Death at the Alma Mater sm-3

by G. M. Malliet

  "Twenty year now."

  "Was the lady known to you from her time as a student here?"

  "She may have been. I've seen thousands pass through here though, Sir. Can't expect me to remember them all. In fact, I only tend to remember the troublemakers."

  "It's always difficult, patrolling an environment like this, with so many nooks and crannies to it," St. Just observed. "It's what makes both Cambridge and Oxford hard to police."

  "Too right."

  "I imagine you've seen it all."

  "I have indeed."

  "Drugs and so forth?"

  The Porter seemed to take this as a personal affront. He carefully adjusted his bowler before replying, patting it squarely atop his head.

  "No indeed. Not at St. Michael's."

  St. Just doubted very much that St. Mike's had a special dispensation in that regard when every other college was fighting a running battle against the noxious stuff, but he decided not to risk further losing the goodwill of this particular witness. Just then another constable approached to tell them someone in the college kitchen wanted a word.

  "All right," said St. Just. "Tell them we'll be right there." He left his card with William Trinity with instructions on how to get in touch.

  The college kitchen looked as if a factory from the time of the industrial revolution had been dropped into the center of an old monastery. The stone floor had worn smooth as glass over the centuries by the continual tread of feet going from the walk-in fireplace-big enough to roast an ox, to which use it probably had been put-to the enormous central refectory-style table. It was otherwise typical, St. Just supposed, of any kitchen attached to a large restaurant or school; the need to feed hundreds of rapacious students and their instructors several times a day necessitated a ruthless efficiency. Several young men and women were engaged in food preparation. As he watched, they all looked up from their chores simultaneously, as if harkening to the same bell.

  "What is that?" St. Just heard one of them say.

  His eye was caught just then by an enormous, fierce-looking tom. Evidently the mouser trade was booming. He sat in the dead center of the room, an Oberburgermeister of a cat, sleek, fat, and complacent as a robber baron, concentrating now on his post-meal wash. It was a meticulous, demanding job, every claw requiring equal, specialized attention. St. Just would not have been surprised if the cat had next begun cleaning his teeth with a silver toothpick. He wore his mantle of power lightly, but it was clear a successful mouser answered to no one.

  "Tom Jones," said a sharp voice. "You know you're not allowed in here."

  A short, squat woman approached, drying her hands on an apron that nearly reached the floor. The cat, looking over his shoulder, gave her a glancing once-over before resuming his ablutions.

  St. Just said, "Someone wanted a word?"

  "That would be me." She was nearly as wide as she was tall, and she had arms like a stevedore's, the muscles rippling as she kneaded the white cloth. St. Just reflected that Philip Marlowe might have described her as a woman built like a refrigerator and twice as cold. "I'm the chef here," she said, squinting at the men in turn, taking their measure from under thatched eyebrows. Seemingly satisfied, she extended one ropy arm to shake hands and said:

  "Mary Goose-and I've heard all the jokes already, ta very much." She paused to ruffle the salt-and-pepper hair she wore in a choppy no-frills cut. "Anyway, I saw her, you see. The blonde that was done in. In the garden that night. I was there. I wasn't supposed to be, and I'd appreciate your keeping that information under your hat."

  She suddenly turned and shouted, "Fuck away from that!" St. Just saw the cat, a large fish in its mouth, moving with swift feline grace towards the exit.

  "Bugger it." She rolled her eyes in a display of colossal annoyance, then informed St. Just, "I'll be finding the bones all over the garden now. Bloody hell. As if I don't have enough to do. Where was I? Oh, right, in the garden."

  "How did you happen to be there?" he asked.

  "Stepped out for a smoke, see. The Master frowns on that. It was in the middle of the shift, see. But the meal was finished, there was nothing that needed doing right then, so I stepped out into a corner of the cloister walk. The members had all left the Hall by the gallery at that point. That's when I saw them. A blonde woman sitting on the bench in the Fellows' Garden, talking with this dark-haired man."

  "Did you know either of them?"

  "Never saw either of them before. I've not been at St. Mike's as long as all that."

  "Could you hear what they were saying?"

  She nodded emphatically. "Yes, I could. Clear as day. He said, 'We were happy together, Lexy. Cling to that memory. I do. Those were wonderful times.' Something like that-it wouldn't half have made you sick to listen to him. He was sweet-talking her, you see, but really, trying to get away from her."

  This was a break, thought St. Just. Mary Goose was the only witness so far who could have overheard the conversation, the gallery used by the others being glassed in.

  "And what did she say?"

  "Nothing. She just gave a little shudder, like she was crying, stricken with grief, you know." Stricken with grief. It sounded like a line she'd heard on the telly. "Or maybe it was foreboding, given what happened to her next, poor lady."

  "And then?"

  "Then what? That was about it. I came in on the tail end. He said something like, 'Well, perhaps you'd like to be alone. I'll leave you now. See you in the SCR in a bit, right?' And he walked off. I heard him take the stairs, those stairs that are at one end of the cloister-the opposite end of the cloister to where I was standing, lucky thing. And from there I would guess he headed down the corridor to the SCR."

  "She didn't follow him?"

  She shook her head.

  "I left myself then. She was still sitting there."

  "And the time for this would be when?"

  "Nine twenty. No, I tell a lie. Maybe nine twenty-five."

  "I see. Thank you for coming forward. I don't see any reason why the Master has to know about the cigarette."

  "Thanks, mate. You're a real gent."

  "Just for my notes," said Sergeant Fear, "how long have you been the college cook?"

  Mary Goose, in the process of leaving, spun around, making the starched white apron billow out from around her hips like a ship's sail.

  "I'm the chef, young man, not the cook. The chef, got that? And I've been here near fifteen years."

  A chastened St. Just and Fear left via a door that led to the kitchen garden, which was surrounded by dry stone walls. There was no sign of the cat nor the fish, but no doubt Tom Jones was wise enough to put a safe distance between himself and the chef. From there, the policemen walked out onto the broad green expanse of lawn leading to the river. Beyond a screen of trees they heard the repetitive thwump of a tennis ball being struck. They followed the sound: Geraldo Valentiano was hitting balls against a tennis backboard. He had apparently had the foresight to pack a white tennis outfit, or perhaps that was just part of his standard travel gear as he jetted from world hotspot to world hotspot.

  He paused to watch the policemen approach.

  "How long are you going to hold me here?" he demanded to know, when they were within hearing range. "I have to get up to London."

  "What exactly is your business there, Sir?"

  Geraldo gave a silky shrug.

  "This and that. Look, it's too bad, what happened to Lexy, but that was going nowhere. She asked me here to be her escort for the weekend. I thought it would be what you call a lark-was I wrong!-so I came along. I have nothing to do with this, I tell you." His voice ended on an unattractive whine. "I'm just an innocent bystander."

  St. Just looked at him a long moment.

  "When you can leave, I'll be sure to let you know. In person."

  STIRRED AND SHAKEN

  James and India sat in the beer garden of the Green Dragon, having asked for and received police permission to leave the college grounds for a few ho
urs. They had walked as close as possible to the river, having first debated whether they could somehow annex one of the college's double sculls to make their escape.

  "It would be a neat way to dodge the media. We could just float right by them, traveling at great speed," James had said. "Imagine the publicity for the new book. At least Lexy wouldn't have died completely in vain."

  "James!"

  "Sorry." He had the grace to look abashed. "I suppose that was in rather bad taste."

  "Rather. Besides, are old members allowed to take out a scull?" she asked.

  "Are you joking? They have a murder investigation on their hands. Who is likely to care?" He laughed. "A couple of scofflaws, that we are."

  But in the end James and India took their chances, leaving via a tradesmen's gate, judging correctly that the members of the media (who tended to travel in packs) would be gathered at the front gates, hoping for a sighting of any of the suspects. The removal of Lexy's body the night before had been all they could have hoped for in the way of drama. Perhaps lightning would strike twice.

  Now James, his hands wrapped tightly around a pint as they sat at one of the pub's outdoor tables, looked across at his wife.

  "Do you remember when we used to come here? It wasn't that long ago, was it, but it seems almost as if we were children then."

  "We were children. Life is never again as simple. Just getting through exams was all that mattered. That, and having a dress for the May Ball."

  They paused to watch a pair of ducks float by, male and female, the female gliding in the wake.

  James said, "I've always wondered, do they mate for life? Or is that only true for mallards?"

  India shrugged: Don't know. Don't care right now.

  "I just don't see who could have done this," he said then, picking up on her distraction. It was the third time he'd spoken some version of those words that day.

  "You must be joking, James. Surely the police are spoiled for choice. My money's on Geraldo, however."

  James shook his head firmly. "There's not really a lot of choice, on the face of it. Lexy could be a pain, we all know that. But… it was as if I always knew that her anger was directed at me, not the world. I guess I'm trying to say, she wasn't really a pain in a generalized way. It was tightly focused, her anger, and I understood that. I treated her badly. Her feelings were justified."

  "I think this is guilt talking again. It's time to let go of that, James. You can't help her now."

  But he didn't seem to have heard.

  "It's abominable. She simply did not deserve this."

  India was silent, tilting her glass, watching the sunlight play along the rim. Her linen shirt, so full of starched promise an hour ago, now hung in limp, wrinkled folds. It was the kind of day so unseasonably hot people standing by the river no doubt thought lingeringly of throwing themselves in. She took a sip of her Orangina. Tempting as it had been to order a martini, it seemed a time to keep her wits about her.

  She asked: "What did you talk about? In the garden with her?" she asked her husband.

  "Oh, that."

  She paused to look at him thoughtfully. That guilty look…

  "Is there a subtext here?" she said at last. But she knew the answer already.

  He remained silent, his features haggard and drawn, offering a preview of the man he would be at sixty.

  "Yes, that," she prodded. "You spent most of your time dodging her up until that point, or so you say."

  "Surely you're not jealous, India."

  He smiled, the gentle, indulgent smile he reserved just for her. Some things, he thought, were better forgotten. Sunk to the bottom of the deep blue sea and forgotten. "Of all people," he said, "you know how I feel about you. It's as I told the police: I stepped out for a cigarette, and there she was. I couldn't exactly turn tail and run. And when I think that was my last memory of her… I'm glad I stayed. But, well… she had some idea I'd have tired of you by now-as if I could! As if any man ever could!-and she hoped there might be some way she and I could reconstruct the past. Resurrect it."

  "I see," India said coldly. James looked at her, a plea for her understanding in his eyes.

  "I'm sorry, darling. I never meant for you to hear of this. It was all nonsense. But now that this has happened… Anyway, the short story is, she had some idea we might start up again. I told her as gently as I could that it was impossible. The result was predictable. Tears and drama, muffled sobs, the whole bit. I left her, but as I walked away, heading for the corridor to the SCR, I saw her flounce away in the direction of the river. It was the last I saw of her. The last anyone saw of her, except her killer, of course." He sighed, and took a long pull on his drink, draining the glass. His hand trembled as he set it back down on the table. "She was always such a flighty sort, and too trusting at times. I still think it likely a tramp came upon her somehow, or she ran into some addict who thought she was carrying money… something… something purely evil-" He broke off.

  "James." India held out her hand, and grasped his arm tightly. "Don't. You must stop this. Please don't distress yourself. You're right, it was some freak… accident… She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And doesn't that sound just like her? Some people are born unlucky. I always thought she was one of them. Born under an unlucky star. Isn't that strange? When so many people thought of her as the golden girl. I never did. But then I had a closer view of her over the years." She sat quietly, following some related train of thought. After a while she said, "Sebastian… "

  James looked up sharply. "We have to keep him well out of this."

  "How can we? He discovered the body," she said. "Don't the police always think that makes you a suspect? I've never really understood why, but it's always that way on the telly."

  "If that happens, if they start applying pressure, we'll get our solicitor-just like on the telly. I'll have a word with Sebastian, and with the solicitor. Just to make sure we're prepared for the worst."

  She sighed, nodded.

  "Now, don't you start worrying." He smiled. "One worrier in the family is bad enough."

  "You don't think…"

  Reading her thoughts, he said, "That Sebastian had anything to do with this?"

  They looked at each other, neither willing to answer the question. -- St. Just felt as little like someone who might appear in a detective show on the telly as could be imagined. It was early days in the investigation yet, but it was right about now he always felt the first stirrings of a mild panic. No more than a fluttering at the edges of his heart, a small riot quickly quelled, but there nonetheless. The early hours were crucial to solving a crime, before evidence and memory faded, and he was never more aware of the swift passage of time than at the start of an investigation.

  James and India's surmise was correct: Sebastian was a suspect in St. Just's mind, although an unlikely one, unless and until St. Just could establish some prior connection between Sebastian and Lexy. Sebastian's arrogance was not a point in his favor. And St. Just thought it likely that under pressure, Sebastian, for all his breeding and posh background, could snap, just like anyone else. Perhaps a pampered background had made him even more vulnerable. It was thinking these thoughts that found him heading down yet another interminable corridor in search of what he knew now from witnesses was Sebastian's girlfriend, the exotic young woman who had shown them the way to the Rupert Brooke wing. Sergeant Fear was away helping set up the library room the Master had lent the police to use as a temporary incident room.

  The Porter had given St. Just directions to Saffron's room, but not a supply of breadcrumbs, which might have come in handy. Finally, rounding a corner, he recognized one of the exhibits he'd seen that morning-a buffalo or bison skull, at a guess-and knew he was in the area from which Saffron had come.

  He came at last to a door labeled with her name; he imagined there couldn't be two people named Saffron Sellers in the college. She was sporting the oak: The massive, outer door to her room was closed, indicating she was
not to be disturbed. Fat chance, he thought, pounding his fist against the wood.

  "Open up! Police!" He felt foolish using the stock phrase, but she had to be made to know the rules had changed, and these charming college traditions could be damned. Her dissertation or whatever she was doing in there would have to wait.

  He put his ear to the door. He could hear someone stirring. He pounded again, and was rewarded with the sound of the inner door being opened.

  "All right. All right!" came an exasperated female voice. The same rainbow-colored hair he remembered appeared around the edge of the door. The hair was more disheveled than before, however, which he wouldn't have thought possible. She'd made some haphazard attempt to pin it back with jeweled barrettes in the shape of butterflies.

  "Some people have to sleep, you know," she informed him. She pulled a quilted white robe tighter around her slim waist.

  St. Just looked at his watch.

  "It's nearly noon."

  "Yes. I know that. I have to work tonight."

  "On your studies. I understand."

  "No, I mean work work. I pull pints in a pub in town. I'm at Cambridge on a bursary scheme. Unlike some. It includes a monthly stipend but you couldn't keep a small dog alive on what they give you. That's why I need my sleep. I'm working again tonight."

  She pushed back her hair. He could see the exhaustion in her eyes, enhanced by her smudged black-and-blue makeup.

  "Must be tough, to tend bar and try to keep up with your studies."

  She shrugged. "I try to be philosophical about it."

  "What subject are you reading?"

  "Philosophy." A small grin. "Now, if there's nothing else?"

  Oh, my. And probably reading Nietzsche. Weren't they all? Cambridge was rife with students embracing nihilism and the death of God, if only to annoy the hell out of their parents. Did they really believe what they spouted? Despite the evidence St. Just witnessed daily in his job (a clear rebuttal, if ever there were one, to the idea of a superman), the stark aloneness of such a philosophy had never held any appeal. The thought that existence was pointless both repelled and frightened him. There must be a point.