Death at the Alma Mater sm-3

by G. M. Malliet

  "You'll want to know where I was-where everyone was, of course-and anything that happened leading up to the crime, especially anything of a suspicious nature. We-l-l-l, I spent the day mostly on my computer researching a story. I took a break for lunch at Fitzbillies. Then I came back and worked until six. Took a shower in one of those ghastly, germ-breeding, mold-infested stalls they subject us to here-I suppose to show the dire need for donations to renovate. The Master is no one's fool, let me tell you, and his sidekick the Bursar is twice as cunning. Anyway, down to dinner. The Master rolled out, I swear, the same speech he gave years ago in welcoming us to the college, only this time with a thicker overlay of the sense of the History of it all. And how we must preserve our great traditions, whatever the cost. Honestly, he might have lifted the whole thing from the Queen's Speech. Hermione Jax sat there lapping it up, of course. She's had a pash for the Master for years. Unrequited, needless to say. But that hasn't stopped him from cashing her cheques left and right. Fortunately, she's rolling in it, so little harm done, I would imagine. Her father was one of the Hanover-Forspeths, you know, on his mother's side. They're all barking, of course. Old Hermie escaped from a dreadful, doomed existence when her father died. Oh, I see you know about that?

  "Anyway, we got through the dinner somehow-I think the main course was yak, I swear it, and a very elderly yak, at that. Some things never change-and the Master instructed us to reconvene in the SCR, where no doubt we were to be treated to yet more toasts and speeches and heavy-handed hints about the need for more funding. Imagine the crush to get in first-not! Anyway, I went to my room and fixed my face and wandered ever so slowly down. I wasn't in the room a minute when that tall young blonde came roaring in, blubbering."

  Here, much to St. Just's relief, and Fear's, who was getting writer's cramp, she paused to draw breath and beam at them again. Before she could resume, St. Just cut in:

  "Tell us about your time at St. Michael's, when you were a student here."

  "Certainly. Well, to be frank, I loathed the place when I was here. Talk about a hotbed of misogyny. Any reasonably attractive woman"-and here she paused, eyelashes fluttering, clearly waiting for the requisite protest as to her remarkable beauty. None forthcoming, she went on rather sulkily, "Well, any attractive woman simply was not taken seriously. And even the Ms. Jaxes of this world had a difficult row to hoe. I just kept my head down and got through it, somehow. Finished with a decent second, before you ask. I never claimed to be a genius."

  "Did you know Lexy at all well from that time?"

  "I did at first-we hung about a bit together. We were much the same age, with some interests in common. We played tennis a few times, doubles. But she quickly took up with James and it was the usual story-no time for old girlfriends when a man comes on the scene. And I-well, I had my own fish to fry about then. Rather a dashing young man reading Renaissance Lit. He broke my heart, of course, but at least he did it poetically." She grinned again, that famous grin admired by viewers the width and breadth of Great Britain. She really was a good-looking woman, thought St. Just. Perhaps there had been some rivalry between Gwenn and Lexy?

  She went on, "The whole place was a petri dish for this type of love affair thing, come to think of it."

  "How did anyone get enough work done to finish their degree?" wondered St. Just.

  "That's quite a good question, actually."

  "You say Lexy quickly got caught up with James. Was it your impression she was the pursuer, then, and not the pursued?"

  She laughed. It was a squeaky laugh, like a pencil eraser rubbed across a glass window. Coquettishly, she gave her head what St. Just was certain she thought of as a saucy toss, setting the curls abounce. Twinkle. Smile. "Golly, yes," she said.

  St. Just felt he'd had quite enough of this sort of thing. He was reminded why he seldom watched the news on telly. He preferred to get his information from people who had not first been coiffed and shellacked to within an inch of their lives, as if they were going to a dinner party. Radio had much to recommend it; print still more.

  "Are you all right, Ms. Pengelly?"

  "Whatever do you mean?" Toss, bounce. Smile. "Of course I'm all right."

  "Sometimes neck pain can take people that way. A sharp spasm, following by twitching."

  Coldly. "I said I'm all right."

  "Good. Then, you were saying… "

  "Yes. Well. James couldn't make a move, inside or outside the college, where he didn't run into Lexy, 'by accident.' She positively threw herself at him." Gwenn flexed her wrist in a dismissive motion. "He joined the chess club; she joined the chess club-just try to imagine Lexy, of all people, in a chess club. But of course, I'm forgetting, you didn't know her. Anyway, he joined the Student Union; she joined the Student Union. It's a wonder she didn't follow him into the men's loo. Lexy lived in a positive bubble of denial, you see-he was never all that keen, I don't think. Of course, he had reasonable looks and some old family money. One couldn't blame her. Is there a Type A-B personality? Then Lexy was it. All over the place. She still lives-lived-a somewhat rackety life in London, so I've heard. Never quite settled down."

  "Did you? Blame her, I mean. Feel any resentment?"

  The automatic smile froze, although the eyelashes continued to flutter.

  "How do you mean?" she said at last.

  "I mean, did you feel any resentment at their relationship?"

  "Over a dried-up stick like James? Certainly not. James was an old man before he turned six years of age. Far too serious for my taste. Besides, as I told you, I had other fish to fry. Lexy was-I've just realized, I made her sound like some kind of man-eater. It wasn't like that at all. She was insecure, is all-one of the most insecure women I've met in my life. She loved James; rather, she seemed to need him rather desperately, which can be the same thing, can't it? Thank God, or maybe not, he reciprocated, at least for awhile. Then he met India and-pow.

  "India had-what was it? A life force that Lexy lacked somehow. Like Lexy, if India wanted something, India went after it. But there was more-" and here, the eyelashes went into overdrive, "and it was this: India's presence somehow held the promise of unbridled sexuality, no strings attached. Have you ever met anyone like that?"

  The two policemen, wide-eyed, remained diplomatically silent.

  "But there are always strings-strings that entangle not one or two but several lives, even threatening to destroy everyone caught in the net. Still, what man could resist India, or even want to? Lexy, by way of contrast, was an ice princess. Lovely, seemingly untouchable."

  Again she tossed her head in the coquettish manner that was apparently hard-wired into her character.

  "There was a time I worried about Lexy's stability, during all that," she said. "We all did. She seemed headed for the loony bin. Then the Master got them all separated and that seemed to help. She was seeing a rower by the time we graduated. But she never gave up her pash for James."

  "Even as late as this weekend?"

  She nodded. "You only had to see her-her eyes, following him wherever he walked. That dishy Argentine was-what do you call it? A beard? Anyway, he was here just for show. That much was obvious."

  "They seemed to get along, did they? Lexy and Geraldo?"

  "Yes, I suppose. But again, it was all for show. He certainly wasn't along to provide thought-provoking commentary on the global economy, that's for certain. Now, Chief Inspector, you will be giving me an exclusive on this story, won't you?" She flashed her best, professionally whitened smile. Through some trick of genetic inheritance each of her front teeth was slightly and evenly gapped, in a not unattractive way, like a row of vertical fence slats.

  "There will of course be a statement issued from communications at some point," he told her, knowing full well that wasn't what she wanted to hear. Too bad. "One further question: Did you see much of Lexy once both of you had left University?"

  A shrug. "Here and there. She held down a few Sloane-y jobs, wrote a society column for a while. O
ur professional paths sometimes intersected over that-she had fantastic access to after-party tidbits of gossip. You know: who went home with whom, who was leaving whom. Then she retired from working to become, well, Lexy Laurant."

  There seeming to be little more she could tell them, he bid her a good night. Sulkily, cheated of her "scoop," and leaving her audience less than dazzled, she left the room.

  And DCI St. Just and Sergeant Fear called it a night soon after that.

  NEEDLES AND HAYSTACKS

  St. Just let himself into his flat, where the air was stale from his brief absence, and as he stood, taking in the uncluttered space, he felt himself begin to relax. The hallway of the flat led directly into the sitting area, a cozy spot that encouraged reading by the fireside, or gazing into space, and generally offloading the cares of the day. His sister had seen to all of it, employing a man named Jim and his entourage one year as a surprise birthday present. St. Just had endured a surreal four weeks of being grilled as to his preferences, quizzed about his tastes, and gently interrogated with regard to the colors to which he was drawn. It was as close to being professionally psychoanalyzed as he would ever come, St. Just imagined, and probably far more beneficial.

  He flipped the switch that managed the room's recessed lighting. Deerstalker was still at the neighbors' being fed and worshipped while St. Just was away, a common arrangement given St. Just's erratic schedule. He'd have to collect the cat later; everyone, perhaps including Deerstalker, would be well asleep now.

  He wondered anew why he kept a pet, although "kept" was never the operative word with cats. Nor was "pet." Often, days or even weeks would go by without his setting eyes on Deerstalker, only to be met on his return with that cat-patented You again? look, followed by a dismissive turn of that regal little skull. It wasn't as if Deerstalker were angry with him about these absences. That would imply a personal rather than a business relationship, and the business they were in together required simply that Deerstalker be housed and fed according to his own exacting standards.

  Deerstalker was one of the few emissaries from the animal world that did not immediately fall under St. Just's spell, or at least, pretended not to. Although he would on occasion allow St. Just to pet him, their "together time" was strictly rationed. Apparently lulled to sleep, he would suddenly leap from St. Just's lap and run from the room as if remembering an urgent engagement, only to reappear when he chose, hours later, without apology or explanation, or even a passing glance.

  Shrugging off his jacket, St. Just scanned the headlines in the days-old newspaper on the sofa. Another screed of paranoiac vitriol from the Middle East, and more double-speak from Russia. Another child gone missing-thank God, on someone else's watch, but weren't they all on our watch? Another august British institution gone bankrupt. The newspapers lately had been full of photos of stockbrokers shouting across trading room floors, or with eyes cast heavenward, hands clasped on foreheads. For all St. Just knew, these were old photos trotted out for every bounce in the markets, although recent news had been unusually bad.

  His eyes retreated from these tales of mayhem and carnage to his artist's pad, opened to a half-finished pastel drawing of Portia. He couldn't quite capture the light in her blue eyes; he'd made a mess of it with repeated attempts and would have to start over. Something about being too close to one's subject, he thought, grinning. He was tied to her like a hawk tethered by mews jesses, a fact he accepted not with resentment but gratitude and not a little fear, for his love for Portia was bittersweet-to him, the risk of loss would always be the flip side of the happiness coin.

  He started to tear up his poor effort, but found himself reluctant to actually destroy the page that held her image. He flipped instead to the page where a picture was emerging of the Chief Constable, who was a beautiful woman of strong facial structure, he had to admit, despite her off-puttingly trendy social beliefs. There, he felt he'd caught the light of fervor in her eyes, almost exactly. It was a look not unlike Hermione Jax's.

  He stopped to reheat some soup and bread, and after this small meal, he poured out a brandy to sip while he worked. An hour later he started to pour out a second brandy, then decided that might be a brandy too far. Still wide awake, he picked up his copy of Baudolino from the side table. He was starting to believe the book was cursed. He could never get past chapter three because a case always interrupted him at right about that point, as Baudolino was telling his story to Niketas. By the time St. Just got back to the book, he'd have forgotten some of the salient details; he felt he had to take a good running start at it by beginning again at the first chapter. Maybe if he just kept reading… Dutifully, as clouds scudded by outside his window, he sat in his easy chair and began reading again. At chapter three, his mind began to wander, wishing himself with Portia. And his eyes closed in sleep. -- The next day, early, he returned to St. Michael's College and went up to Portia's rooms. She was in the second court where they kept the Fellows who chose to live in college (stored them, Portia insisted was a better term). But her set of rooms was large and featured an Oriel window. When away from her, he pictured her sitting there like a princess in a tower.

  Ordinarily, she might have stayed with him in his flat the night before, but as she was involved in a murder investigation-again-there was no question of that: She was, in theory and officially, at least, a suspect. The few times he had stayed in her rooms in college had not been a success-she had a single bed, for a start. He had long before, and with unseemly haste, asked her to move in with him, but that trial balloon hadn't flown.

  "We'll live together when we're married," she'd said.

  "And when will that be?" he'd asked, suddenly stung with hope.

  "I don't know. When I've finished my thesis?"

  Seeing the look on his face, she'd quickly and penitently added, "I'm going to be married to you for the rest of my life. Since I plan to live a very, very long time, I want to enjoy, to savor, if you will, my last time as a single woman. I've been single for thirty-five years, you know. Hard to give that up. Not that I'm planning any wild adventures. But if I want to stay in bed 'til noon writing my novel, that's what I'll do. If I want to go up to London on the spur of the moment, I will do that. I may have a private film festival one weekend, watching old movies like Rebecca, and weeping over How Green Was My Valley, and analyzing old episodes of Inspector Morse. All of that will change once we're married"-and here she held up a hand to still his protest-"no, it's changed already, and you know it has. I can't make a move but that I want you in my plans, as a key part of my plans. Once I'm one half of Mr. and Mrs. Arthur St. Just, it will be 'worse.' Wonderful, but worse. This is nothing to do with you, and everything to do with the fact that we met and my world changed overnight. Give me time. Just a little."

  It wasn't that he didn't understand-he understood too well, and so reluctantly accepted what she told him. They'd be together soon enough. This day he drank her excellent coffee and, after a brief chat, left her to resume the investigation. Sergeant Fear was waiting for him downstairs.

  "We've told them to stay clear of their rooms so we can have a proper search," he informed St. Just. "And the Master's given us a diagram of who was in what room. Shall we start with the victim's room?"

  But they soon found themselves lost in one of the labyrinthine passages of the college. After ten fruitless minutes, they were forced to ask the way of one of the few students they came upon. She introduced herself as Saffron.

  Even though it was edging on High Summer, Saffron wore large, suede, fur-lined boots, suitable for competing in the Iditarod, offset by a pair of shorts so tiny St. Just had to closely husband his eyes, fixing them firmly on her face as he asked her the way back to the rooms being used by the guests. Fear blushed a deep red and stared at the ceiling.

  She'd done something strange to her hair, which, fortunately, gave St. Just something to stare at. It was pinned, twisted, and spun into random coils, finally falling down about her neck in pink-and-blue-tipped tendril
s that matched her eye shadow. Her lips were painted a matching blue.

  She nodded. "They'll be in the Rupert Brooke."

  "Interesting choice of name. Had he some connection with the college?"

  "None whatsoever. A former Master was an admirer: 'The damned ship lurched and slithered. Quiet and quick / My cold gorge rose; the long sea rolled; I knew / I must think hard of something, or be sick… ' From 'A Channel Passage.' Quite the worst subject for a poem one can imagine, is it not? We had it in the sixth form. It was the boys' favorite."

  She led them through a corridor of Harry-Potterish aspect, past strange and fusty exhibits of rocks and shells and stuffed creatures-likely donated cast-offs of former members-to what had been Lexy's room during her short stay at the college. The multi-colored young woman named Saffron left them there.

  Lexy's room was much as St. Just had expected, an explosion of frilly, expensive clothing, including no fewer than five pairs of shoes. The room itself featured a large bay window overlooking First Court, with a view across the court to the staircases leading up to the sets of rooms opposite.

  "Five pairs of shoes for a weekend visit?" asked Sergeant Fear.

  "Either she liked to be prepared for anything or she couldn't make up her mind."

  The air in the room held the smell of her flowery perfume mixed with the lighter scent of her cosmetics-the face powders and rouges and the various unguents no doubt meant to keep her forever young. Death had beat these elixirs to it: She would forever be thirty-eight; she would forever escape the dreaded Four-Oh birthday.

  St. Just turned to face the mystifying display of containers and jars on top of a makeshift dressing-table-it appeared she had commandeered the nighttable for this purpose, propping up a handheld mirror to apply her makeup. The two policemen stood stolidly surveying the wide-ranging tools of artifice. St. Just crossed the room to open the door of the cupboard. It seemed she had only bothered to hang one or two items; the rest spilled in ripples and foams of satin and lace from an expensive set of luggage left open in the middle of the room. A magazine of the glossy gossip-and-fashion variety lay open to an advertisement for shoes-someone, presumably Lexy, had used an eye crayon to circle three styles of interest. On the page opposite the ad was a photo of a young blonde woman, evidently inebriated, being lifted out of the gutter outside a London nightclub. Today's role model.