"James, please," said India to her husband, but tentatively, as if expecting to be ignored.
"No, India," said Sir James. "I've seen what he's been up to. He thinks he can just swan in here after all these years and play the benevolent and understanding parent. The prodigal parent, in fact. But he has no idea. Seb was always a handful. But now this… wanted for murder! My God…"
"Now, who said anything about Sebastian and murder, Sir?" said St. Just. "It's early days, early days. Calm yourself. Now-"
"Father?" repeated Constance Dunning. "You mean to say Augie Cramb is Seb's father?"
Augie answered without looking at her, addressing instead some point midway on the fireplace mantle. "Yes, dammit. I am Seb's natural father. Not that it's got anything to do with any of this." Turning to St. Just he said, "How did you find out?"
"You mean apart from the fact your son inherited your physique, and your love of rowing? That part was simple observation-it was the genealogical research to back it up that took all of five minutes. Seb's middle name on his birth certificate is Augustus. What were the chances someone born in 1988 would be given such an unusual, old-fashioned name? Coincidence? Sebastian Augustus Windwell Burrows. The name Augustus appears nowhere in the Bassett family tree, although it's rife with Sebastians and Windwells. India must have had some feeling that Seb at least deserved to have his real father's name, in some form, if not his real father."
St. Just paused, turning to look about him. India sat nodding, eyes averted. When she raised her gaze, a look of complete understanding passed between her and her husband. She did not look at Augustus Cramb, as he was known to the U.S. Department of State, which had issued his passport. Hermione gave her walking stick a tentative thump. Geraldo's face held a sneer of truculent boredom. When would the subject turn to him?
Sir James nodded in St. Just's direction.
"This is all very well, but of course it has no bearing on what should be of most concern to you. I'll ask that you spare my wife, and me, any more public revelations along these lines. They are not pertinent."
"Very well," said St. Just. "Let's find a topic you all might find more pertinent. Let's see. When you were in the Fellows' Garden, Sir James, you were perfectly situated to see the rest of the group pass by overhead, going through the gallery walk. Your testimony can help us fine-tune our timetable. Would you mind walking through with me again what you saw on the night of the murder? Whom did you see pass by up there, and in what order?"
James, evidently exasperated but grateful for the change in subject, said, "Really, I've no idea. I was focused on Lexy, of course. A group of people went by, all of them in black robes, which makes it even harder to be sure. I really can't say, except that I do remember Hermione Jax going by; in fact I think she waved at me."
"That is correct," nodded Hermione.
"And Portia De'Ath-she's a Visiting Fellow here, as you know. I think she saw me, and I think she was one of the last out. Or maybe it was the Bursar who was last out… but I tell you, I didn't have my focus trained there. I was trying to reassure and calm Lexy."
"That's all right, Sir. Your recollection is quite good for our purposes. Now, after you saw the Bursar pass by, how long was it before you joined the others in the SCR?"
"Oh, less than a minute, I'm sure. Thirty seconds, perhaps. When I saw him I realized I might be unconscionably late. There was no persuading Lexy to join us. I knew from long experience it was best to leave her alone to get a grip on herself. So I left her-rather too abruptly for politeness, I'm afraid. But it seemed best."
"Quite sensible of you. Now, when you got to the SCR, who was there?"
"I've given this some more thought, you know. I can only say for certain that India, the Bursar, and Ms. De'Ath were there. The Master and the Reverend Otis, I'm quite certain." The Master lowered his head in acknowledgement. "Mrs. Dunning. I think that's all but again-"
"You can't be sure," St. Just finished for him. "Right, that's understood. Sir. Now… I suppose the only other question I have for you is this: How foolish did you feel standing there for five minutes or more, talking animatedly to an inflatable doll?"
TAKEN INTO ACCOUNT
The room had suddenly gone quite still. Only the muted noise of people shifting uncomfortably in their seats and the soft patter of a long-anticipated rain against the window disturbed the quiet. Finally, and again predictably, the silence was broken by Mrs. Dunning.
"I told you, Karl. There would be some sort of deviant sexual practice behind all of this. It's those boarding schools, you know. They are veritable breeding grounds of vice and corruption. I don't suppose they can help themselves, poor mites. Why, in the States, we would never ship our young-"
But even her husband, in his gentle way, seemed to have heard enough. "Do be quiet, Constance. That's not what he means at all. Is it, Inspector?"
"No, of course not. No, indeed it is not. The inflatable doll-shall we give her a name, Sir James? 'Alibi,' perhaps? Yes, well. Because this alibi doll was not in use for some irregular or perverted practice-at least, not in the usual sense of that term. Nor as part of an undergraduate prank, which kind of thing has gone on here for ages. 'She' was there as a placeholder for Lexy. Lexy, who had already been dead some long minutes. Lexy, whose mortal body already lay near the boathouse."
Sir James spluttered into speech. "You must be mad. Lexy and I had been divorced for years. All passion spent on my side, I assure you. Why, then, would I engage in such a preposterous performance as you are suggesting? In order to kill someone who meant nothing to me? You are mad, I say."
St. Just, whose eye seemed to be caught by something outside the window, did not reply immediately. When he turned, a look of the utmost exhaustion etched his handsome features. He said:
"She meant nothing to you, that is true. But what was new, what had changed, was that you finally meant nothing to her. She had at last outgrown her juvenile attachment to you. At last, she had dropped the torch she had carried for so long. Suddenly, she was no longer willing to do whatever you asked of her, in her desperate need to be loved and admired. Just as bad-for you-once her infatuation faded, she began taking a closer look at her financial affairs vis-a-vis you. More to the point, you took a closer look at those finances. The case had altered. And so she had to be killed."
James Bassett cast his eyes about the room, looking in vain for support. He only found wide-eyed incredulity. "You're mad," he repeated.
"At first I thought the fact you two were distant cousins played into this," said St. Just. "That there might be some family inheritance that could not be altered by the divorce. You know, some form of entailment, so common amongst the titled families. Or perhaps there was some stock you had held in common, once worthless, now worth millions. Her canny way with a portfolio-I thought that might have something to do with this. Perhaps you were jealous of what she'd done with her share? Perhaps there was an option due to expire and if she exercised that option, it could mean your ruin, because of some lingering loophole in the divorce papers?
"But no, we found nothing like that in going over your finances and legal filings, or hers. No business partnership in common, no lingering ties of family inheritance.
"Still, looking at the current situation from a different angle: Could it be that far from mooning about over James, as you were all used to seeing her do, Lexy had in fact chosen this weekend to finally dump him? She was moving on, and a lot of details she had been neglecting, she finally began paying attention to.
"Now, Sir James must have known this day would come, but in the past it hadn't mattered so much to him. It hadn't mattered at all, in fact. He had money; his wife had money. But one day he woke up to find his portfolio larded with one bad investment after another-as so many of us have done lately, albeit on a smaller scale, given the state of the economy. But in Sir James' case, these percentage losses amounted to enormous sums. So, the case had indeed altered. And about the same time, his wealthy ex-wife was cutting
him loose-emotionally-at last."
St. Just turned to the topic of his speech.
"The tragedy, for you, Sir James, was that Lexy was over you. She was free of you. It was rather a final turn of the screw, wasn't it? Geraldo here was a fling, a symbol, if you like-she was at least trying to enjoy herself, choosing one of the world's best-known ladies' men to finally kick over the traces."
Geraldo acknowledged the compliment with a grave bow of his head. Even playboys, apparently, had standards of greatness.
"Well, that's a jolly interesting theory, Inspector," said Sir James. "I killed Lexy because I've had rather a bad run in the stock market? Who, as you say, has not watched their stocks plummet lately? You have no evidence of motive whatsoever. Really, what has this country come to?"
"I wonder that myself," said St. Just quietly, just a trace of menace in his voice. A wiser man would have paid attention to the menace.
"I have half a dozen witnesses or more who give me an alibi," Sir James ploughed ahead. "Doll, indeed. You'd be laughed out of court. Where's this doll then? Where's your evidence?"
"I'm so glad you asked," said St. Just. "We'll get to that in a minute. Right now, I'm talking about your motive. As I say, the divorce papers on file revealed nothing of interest. And I assumed that the success of your books, and one in particular, meant that any problems you may have had in recent years were mitigated-years your investments were performing badly, both yours and your wife's. Your wife, to whose money you've had frequent recourse nonetheless to maintain your extravagant way of life. One wonders how soon even India, devoted as she is, would have tired of propping you up?"
India looked away, but not quickly enough to hide a fleetingly guilty look. St. Just sighed. Again addressing Sir James, he said:
"'We were children together once,'" you said of Lexy. "That wasn't strictly true-Lexy was the child, you were several years older. But to a romantic like Lexy, old friendships meant everything. Everyone spoke of her dog-like devotion to you, but only one of you-the Reverend Otis-recognized that what was in her sad eyes was not love, nor even mourning for a lost love, but a sort of pity. Pity for you. She had stopped wanting you at last. She, I believe, had finally recognized the man you were."
"You believe." Sir James practically shouted his contempt. "I repeat, where's your proof?"
"And I'll repeat that I'm very glad you asked and I'll get to that in a minute. Now, what was strange about your finances was this: About the time the money should have begun to roll in from your book, with talk of its being made into a film and so on, the money just continued to roll out. That could have been explained by a delay in paying the royalties-I understand publishers wait to see the level of returns on a book before issuing a cheque to its author. All right, that made sense, but where was the advance for this famous book? Oh, wait, that's right! The advance would have been paid years ago, because you sold the book to this publisher years ago. But…what about those royalty cheques? When might you expect to see some cash for your efforts-cash over and above the advance monies? Well, I'm happy to say that a call to your publisher set us straight."
St. Just's eyes narrowed, as if scanning a far horizon. He's going in for the kill, thought Sergeant Fear, fairly bristling with anticipation.
"We had a most pleasant chat today with someone in the accounting office of your publisher, didn't we, Sergeant Fear? I spoke with Mrs. Pennyfinger, a helpful and extremely competent woman who's been employed by your publisher for many years. She told me your now-famous book had been published and promptly 'sank without a trace'-her exact words. She told me you didn't even earn out your small advance. But then, some time later, the book developed a cult following on the Internet, a completely unforeseen circumstance. Well, not completely unforeseen, because the publisher had retained the rights to come out with a reprint of the book, which they promptly did. A large reprint, at that. And even that print run was not enough to meet demand, because the book was going to be made into a film now-the Reverend Otis knew about that from his reading of a newsletter about the publishing industry. How ironic for you: A book that met universally with seawalls of indifference suddenly becomes a bestseller.
"Now, you might all be thinking what a lucky man Sir James was, to have life breathed into his creation a second time. But here is where it got interesting. Mrs. Pennyfinger told the police that payment had started going out some months ago, but your name, Sir James, was not on the cheques issued by the publisher. Instead, the royalties were going to the person to whom lifetime rights had been legally assigned: your wife at the time, Lexy. Now known, of course, as Lexy Laurant.
"And who had made this momentous decision, and who had signed the paperwork? You yourself, Sir James."
LIGHTING DOWN
"What was it?" St. Just drove on, relentlessly. "A birthday present? Anniversary? A bribe to get rid of her? Or some sentimental gift that cost you nothing-after all, you knew what the book was worth then, which was nothing much. You fobbed it off on her, but I'd be willing to bet that's not how she saw it. Lexy would have seen it as the sublime romantic gesture: You knew her well. During your divorce, you still thought the book was worthless and you were frantic anyway to get rid of Lexy and marry India. You probably thought you had been clever but then suddenly-the book became worth serious money. And just when you needed serious money.
"That money from your book-it could save you. Now, you might once have been able to swindle Lexy into assigning the rights back to you, but no longer. The veil had fallen from those famous blue eyes, had it not? I'm sure you reasoned-and this just fed your rage-that it was your book, not hers, for all that you had signed it away. It must have been absolutely galling, Sir James. The book was yours. And now this silly gesture, the gesture that Lexy had no doubt thought at one time to be so sensitive and loving, had come back to haunt you in a big way."
"All right," said Sir James. "I'd assigned her lifetime rights while we were married, and they weren't part of the divorce settlement. So what? What does this have to do with poor Lexy being murdered? What proof do you have? You couldn't possibly-"
"Now, it's proof you want?" St. Just turned and pulled from his briefcase an evidence bag. Holding it aloft, they could see it contained a puddled mass of plastic. "Your doll, I believe, Sir?" He held up a second evidence bag. "And a wig for your doll. Partial to blondes, are we?" He nodded in India's direction. "But let us not forget: Lexy was a blonde-famous, in fact, for her hair. The Lexy Cut, they call it. All the rage among the ladies. Do you know, Sir James, it did occur to me that you and your wife might be in on this together-that it was India in a wig that everyone saw talking with you in the Garden, providing you an alibi. But India was seen in the SCR right after dinner, so that wasn't possible."
St. Just shook the bag in Sir James' direction. "We found these items-as you very well know, Sir James-in the river, inside a rubbish bag, the whole wrapped tightly with tape, and weighed down with a large stone. Funny kind of thing to find in the river, don't you think?"
"Leftovers from an undergraduate prank, that's all. What rubbish you are talking."
"A first-year caper, you say? High-spirited youngsters larking about, you think?"
"Quite obviously. I'm surprised I have to point this out to the police."
"We're always grateful for input from the public; you've no idea. So, you're saying that when the lab tests the prints that are all over the plastic here-"
"There can't be pr-" Sir James began, then bit off the end of the sentence. But not quickly enough. St. Just let the silence hang in the air for several long moments.
"What's that you say, Sir James? There can't be prints-because the killer wore gloves? And just how would you know that, Sir? Still, no matter. The saliva found in and around the valve, used, of course, by the killer to inflate the doll-well, that's as good as it gets. As good as prints, maybe better, I'm told. Ah! I see, Sir, you hadn't thought of that."
And from the look of him, he hadn't. Sir James glanced ar
ound at the others, stricken, as the meaning of St. Just's words spread through the SCR like the sound of a muffled underground detonation.
"Well, I never," spluttered Mrs. Dunning. Her husband shushed her with a quick gesture. The Master, the Bursar, and the Reverend Otis, who had remained huddled together throughout these revelations, continued to look on silently, their mouths forming three perfect circles of astonishment.
"So," continued St. Just, "let us reconstruct what really happened that night, shall we? And perhaps you'll put me right if you think I've strayed too far off course, Sir?
"Now, many people told me they saw you talking with Lexy after dinner the night of the murder, or they saw Lexy talking with you, or some version of either. They reported seeing, in other words, a conversation, a communication, between two people, one of them standing, the other-Lexy-sitting on a bench in the Fellows' Garden. These witnesses reported what must be true, what they had seen to be true, but in fact they saw only the back of a blonde woman's head-a rather famously blonde head. A woman whose hairstyle was so well-known, so much a part of her 'signature' look, it has been universally copied. Whose hairstyle has been made into wigs sold throughout the country, in fact-a fact of which our killer took full advantage. Nothing easier than to find a Lexy wig in shops, is there, Sir? I do hope you got a receipt? Never mind, you can be sure we'll find the shop."
Sir James, a look of distain stamped on his features, looked stonily ahead. His wife India, St. Just noticed, was not standing quite as close to her husband as she had been moments earlier.
"And to make things even easier for you," St. Just continued, "this woman-like all the men and women at dinner-was wearing a black academic gown. The alumni group was like an unkindness of ravens, or a murder of crows, wasn't it? All of them covered in black. There was no way you could anticipate what dress Lexy might wear to dinner, Sir James, but there was of course no need. She'd be wearing an academic gown over her dress, concealing its color and style. From the back, as I say, all that could be seen was the back of a blonde woman's head, and the top of a black gown covering her shoulders. She could have been anyone, really-or, more to the point: anything."
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