by Tony Cape
He had done his best, and it wasn’t good enough, but he would have stuck it out if she had wanted to. But then maybe he was unrealistic, because he realized how insulting she found his attitude. She screamed and cursed him and wept pitifully, but he knew that she was also relieved, and was more frightened about what would become of her than heartbroken. He had moved out that week, and within three months Yvonne and Tracy had had to leave the police flat, and went back to her mother’s. There was the child support, but he didn’t mind that. He knew Yvonne would remarry. She was an attractive woman with no greater ambition than to keep a house and raise children and be in the swim. Tracy would be better off too, if Yvonne remarried fast enough. It might be better if he stayed out of the picture altogether.
They had been divorced for six years, Yvonne eventually wanting to push the whole thing through so she could marry an optician who was a friend of her family. She had had two more kids since, although Smailes had decided not to stay completely out of the picture. He saw Tracy twice a month, and she was a fair-haired little beauty. They got along famously, he felt.
There had been others, of course. Bernardette from the hospital, who started to get too serious. Paula from the Ops Room, which had been a mistake. He was in no hurry, and had grown used to being on his own. Maybe one day he would leave Cambridge and the police, and try again for a degree. Maybe he would go to Texas and work the oil rigs. Unlikely, but he was determined to visit the States one day, no matter what.
There was a knock at the door and he opened it to a small, sandy-haired man with a high forehead and a paunch who strode past him into the room, visibly distressed. Professor Ivor Davies was about five feet four and wore a brown corduroy jacket and a green rayon shirt with a wide matching tie, which he was wringing with the fingers of his right hand. He wore thick-lensed glasses which made his eyes look like tadpoles. Smailes introduced himself.
“Yes, yes, I know, officer. Hawken told me you were here. Do excuse me. This news about Simon is most upsetting. It was not expected. Not expected, you know.”
Davies bobbed slightly as he spoke, and stopped worrying his tie to run his hands through his wiry hair, which was long on the sides and very thin on top. Smailes sat down behind Poole’s desk and took out his notebook. He gestured for Davies to sit down, but Davies was too agitated.
“I had no idea, you see. I saw him about two months ago, and he seemed cheerful enough. He was working too hard, but then, he always did that, you know. When did this happen? Dr. Hawken only gave me the bare details.”
“Last night, we think,” said Smailes. “He was found hanged this morning by the cleaning woman, and it looked like his bed had not been slept in. There was a note.” He wondered about telling Davies of its peculiar message, but Davies preempted him.
“What did it say, for heaven’s sake? Did it say why he did it?”
“No. It just said ‘they’ came back, and he couldn’t take it. Any idea who ‘they’ might be, professor?” asked Smailes.
Davies pursed his lips, then grimaced.
“Good heavens. Maybe the snakes. Yes, that would be it, wouldn’t it? They came back, and he couldn’t take it, you know.”
This insight seemed to pacify Davies to the extent that he could sit down. He steered himself absently into the chair opposite Smailes and then blinked at him twice.
“Perhaps you could tell me what you mean, Dr. Davies,” he asked softly.
“Well, you see, it’s not the first time. I mean, the poor fellow had tried to kill himself before. At least, that’s what we all thought, although when Simon was well enough again to tell me about it, he said all he was trying to do was get away from the snakes. Not real snakes, you know. Hallucinations. But real enough to make him jump out of his window. Real enough for that, you know.
“It must have been two years ago, nearly. Before Finals. Of course, Simon was heading for a First. Absolutely brilliant chap, didn’t need to work nearly so hard as he did. I was always trying to get him to take up some hobby to relax with, stamp collecting or something, but he would never listen. All he ever thought of was his work and his projects.”
“Projects?” asked Smailes.
“Yes. Simon was one of those people who loved a mystery, or so he told me. He had been interested in them since he was a boy. You know, flying saucers, the Bermuda triangle, things like that.
“Anyway, he was also interested in real-life mysteries, if you like. He told me a little about them. Two years ago he was working on President Kennedy. The one who was assassinated, you know.”
Smailes indicated with an inclination of his head that, yes, he knew.
“So anyway it was one month to Finals and we all wanted him so much to have the research fellowship and stay on here and I kept telling him to put aside his work on this Kennedy business until the exams were over and he would have the whole summer to write to whomever he liked in America, but of course he wouldn’t listen.”
Smailes said nothing.
“Anyway, then he had this terrible blow. His father died. Car accident. He was in insurance, I think. The news seemed to throw poor Simon into a loop.
“I make it sound as if I knew all this as it was happening, which I didn’t, of course. The junior members aren’t usually very forthcoming about their personal affairs, although Simon was less secretive than most. It was one of his friends that came to me and told me Simon seemed to be very depressed, that his friends were worried about him.
“So I went over to his rooms and found him in bed. Hadn’t eaten in days, said he couldn’t concentrate on his work, that he was going to fail his exams, that his life was not worth living. Gave me a bit of a fright, you know. So I got my doctor round to him. Selby—wonderful chap. I think he put him on some pills and gave him the name of a psychiatrist to see. I urged him to visit him, but I don’t think he did. Said it would do no good.
“I started to visit him two or three times a week. Anything more would have been a little too intrusive, you know. I talked to his sister and told her that I was concerned about him, that he should go home for rest immediately after the exams were over.
“And then he was found one night in the court. I heard about it the next day. Screaming hysterically about snakes. Very upsetting. He was taken off. To Myrtlefields, you know. I went to see him out there. Awful place. Tried to cheer him up about getting an aegrotat and how I knew the maths faculty would stand behind him. Of course, he was too depressed to care. Too depressed, you know.”
Smailes had noticed his attitude towards Bowles changing subtly during Davies’ monologue. He had once blown some pretty important examinations himself after his own father died. He felt an odd link with Simon Bowles.
“But blow me, within a month if he wasn’t as right as rain, sitting in my rooms laughing and saying it was all like a bad dream to him and he felt absolutely fine whatever the faculty committee decided, and anyway he knew who killed President Kennedy. It must have been the new drugs they have nowadays, because they certainly made the difference for Simon. He was like a new man.”
Davies paused and a sudden sadness clouded his features as he remembered that Bowles was no longer a new man, that he was dead. He blinked again at the detective and looked at his hands.
“How often had you seen Simon Bowles since his release from the hospital? Dr. Hawken told me you had been out of the country, but that you had resumed your relationship with him. I understand it’s not customary for a graduate student to see a tutor.”
“Quite right, quite right. Yes, not long after Simon recovered I went abroad for the whole summer. I’m an archaeologist, you see. Hittites, particularly. I’d been working to arrange a dig for years.”
“Where was that, sir?”
Davies seemed momentarily disoriented that Smailes was interested in his work. He stammered slightly. “Well, well, Anatolia, of course. Modern Turkey, and a bit of Syria. We were at Halpa. It’s called Aleppo today. Part of Turkey until 1914, when Syria annexed it.”
“And so you came back at the start of the academic year, when Simon Bowles began his graduate work?”
“Yes, that’s right. You can only dig for a season, you see, while the weather holds, although I had hoped to stay until October or November, and then perhaps resume the following Spring. It had all been approved by the college. But we ran into, well, funding problems, and had to come back early. Very frustrating, actually.”
“And you became Bowles’ tutor again when you came back? Was that your idea?”
“Yes, yes it was, although it didn’t happen right away. I suggested it to Hawken, to Dr. Hawken, sometime in the Michaelmas term, I think, and he agreed we should, well, recommend it to Simon. Simon agreed, and I saw him usually once or twice a term, I think. I made him promise to come and see me if anything was bothering him. He did promise, and, you know, I believed him.”
Davies’ manner had grown noticeably agitated again, and there was something about his story that did not make sense. Smailes paused to take notes, and then asked, “So you resumed the relationship, even though you were planning to return to, where was it, Syria, the next year?”
“Oh no, that had fallen through. Still problems with money, you see, then the damned Syrian government began to give me problems about the permit. I had to cancel the whole thing, and go back out there for a month last summer to cajole the bloody people, and see what was left of our work. It’s finally all straightened out. I leave again this summer, in July.”
“Difficult people to work with, I expect, sir.”
“The Syrians? Not too bad, actually. A little sticky, but they want to show they’re civilized, I suspect. Lebanon’s a non-starter, of course, and the Turks, the antiquities department people, are hopeless. But I’m digressing…”
“Yes, I’m sorry. When was it you last saw Mr. Bowles, sir?”
“I last saw Simon about the beginning of the term, and he seemed fine.”
“In your office, sir?”
“In my rooms, of course, yes.”
“He didn’t seem under any unusual pressures?”
“Well, he told me he was working flat out and that his latest research would make his Kennedy investigation seem insignificant. Insignificant, he said.”
“Do you know what he was working on?”
“No. No idea and no interest. Told him again he should take up stamps, but he only laughed.”
Smailes paused to catch up with his note-taking and saw that Davies had begun pulling at the green polyester tie again.
“Professor, do you think Simon Bowles would have come and told you if he had been worried or afraid of something?” asked Smailes. To his relief, Davies did not take offense at the remark, as Hawken would have.
“Well, you know, Simon was different than a lot of the men,” Davies began. “A lot of them have absolutely no feeling for the place. Just regard Cambridge as a place to mess around before they have to go off and get a job. They certainly don’t appreciate having to talk to a tutor once or twice a term, and the meetings are often very difficult, embarassing. I think those people are most foolish, arrogant, you know, and that they are missing the whole point. I mean, just because we’re a bit older and make a living as teachers and scholars doesn’t mean that we’re not human, that we can’t lend a sympathetic ear and perhaps even be helpful now and again. Of course, the fact that we represent the authority of the University can sometimes make things awkward, but basically there’s no contradiction.”
Like hell, thought Smailes. He wondered if he would want to see this hyperactive Welshman if he really had something on his mind. Compared with Hawken, though, he was all right. He got the impression there was no love lost between the two dons.
“But Simon wasn’t like that. Wasn’t stuck up at all. He had a sort of child-like quality to him, tremendous enthusiasms, but very little guile, you know. No guile.
“So I think he was frank with me. He didn’t have many close friends and we had gotten along well over the years. Another man might have been offended or embarassed to meet with a tutor as a graduate fellow, you know, but Simon didn’t seem to mind. Yes, I think he would have mentioned it if he was worried about something.”
Reluctantly, Smailes unrolled the standard question, as he had with Hawken.
“Do you know of any difficulties with money, girlfriends or drugs which might have got him into trouble?” he asked.
“Simon? No, he really wasn’t the type, I don’t think. I got the impression he lived quite a quiet life.”
“Was he a religious man, to your knowledge?”
“Simon? No, I’m sure he wasn’t. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, a poster in his room. It’s Albert Schweitzer, I think.”
“No, no, that’s Russell. Bertrand Russell. One of his heroes, I suppose.”
“Yes, that would make sense,” said Smailes, writing carefully in his notebook. “So you have no idea why he might have taken his own life?”
“No, officer, I really don’t. It’s a mystery. A mystery, you know.”
Smailes thought for a moment then got up from the desk and walked to the leaded window overlooking the soupy water of the Cam. The faded graffiti against the red brick caused a sudden flicker of recognition.
“I know that,” he said to himself, absently.
“What’s that?” said Davies, and Smailes remembered he had an audience.
“That’s Norman Mailer,” he said.
“Eh, what’s that?” asked Davies again, advancing towards the window as if to see the old pugilist punting up the river. Smailes was embarrassed, but he had committed himself.
“Those words—VIETNAM HOT DAMN—they’re the last line of Norman Mailer’s Why Are We in Vietnam.”
“Yes,” said Davies. “Bloody vandals.”
Smailes felt like a fool and the two men stood in silence watching the river. The phone rang and the detective caught it in the third ring. It was Hawken, being business-like.
“Ah, Mr. Smailes, I thought you’d like to know. Beecroft has ascertained with whom Mr. Bowles spent last evening, or at least the latter part of it. It seems he was in the college bar with two friends—a Mr. Giles Allerton and an unidentified young woman. He is attempting to locate them now. Would you care to interview them?”
Smailes’ attention was distracted by Davies, who had resumed his agitated pacing around the room. He asked Hawken to hold, cupping his hand over the receiver. He told Davies he could leave if he had other commitments, that they might need him to make a statement for the coroner.
Davies seemed relieved. “Oh certainly. Of course, whenever you need me, whenever at all, you know. My rooms are in Second Court, opposite Simon’s staircase.” He made an awkward bowing movement and turned toward the door.
“Excuse me, just finishing with Dr. Davies,” Smailes said into the receiver. “Of course I would like to speak with them, but perhaps later. I should get back to the station and make sure the reports have been filed correctly. Can we arrange a meeting for two o’clock?”
“I’m sure,” said Hawken.
“Meanwhile, can you ensure that Bowles’ room remains locked and out of bounds to everyone?”
“Indeed,” came the dry response.
The truth was Hawken’s sherry had whetted his appetite and he realized he was starving for lunch. Death often had this effect on him, it made him ravenous. And it might be prudent to check the paperwork before it went upstairs. It was after all his investigation.
Nigel Hawken watched the detective from his window as he strode purposefully around the court, his hands thrust deep into his raincoat pockets, leaning slightly into the wind. He stood to the side so he would not be seen if the policeman chanced to look up. He did not entirely trust his ingenuousness. It would be wise to be cautious around him.
For the twentieth time that morning he rehearsed the possibilities and probabilities that would result from this unforunate development. The phone call had been a gross error in judgement, but it ha
d least given him several extra hours to prepare his response. It was all so stupid and unnecessary, but as he looked at the situation dispassionately, he knew it was unlikely anything could be traced to him. He could count on his friend’s discretion, he was almost sure, and since nothing was known of the association, the rest would hinge on the acuity, or lack of it, of Mr. Smailes. All things being equal, the matter would probably blow over with the inquest.
Yet he had felt acutely anxious when he saw the second group of policemen arrive with their suitcases and photographic equipment and when he realized that he was powerless now to prevent the police from doing whatever they liked in his college. He hated that feeling. He was also trying to avoid the more painful thought that hovered on the edge of his consciousness, that he was foolish to risk any exposure whatsoever, that his predilection was shameful and weak. Perhaps, but his subterfuge had worked so well for so long, his habits were so ingrained, that he could not believe he could be uncovered now by a provincial policeman, no matter how sharp.
He looked at his watch. It was time to call Sir Felix, to counter his feeble protests that he should return to Cambridge at once to respond to the crisis. It would not be difficult for Hawken to convince him there was no crisis, that there was no reason for Sir Felix to alarm himself, that everything was under control. Sir Felix had deferred to him ever since he had been told that Hawken worked for the Government. The knowledge had allowed Sir Felix to relax about whether he was really supposed to do anything at Cambridge, and to return to the full-time pursuit of his peerage. The arrangement suited them both admirably, and allowed them to maintain the guise that Hawken was Sir Felix’s subordinate.
