He shrugged. “Good looking. Desirable. Amusing at times.”
Like any good possession. A good hunting dog, perhaps. “Yes, yes, quite. What I meant was her personality. Was she a kind person? A selfish one?”
Geraldo thought, which seemed to require a great deal of effort on his part. He probably found such unusual activity rather stressful. Finally he said, “She wouldn’t compromise.”
“Can you expand on that?”
“She always had to do things her way. Like coming here. I was growing tired of it.”
“How tired?”
“Don’t try that on me. I didn’t mean it that way.”
St. Just, who would have been within his rights to come down hard on the man, decided to leave it for now.
“What did you do when dinner had ended? Please be precise as you can.”
“I went to the gents. Then I headed for the SCR.”
“No detours?”
“None.”
“Did you see Lexy on your way to the SCR?”
“No.”
“You didn’t escort her from the hall?”
“What on earth for? She could walk.”
Off St. Just’s thunderous look, he decided it wise to add:
“She was one of the first to leave. Jumped up and ran out. Probably crying again. You can’t blame a man—I was growing tired … but not that tired. No way. I have an alibi: I was surrounded by people all evening. Except when I was in the gents, but that was no time at all. Oh … ”
“Oh?” asked St. Just helpfully.
“I did step out for a breath of fresh air. Just for a moment.”
“Where did you go?”
“I strolled over to the tennis courts, on the grounds to the far side of the college.”
“Tennis, anyone?”
“What?”
“That’s some distance from the buildings, and it was growing late. Why did you go there?”
“Why not?” Geraldo shot back truculently.
St. Just weighed the chances he’d do more than repeat this assertion as to his whereabouts, whether true or not.
“Did anyone see you?”
“No. No one needed to. I didn’t kill her, it is impossible that you will find evidence that I did, and that is the end of that. If you wish to pursue this line, I shall have to summon my solicitor.”
“Lexy was quite a wealthy woman, was she not?”
“So am I, a wealthy man. I am not interested in women for their money. I am not what you English would call a gigolo.”
“That would be the French, Sir. We probably would call such a man a bounder. We often use the words cad or parasite, in point of fact.”
St. Just stood back and watched disinterestedly as Geraldo’s mulish face turned red beneath the perpetual tan.
“I’ll have you on report for that,” he said at last.
“Fine. Here’s my card, Sir. It has the main number for the station, as well as my extension. But you will want to ask to be connected to the man who is ultimately in charge.” Of course, the Chief Constable was a woman, but he doubted such an eventuality would occur to Geraldo Valentiano, and it would undoubtedly have him stepping off on the wrong foot if he did bother to call the station. The man was all bluster, of that St. Just was sure. Most bullies were.
He dismissed him, warning him not to leave the college grounds until further notice. He left, St. Just noticed, with some alacrity.
“You really think money might be a motive here, Sir?” asked Sergeant Fear when they were alone.
“She was wealthy, and according to Portia, a vulnerable type. The perfect pigeon for a man like that. Let’s have a rundown on his financials and find out where he got the cash to live as he apparently does … or if he’s living above his means now. And yes, the fact that she was wealthy might be a factor overall. Someone as famous as Lexy may also have been the object of envy.”
Sergeant Fear nodded.
“We need to get someone talking with the college servants, but I would be amazed if they’re involved. There was a little money found in her purse, so robbery isn’t looking like a motive.”
“Still, Sir. Money isn’t the only motive, if it was someone from the staff. Some of them have been here years, according to the Master. And some people leave a long trail of memory. Like a snail.”
St. Just smiled. “You’re quite right, of course. An ancient grudge cannot be overlooked. Her wealth and beauty could have aroused all kinds of feelings, especially in someone who felt like one of the ‘have nots.’ The outsider looking in at all this privilege.”
He swept out a hand to encompass the room’s sumptuous if somewhat worn furnishings—the carved, stained oak; the fireplace surround of antique tiles depicting the nine Muses, the leather chairs and leather-bound books.
“And there is always the crime of passion, of sexual jealousy,” he went on, “although I can see the Argentine jealous of no one but himself. No one else could hold his attention for long. That does not discount the possibility that Lexy impugned his manhood, somehow. Some slight, however silly, that he would feel would have to be avenged. Even so … ” he trailed off. St. Just’s inclination was to discount no one too soon, but the Argentine was so blithe, so carefree, so indifferent and unconcerned. Most people involved in a murder spared at least a moment’s thought for the victim.
If Geraldo Valentiano did commit this crime, they were indeed dealing with a cold-blooded monster.
EXPERT WITNESS
St. Just said to his sergeant, “Let me take a look at that list the Master left with us—the list that was mailed to all the participants of this weekend.” He ran an eye over two pages of typescript. “Just names and addresses, mostly London addresses, excluding the Americans.” He read aloud: “There’s a Karl and Constance Dunning, no doubt a married couple, of New York; an Augie Cramb of Texas; Gwennap Pengelly—now, how is it I know that name?”
“She’s on the telly, Sir.”
“Of course, that’s right, the news announcer. God help us. All right. Then there’s Sir James and Lady Bassett of London—may God continue to come to our aid. Hermione Jax, with an address just outside Cambridge, so she doesn’t live in college despite the fact she’s a Fellow. No doubt she took rooms here for the weekend to avoid having to drive after the revels of High Table. Very sensible. Next listed: Geraldo Valentiano, who maintains a London residence, a home in Argentina, and one in France. He has been careful to list them all. I suppose we are meant to be impressed.”
Sergeant Fear, who had been taking notes, asked, “Is that the lot?”
“That’s the lot as far as the visitors are concerned. Then of course there’s the boy, Sebastian. I say …” thoughtfully he tapped the paper against the Master’s desk. “Let’s get Portia in here first. I want you to hear her impressions of everyone. It will help to have someone as observant as she give us the lay of the land before we start the interviews.”
He had passed the stage with Portia where at the sight of her he could do little more than make an inarticulate, guttural noise in the back of his throat, followed by what he was convinced were some of the most inane comments in the history of recorded or unrecorded speech. Still the sight of her lifted his heart, and it was a moment before he could speak.
“I’ve organized some tea to be sent in,” she told them. “You look famished. I should avoid the biscuits if I were you, however. I think the Bursar’s found a bakery that sells week-old goods.”
St. Just got her settled in a chair and handed her the list. He knew Portia would be able to give him not just her impressions as to character, but a sense of whatever undertow may have been in motion throughout the weekend. She read through the list and then, looking up, began to speak.
“Constance Dunning, the New Yorker, is the most hideous, non-stop whinger you’ll ever meet. She has already earned the sobriquet ‘Constant Complainer’ from the bedders, and she only arrived yesterday. Her husband bears it well, to quite a remarkable degree, in
fact. He’s rather a poppet. She’s … well, you’ll see. What their ties might be to Lexy, if any, I don’t know.”
She returned to the list.
“India—that’s Lady Bassett to you—I’d say she has brains, and she’s enormously attractive, if in rather an equine way. Good, English-rose skin with a high color. She always looks like she’s just come in after a particularly vitalizing ride on a sunny day. Her son looks a great deal like her—Sebastian, I mean.”
“The boy who found the body?”
She nodded. “Her husband, Sir James. Not Sebastian’s natural father, by the way—stepfather, rather. I commented to someone how much Sebastian resembled India and that’s when I was told—by the Reverend Otis, it was—that Sir James is Sebastian’s parent only by marriage. Anyway, he’s quite a famous author, did you know? I mean famous in terms of winning acclaim and literary awards, not famous as in best-selling, necessarily. Two entirely different things, of course. Yes, he and India are quite the team. He seems devoted. I’d say it’s quite an intellectual bond, and it’s a good match in that regard—as I say, she has brains, so does he. Plus he fancies her silly.”
St. Just said slowly, “A match that required his leaving a first wife. Do you think Lexy was still carrying a torch for him?”
“I’ve thought about this, and I can only tell you her eyes would follow him absolutely everywhere.” She paused to adjust a side comb in her hair. “I mean, she literally couldn’t seem to take her eyes off of him. At moments it appeared mutual, all this gazing about. Then she’d get this wistful, sad, pained look. Hard to say what was in her mind, but she certainly looked lovelorn.”
“And what was his response? It would rather have given me the creeps to be stared at like that. How did he respond?”
“He was gallant. He has rather a poker face, all stiff upper lip, so it is hard to know what he may really have felt, but he covered any discomfiture nicely. He strikes me as a bit buttoned up, wanting to do the right thing for King and Country. You know the type. India noticed all this, by the way, and she’s easier to read. She didn’t much like it, but she wasn’t going to throw a scene over it. At least, not until the pair of them got safely back home. I overheard them talking together—the college is like living in a fishbowl, you know—and she was trying to persuade him to leave. He agreed, but basically asked her to wait and see.”
Again, she referred to the list.
“Ah. Next up: the Texan. Big, tall, nice-looking man, friendly almost to a fault. He’s had some adventures, but he manages to make every one sound incredibly boring before he’s done. Given to providing extraneous detail in answer to questions one has not asked. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, despite his evident success in business. Maybe he’s only thick in some ways. Some people are like that. Genius, but only in one or two areas.
“Gwennap Pengelly—surely you must know Gwenn Pengelly, as she’s more commonly known. The woman with ‘the nose for news.’ What I wouldn’t have given to have her job at one point in my life, when I was hankering after glamour.” She smiled at him. Portia had one of those smiles that caught the observer unaware—how he loved surprising or goading that smile into action. Not the easy smile of the seductress, the charmer, the con artist. One felt, thought St. Just, that one had to earn the privilege of seeing that smile transform her face.
“This was before I gave it all up to sit in dusty libraries, no doubt developing life-long allergies to dust mites. Anyway, she and Geraldo Valentiano go back some way. Oh, I see you didn’t know that? Yes, well. His reputation precedes him. It would be hard to find an attractive woman within miles who had not succumbed, or was not planning to succumb. The two of them seemed quite friendly this weekend, as well. I overhead a little of their conversation. She was definitely being romanced, and not for the first time.”
St. Just, looking rather alarmed lest Portia also find the Argentine charming, asked, “And Lexy? How did Lexy feel about all that?”
Portia considered. “Irritated. I’m not sure she minded all that much, not really, but it looked bad. Made a bad impression, and I think impressions were rather important to Lexy. She seemed to have other fish to fry—Sir James was her focus, as I’ve said—so she wasn’t positively seething over it. Anyway, Gwennap is very high profile, and a better match for the Argentine, really. Maybe he was getting ready to dump Lexy for her—is that your thinking? It could have provoked a quarrel? Yes … Geraldo is what we call a bad boy, no question. I imagine trouble with women is a recurring theme of his life.”
St. Just cleared this throat before saying, “But you were immune, of course?”
Portia smiled. “That’s rather the point. No woman is immune. But any sensible woman wanting a quiet life would definitely stay clear of him. No good saying to oneself that a casual fling couldn’t hurt. It would hurt like mad, before it was over. He’s rather poisonous, I think.”
Good, thought St. Just. Keep thinking that. Sensible girl. As for Geraldo, he’d talk with him about the relationship with Gwenn, but first he’d let him hang about a bit longer, beating his chest, or having it waxed, or whatever.
“Very wise,” he said aloud.
Sergeant Fear nodded in unison. He knew Portia only slightly, but already held her in the highest regard. She’d done St. Just a world of good—nothing and no one must be allowed to interfere with that. Already his dislike of the Argentine was beginning to harden. Unlike St. Just, he felt no compunction about needing to keep an open mind. The man was a good old-fashioned rotter, and that was that.
“Who do we have next?” asked St. Just. “Let’s see. Hermione Jax. Wonderful, Empire-like ring to that name, don’t you think? What’s your impression of her?”
Portia replied slowly, “Decent enough sort, but I find her rather a type, I’m afraid. All tweeds and twinsets and long brisk walks by the river. No pearls, however—much more likely to wear a necklace that looks made of dried seaweed and barbed wire. Earrings to match. You know the sort of thing. Often seen wheeling about on her bicycle, with the basket full of her shopping and odd snippings of plants. She seems to have a formidable intellect, or she does a good imitation of having one, although I can’t recall a brilliant remark I’ve heard her say. She can be rather frightening in her bluestockinged way. She’s a botanist or something of the sort, but I suppose these days she’d be called an ecologist—she’s written several famous tomes on the topic. Much given to ranting about the destruction of the planet by Mankind. That would be with a capital M—women are generally absolved of blame in her canon. You would be wise not to invite her views on the role of peat diggings with respect to existing British waterways, unless that is a topic of great and fathomless interest to you.
“That leaves … let’s see, apart from the odd stray student: the Master, the Bursar, and the Dean. The Master you’ve met, and I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions. As to the Bursar, well.”
And Portia gave them a quick rundown on what, from her viewpoint, were the Bursar’s crimes (Portia, the gourmet, was of course appalled at being subjected to what came out of the college kitchen, “Although the rumors he’s come to an arrangement with the zoology department are complete slander, but it is Cambridge and whenever an obscure and appalling cut of meat appears on the table one can’t help but wonder”), concluding, “And then there’s the Dean. What you see is what you get with the Reverend Otis. He is such a sweet man. We have to keep a constant eye on him or he’d be swindled every time he set foot outside the college, or put all his money in the first charity box he came across.”
“An innocent.”
“To quite an alarming degree. Sometimes that type can cause havoc unknowingly. He somehow knows everything that goes on and will repeat things in all innocence that should not be said. For example: The sous-chef and the gardener were having quite a pash and he kept repeating how much fresher the vegetables had been in recent months. Everyone knew, of course, but the Reverend Otis, why we had such a sudden uptick in the qualit
y of the Brussels sprouts. I would think someone in his position would be more worldly, wouldn’t you?”
“One would think. All right. Now, tonight in the SCR, after dinner. Tell us—whatever. Your impressions.”
She closed her eyes a moment, thinking back.
“James comes to mind first. He was a bit distracted looking. I had the impression he was watching the door … for Lexy? Anyway, he stood talking with India and the others, but kept rather a wary eye on the Argentine as well, I thought.”
“My God. Not yet another conquest for Mr. Valentiano?”
“Could be. James seemed to think so. He was guarding her like a pit bull.”
“If Geraldo Valentiano did this,” said St. Just determinedly, “it will be a pleasure having him up for it. I find him rather a useless person, don’t you?”
How thrillingly macho, she thought, deducing the reason behind St. Just’s evident dislike. She returned the list to him, and watched as his eyes again scanned the list of names. Suspects all. His face held the puzzled, fretful look of a man examining a computer-generated letter from the Inland Revenue. She knew he would worry at this case until he solved it, at least to his own satisfaction, and she loved him for that tenacity. She knew already he would not entirely be hers again until the case was over. But it was what made Arthur, Arthur. She had long since accepted she could not envision life without him, and if these terrible working hours came with the territory, she’d just have to cope.
“Did anything happen during dinner tonight that struck you?” he asked her now. “Anything at all?”
She thought back to the meal, and what she had been able to hear of the conversation. As usual when people reminisced about events to which others had not been witness, the conversation struck her as a trifle dull, although the others had seemed engrossed—happy, even. They had been talking at some point about Pennying, she remembered, the drinking game they had used to play during Formal Hall using Smarties, with, apparently, disastrous effect. As she had looked up from her meal, they had all been laughing. Someone had slipped a penny in someone else’s drink, making the pennied person obliged to drink up. No wonder the results could be ruinous. Had anyone struck her as being melancholy or distracted? Maybe the Bursar, but that was his default position. No doubt he was worrying about how much the meal was costing. And if a look of any significance passed between Lexy and another of the diners, probably no one could have said.
Death at the Alma Mater Page 9
