwart supporters, financial and otherwise. Hermione in academic regalia looked to be in her element, as in fact she was. Disapprovingly, she scanned the assembled company with her protuberant, long-lashed eyes, then made her way over to the drinks tray where the Master and Bursar were now standing.

Over the growing volume of conversation, Portia heard Sir James say, “It would be jolly fun. You’re quite right. A row for old times’ sake.” She turned and saw he was talking with the Reverend Otis and the big Texan from the bar. “Lexy was our coxswain, back in the day. I wonder if you could persuade her?”

“That’s a grand idea,” agreed Augie Cramb. “I used to love to row. Do we have enough to make an eight?”

“Doubtful,” said Sir James. “But we could manage a four, I think. I say, Geraldo, you rowed for your college, didn’t you?”

Geraldo, tearing himself away from his image, said, “Of course. I was and am a superb athlete.” Clasping his hands in front of his stomach, he flexed his chest muscles by way of demonstration.

“I saw a young man decked out for rowing headed towards the river earlier,” said Augie.

“That was my son,” said Sir James, not looking at Augie. His voice held an odd, gruff note that might have been melancholy.

“Will he be joining us for dinner?” asked Augie.

“He’s got his own friends.” India had walked over to her husband. She took his arm proprietarily. Just then the gong sounded for dinner, and James led the way towards the dining hall, rather charging ahead and dragging India with him. Portia wondered: Was he hoping to snag a seat next to Lexy? If so, he was out of luck. It was Augie Cramb, unencumbered and making an heroic sprint, who managed to gain the coveted spot.

–––

A short time later, the St. Mike’s alumni group sat beneath the painted bosses of the Hall’s hammerbeam roof and the painted eyes of the former Masters’ portraits, steadily working its way through the appetizer course (although as someone observed: “Appetizer is rather a misnomer in this case, wouldn’t you say?”). The conversation gradually gathered strength and became a collection of discordant noises, like a symphony warming up on untuned instruments. Adding to the cacophony, four undergraduates, huddled in a corner, sawed away on stringed instruments until they were finally banished by the Master, well before they’d run through their repertoire.

Because of the presence of the distinguished guests, the High Table was unoccupied, the Master, Bursar, and Dean having literally come down from on high, the better to exercise the personal touch in their fundraising efforts. These were dark days indeed for the Master, who, having sacrificed much to attain his status in the college, loved his usual position above the crowd. The Bursar felt similarly. The Reverend Otis, however, was always happiest amongst what he endearingly thought of as his flock.

Portia, who was seated next to him, had trouble hearing what was said throughout the meal, and remembered little of it afterwards. Of course he, dear man, tended to waffle on about nothing in particular, but in the most soothing way. One felt positively shriven after an hour with the Dean.

The American woman (Portia had learned her name was Constance and her husband was Karl) had a voice like the crazed yapping of a caged dog. The acoustics in the room had always been terrible, and with drink the noise level became intolerable. Still, above it all could be heard the yap, yap, yapping of Constance Dunning. She seemed to be discussing triangles, which puzzled Portia, until she realized she meant relationships.

“Divorce is always such a pity. I don’t care what the circumstances.” Portia heard this plainly. “Don’t you agree, Karl?”

Of course, Karl did agree.

Constance’s yap was punctuated here and there by loud guffaws from Augie Cramb, who was clearly going all out to impress Lexy, who in her turn was probably secretly storing up the Texan’s buffoonerisms to amuse her friends back in London.

Gwenn Pengelly had walked in a minute late, earning a frown of disapproval from the Master. Gwenn smiled unperturbedly and took the nearest empty seat, which happened to be on Karl’s other side at the far end of the table.

Portia looked down the table, past the field of candelabra flames that flickered like gold against the polished wood, and saw that Sir James, far from Lexy, was flanked by his wife on one side and Hermione Jax on the other. How rare a sight, thought Portia: Although Hermione was always one to stand on ceremony, she had apparently happily relinquished her spot at High Table for a seat next to the illustrious Sir James.

For his part Sir James, awaiting the next course with every appearance of joyful anticipation (that smile will soon be wiped off your face, thought Portia, or I don’t know the college chef), leaned over to talk with Hermione. But his eyes frequently drifted, as if by compulsion, in the direction of Lexy Laurant.

–––

An hour had passed in apparent conviviality. Had the Bursar but realized it, his cost-cutting schemes usually back-fired in this regard: The inedible food led to over-consumption of wine, saving the college little and almost certainly adding to the monthly expenditures. It did, however, frequently lend a bacchanalian air to the tenor of the evening meals, featuring many a loud, impromptu toast to the founder of the college and its various benefactors. Gwennap Pengelly and Geraldo Valentiano, in particular, might have been said to have overindulged, judging by the increasing volume of their laughter. That was unfortunate on this particular evening, about which the police were going to ask numerous questions that almost none of the guests were going to be able to answer.

The conversation ranged and wandered, as conversations of the reunited will, over the fields of “Do you remember so-and-so?” and “Whatever happened to what’s-his-name?” Hermione Jax, however, had other things on her mind and was emboldened to speak that mind. With Hermione, this was not uncommon.

“I realize I was probably not your first choice in dinner companions this evening,” she said to Sir James, launching into one of the few conversations that would later be remembered.

While what Hermione had said was indisputably true, Sir James, true to his upbringing, demurred politely.

“See here,” she continued. “May I give you some advice?”

Sir James, guessing at the topic, said quickly, coldly, “I’d much rather you didn’t.”

“Yes, I suppose when one can guess at the advice already, one would rather not hear it. An observation, then. You’ve already crossed the Rubicon with regard to Lexy, you know. Years ago. There’s no going back.”

Sir James arranged his silverware, which was one centimeter out of true.

“There’s always a way back when it’s a question of forgiveness,” he said gruffly. “Otherwise we’d all be … doomed.”

“A bit melodramatic that, what?”

Lowering his voice still further, although it was highly doubtful his wife could hear them over the din, he said, “I should say it depends on how many lives you think you have. I believe I have only this one, and I’ve made a right cock-up of … a few things. I won’t have a million chances to put it right. This weekend is it.”

Hermione, being in many respects an intelligent woman, forbore to ask what his wife would make of this new resolve of his. She could guess, only too well.

–––

As the alumni dinner ended, Sebastian was still moving with practiced speed along the river, his sculls cutting rhythmically through the dark water, the sky as it deepened towards night making him feel both invisible and invincible. It was nearly Lighting Up, and he was reluctant to stop when his strength was nowhere near exhausted, but he didn’t want to be too flagrant about bending the rules. To be selected only for the second boat, which Sebastian regarded as a fate worse than death, was one thing. To accumulate so many fines he was forbidden the river altogether was unthinkable.

Minutes later he slowed as he approached the college; leaning onto the outside scull, he turned the boat until it was parallel to the bank. As he stepped out and lifted the boat from the water, his head was filled with the future glory of winning a Blue and the imaginary applause of onlookers, which is why he never noticed the lumpen pile of black cloth to one side of the boathouse doors. He might not have seen it at all in the light ground mist but that a slight disturbance caught his ear, causing him to turn towards a rustle in the undergrowth. Some small animal making its way to shelter before total darkness fell, perhaps. It was then to the left of the boathouse he noticed a shadow, nothing more. He went to investigate. There was a scull lying on the ground, next to that lumpen pile.