Honest Doubt

by Amanda Cross

  “Do things often work out that way?” I asked, also in a whisper.

  “Mostly the dean and the president turn people down,” she hissed back. “This caused a lot of comment, I can tell you.”

  “I hope you will, one day, when you let me buy you another dinner. I did enjoy that one so much.”

  “I did too,” Dawn said. I had the impression not a lot of people took the time to be nice to Dawn. Lucky for me, though that didn’t make me glad.

  We returned to the list. Medieval turned out to be a very nice guy named Larry Petrillo; that is, Dawn thought him nice, and said the students did too. I figured out he was probably not as big a pompous ass as the others. Renaissance—which means mainly Shakespeare, according to Dawn—was named David Longworth, an older man, close to retirement if he ever decided to retire, which nobody had to these days, not the way it used to be: sixty-five and you were out. You couldn’t celebrate your sixty-sixth birthday standing up in a classroom. Then, also probably long in the tooth, was the Freud fanatic Dawn had told me about; his name was Daniel Wanamaker, and his field was more or less Nineteenth Century, and Comparative, meaning Germany and France. Those were the full professors. The assistant professors were David Lermann, Eighteenth Century, and Eileen Janeer, Romantic; she also covered Seventeenth Century this year, since the third assistant professor was away on a fellowship; she had been in England the whole time, visiting holy places where seventeenth-century divines sermonized. Well, as my mom used to say, it takes all sorts.

  I made a list of the professors and held it out to Dawn for verification. She nodded affirmation. The list read:

  VICTORIAN— CHARLES HAYCOCK

  (DECEASED)

  AMERICAN—DONALD GOLDBERG

  MODERN—ANTONIA LANSBURY

  MEDIEVAL—LARRY PETRILLO

  RENAISSANCE—DAVID LONGWORTH

  COMPARATIVE—DANIEL WANAMAKER

  ROMANTIC—EILEEN JANEER,

  ASSISTANT PROF.

  EIGHTEENTH CENTURY—DAVID

  LERMANN, ASSISTANT PROF.

  NOVEL—JANET GRAHAM

  WRITING—KEVIN OAKWOOD

  (ONE ASSISTANT PROF. ON LEAVE)

  “So who’s around?” I asked. I thought I might as well get started; after all, I had to begin sometime.

  “At this hour, most of them are teaching,” Dawn said. “But David Longworth’s in his office.” She pointed me in the right direction.

  I knocked on the door of Professor Longworth’s office, even though it was open. I didn’t like to barge right in. He looked up and waved me in. I had the feeling he would have been glad to see anyone. He looked kind of expectant, sitting there, and I felt sorry for him.

  “Come in, come in,” he shouted, waving even more vigorously. I walked up to his desk and introduced myself.

  “I’m a private investigator,” I said. I always pause there for some expression of amazement, curiosity, or dismay.

  “Surely you have a name,” he said. “Even Shakespeare’s fools had names, most of them.”

  “Woodhaven,” I said. “People call me Woody Woodhaven.”

  “Nicely alliterative,” he said. “Sit down. I suppose you’re the one they hired to find out who rushed Chuck Haycock into shuffling off his mortal coil. Hamlet,” he added as I looked a trifle puzzled.

  “Yes, that’s me.” Or is it I? I wondered. Talking with professors always makes me nervous. On the one hand, I think most of them haven’t the wit to come in out of the rain; on the other hand, they make me feel stupid. Not a good combination, if you want the truth.

  Professor Longworth didn’t seem bothered by my grammar, right or wrong. These days he was probably used to anything; no doubt he considered himself lucky if anyone read Shakespeare, let alone talked like him.

  “Ask away,” he said. “You will want to know where I was on the afternoon Chuck met his Maker. Well, I was with Chuck, as was everyone else in the department, so you’d better consider me a prime suspect.” He seemed pleased with the idea.

  “At the moment I’m trying to get a picture of the department, how it works, and how the professors relate to each other, that kind of thing. I came to you first because you’ve been here the longest and probably have the most measured view.” This was also a crock, but flattery always works.

  “That’s very sensible of you,” he said. “Most people think the longer one has been here, the less one knows. We older faculty may not be as familiar with rock stars as we ought, but we’ve seen all the cycles come and go, and we have some sense of what works and what doesn’t. Not that anyone wants to hear it. Or anything else, for that matter. Can you imagine teaching Lear to a classroom of sophomores these days?”

  “They must be interested if they take it.”

  “It’s required,” he said. “I’d be a very lonely man otherwise. Lear complained about ungrateful children; he should have met today’s undergraduates. But you didn’t come to hear the woes of teaching Shakespeare.”

  “It all helps to get the picture. Surely they listen to you in faculty meetings,” I said. I doubted it, but I had to get him off Shakespeare and onto more practical subjects. I plan to read all of Shakespeare when I retire, but he’s not on the top of my list at the moment.

  “My dear young woman, if you suppose that, you can’t be a very good detective. Surely you have already concluded that nobody listens to me. Not unless they want something; what do you want to know?”

  “Tell me about faculty meetings,” I said, not looking embarrassed. I was even getting to like the old chap.

  “Ah. Now you’re sounding like a detective. Faculty meetings are where we all get off our high horses and sound like boys in a frat house deciding on whom to pledge.”

  “Really?” I said. Old Longworth was beginning to surprise me.

  “As near as makes no matter, I do assure you.”

  “You do have a tenured woman on the faculty; hasn’t she made any difference?”

  “Apart from the other professors wishing they could frankly admire her legs, no.”

  I think my mouth dropped open at this. I shut it, but couldn’t decide if he was trying to tell me the woman had good legs, or they wished she had. He sensed my question.

  “She has great legs, but she doesn’t think that’s the part of her accoutrement they ought to be considering, and she’s quite right. I’m afraid most of the men in this department haven’t greeted women’s lib with open arms. Tony—Antonia—has to sit in on any interview with a female candidate to keep the old boys from admiring her legs.”

  “Was Professor Haycock like that?” I asked.

  “Leader of the pack. His hatred of women scholars, and Tony in particular, was the one fact everyone in the department agreed upon.”

  “Do you dislike her?”

  “I don’t. She’s nice to me, which is sufficiently unusual around here to win my affection. Beyond that, I admire her. She could have settled in as one of the boys, and written a book showing how women had ruined the wonders men had contrived, but she didn’t. She’s not a queen bee—I bet you didn’t think I knew that term—and she really fought to get another tenured woman into the department. That really fluttered the dovecotes; imagine, two women sitting in on meetings of the tenured faculty.”

  He looked positively gleeful at the memory. Since Professor Longworth seemed ready enough to gossip about his colleagues, I didn’t want to lose the moment. He might tell me things he wouldn’t tell me at another time, starting from scratch. When interviewees talk, keep them talking—that’s my motto.

  “Surely all the professors don’t think exactly alike?” I said, astonishment ringing in my voice.

  “Each had his separate reason for turning down Catherine Dorman for tenure.”

  “Such as?” I asked encouragingly.

  “Haycock I’ve already mentioned. He was the only one who admitted he was against women, period. The others were sophisticated enough not to put it quite so plainly, to say nothing of affirmative action r
ules. They didn’t like her last ten refereed articles, or she was not properly obsequious to Freud—that was the opinion of our chairman, Daniel Wanamaker, who, as I understand it, is seriously considering retiring and taking his antediluvian opinions to the South.”

  “And who will be chairman when he does leave?”

  “A good question, my dear. Who indeed? I would like the job, and I’m willing to call myself the chair, tout court, avoiding the sexist title, but the others think I’d be too tolerant of views they don’t like; the Lear syndrome, it’s called, and I don’t have it. I’m not supposed to know about it, but I do. Larry Petrillo told me; now there’s a nice guy, even though he keeps extending the medieval period well into the Renaissance. Anyway, it was certainly going to be Haycock; I don’t know who it will be now.”

  “Lear syndrome?” I hated to ask, but I thought I’d better; it might be a clue. I could have waited and asked Kate—that might have been the sensible thing to do —but he seemed to welcome the question. Anyway, my instinct told me to keep away from the chairman question now; it sounded like a good motive, and I wanted to learn more about it before taking it up.

  “No reason you should know about Lear. You’re a detective, not a scholar, my dear. I won’t ask what you majored in in college. Lear, whether through senility or the compassion of old age, gave his kingdom away to his nasty daughters. You see the relevance.”

  “Of course. And he didn’t give any part to his good daughter, because she wouldn’t tell him she loved him. Sorry to have been so slow in catching on.” I’d seen Lear once on television, just the beginning, but I didn’t see any point in mentioning that.

  “You show promise; don’t apologize. They’re all afraid of nasty women taking over, all except David Lermann; it’s the new theoretical lingo he objects to. He thinks anyone who even mentions theory has defiled the language and should be shot. Neither Tony nor Catherine went in for theory in a big way, but they didn’t refuse to acknowledge it. Lermann called them illiterate; so did Haycock.”

  “But I thought only tenured professors came to those faculty meetings.”

  “Lermann is tenured, even though he’s an assistant professor. He got de facto tenure. Somebody in the administration was nodding, and he taught here long enough to get automatic tenure. The old boys were so outraged that they’ve never given him a promotion. He isn’t really stodgy, except about the English language; he hasn’t published anything, but the students love him. You’d think he might resent the other tenured men, but no —he’s really the sweetest guy in the world. He ought to have been promoted, but around here, no chance.”

  “It all sounds, well, rather, well, not what you’d expect from college professors.” I was really getting nervous, and worrying if maybe the old boy was indeed losing his marbles.

  “Don’t take it from me,” he said cheerfully, reading my mind. “Ask around; find out for yourself. You’ll see I’m right.”

  “I’m sure I will. Who do you think killed Professor Haycock?”

  “Just about anybody, I’d say. Nobody around here is very lovable, but Charles took offensiveness to a new level. I’d say your problem in finding the murderer, if any, is going to be a challenging one. Everyone had the opportunity; everyone had a motive; perhaps getting the means wasn’t too hard.”

  “Might he have killed himself ?”

  “Charles? Never. Besides, if he’d decided to kill himself, he’d have done it so that someone was the obvious suspect. No, I think you can dismiss suicide; the police seem to have done so.”

  “What was your motive?”

  “Easy, my dear. He wanted to be chairman and so did I. I thought with him out of the way, they’d have to settle for me, Lear syndrome or not. I thought the chairmanship would be a nice way to end my long career.”

  He smiled saying this, and while I was trying to interpret his words, a student came to the door. I stood up and said my farewells.

  “Come again anytime, my dear,” he said. “Come in, Mr. Franklin; still puzzled by Hamlet, are we? What exactly do you find troublesome?”

  I left them to it, and went to ask Dawn if anyone else had come back to the office. She told me that Antonia Lansbury was probably still in her office, probably still seeing students.

  She was. I waited at the end of the line, making notes and wondering if Professor Longworth was having me on, making me into one of his Shakespearean fools, or if all college departments could possibly be as unpleasant as this one.

  Come, my friends, ’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

  —TENNYSON, “Ulysses”

  Five

  OF course, when I finally got into her office, the first thing I did was look at her legs. She had turned her desk chair sideways, and her long legs were stretched out; she’d kicked her shoes off. I could see that she was tired, and I could see that not only were her legs gorgeous, she was thin and gorgeous all over. Two such women in one case: her and Kate. And she was my age, give or take a year, which made it worse. Kate, at least, had settled well into her fifties and wore glasses to read.

  “Do I know you?” she asked. “Have you just signed up for the course?”

  I stared at her, really worried. No way do I resemble a college student, here or anywhere else.

  She understood immediately why I was puzzled. A good sign, I thought; intelligent lady. She said, “We have alumni who come back to take courses, as auditors,” she said. “They not infrequently show up after the courses have begun. I take it you are not an alumna and not an auditor.”

  “I’m a private investigator,” I said. “Hired by members of this department to look into Professor Haycock’s murder. I’d very much like to talk to you, if you haven’t had too long a day. We could make it tomorrow.”

  “Hell, it’s a change of subject, anyway. I’m tired of T. S. Eliot, who hated Jews and women and wrote great poetry, damn him. Close the door, if you don’t mind, and have a seat; I leave the door open to avoid any nonsense from students, but privacy seems to be what we need now.”

  I wondered what sort of nonsense the students threatened— charges of sexual harassment, or what? I didn’t ask. I had enough questions without taking her time to satisfy my personal curiosity. Maybe I’d ask later on. Anyway, I was looking around her office, which was rather barren; there were bookshelves all around the room, but few books.

  Noticing my gaze, she said, “I work at home. These are only duplicate texts and a few books I lend to students. I don’t do my own work here; this place is just where I hold my office hours. Sorry it’s so bleak, which everyone notices, but for me this is not a home away from home.”

  “I was just talking to Professor Longworth,” I explained, “and his office is, well, fixed up, with lots of books, and rugs, and an easy chair and lamps. . . .” My voice trailed off. Actually her office looked a lot more like my office than Professor Longworth’s did. His office looked to me as though he was trying to have a life there. My office, even if it wasn’t derelict, was just a place to meet with people about business, like hers. I decided, temporarily, to forgive her for being thin.

  “Please tell me how I can help you,” she said. “This department has been seething with ill feeling for far too long; I didn’t expect it to end in someone’s death, but in theories and interpretations of literature; that would have been the only way for so much hatred to go. If you see what I mean. I’m afraid we English-lit types get to talking as though everyone lived in books as we do, or like to think we do.”

  “You mean, in books things that might happen do happen, whereas in life they often don’t.”

  “That’s part of it. In Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, he wants to kill the pawnbroker, but he doesn’t really decide to do it until he happens to hear that her sister will be away that night. A coincidence? In life, yes; in books, no. Because the coincidence was simply the manifestation of his intention; what seem to be coincidences in life are really, in books—anyway, in good books—the confirmation of cha
racter and will. And, of course, the sister turns up anyway, and he has to kill her too.”

  I looked at her. I thought of Kate. There was no doubt these literary types lived in some world where literature was more significant to them than events that had really happened. I guess the point is that literature has some meaning to it, and life often doesn’t, although people hire us investigators to prove that it does.

  “What caused all the ill feeling in this department?” I asked her. “I know there are probably a lot of reasons, but is there a main reason?”

  She stretched her legs out and smiled. “You’ll get a different answer from each person you ask. From my point of view, the simplest explanation is that these guys used to rule the roost, and now they’re not only expected to share it, and to share it with women, they’re also expected to change the way they look at the literature they have always taught, and even to consider writings they have never taught. They don’t like being displaced, and they don’t like being told they are no longer the final authority on what constitutes the canon. If I were one of them, I might not like it either.”

  “Are they racists too?” I asked.

  “No, or at least not blatantly. They like to congratulate themselves on not being racists. But women; that’s turning the whole natural order upside down.”

  “Aren’t there younger men who are not quite so . . . well, so set in their ways?”

  “Sure there are. And we’ve had some great younger male scholars in this department, but the old guys don’t want them, and because they’re male there aren’t as many of the same questions asked when they’re turned down. They prefer the old young men whom they could very well have cloned; men as conservative and in love with old-time values as themselves.”

  “It’s not like that with the police,” I said. “The racists are almost as bad as the woman-haters. I bet it’s the same in the fire department, not to mention sanitation. Different class of people, I guess.”