by Tony Cape
Smailes had followed the stories in the press three years earlier when Sir Anthony Blunt was finally revealed as the Fourth Man in the Burgess, Maclean and Philby spy ring. He was appalled when it emerged that the authorities had known of Blunt’s espionage activities for fifteen years, but had allowed him to continue to hold his position in the royal household as Surveyor of Pictures in the interests of avoiding scandal. Of course the old bugger was stripped of his knighthood, and hounded to death by the press, but because of whatever immunity deal he had been given for his confession in the sixties, the courts could not touch him. It had made Smailes and many others in the police force furious. They spent their time locking up ordinary criminals while well-connected and well-heeled bastards like Anthony Blunt, who had jeopardized the country’s security and probably sent good men to their graves, were given a finger-wagging and cocktails before briefing the press. Derek Smailes was pretty sure such disgraceful injustice would not happen in America—there just wasn’t the same fawning in front of privilege, the same self-perpetuating network of snobs running the country, the same loathing of scandal. Pass the gin and bugger the enlisted men, but keep the tent-flap closed, the motto of the British Empire. If anything, America went too far the other way, scouring everywhere for reds. But at least you couldn’t claim unimpeachable credentials by waving the right school tie at someone, the way you still could in Britain. It made him sick.
“And had he got anywhere with this research, to your knowledge?”
“Well, he was certainly well-informed about the whole subject. That was his first approach—to read everything that had been written on a topic. But as for any theories of his own—no, I don’t think so. Although I know he had done some investigating in Oxford, which not many people had. Look, Mr. Smailes, is all this really relevant for my brother’s inquest? How much information do you need?”
Smailes explained that his investigation was not simply a preparation for the inquest, which would be handled for the most part by the coroner’s office. He was preparing an internal report which CID required in any unusual death. But he conceded to Alice Wentworth a personal interest in her brother’s research. He hoped she did not object.
“No, of course not. Excuse me. It has been a little trying for me, you understand, and Giles, well,” here she offered Smailes a thin smile, “he advised me not to tell you anything I didn’t think was necessary.”
“Oh really?"
“Yes, I think you upset him yesterday, with your questions. But don’t worry, you haven’t upset me.”
“I see he is helping you with your brother’s affairs.”
“Yes, thank goodness. I know it might look unseemly, but I wanted everything taken care of by the time my mother gets here tomorrow. She’s travelling up with my husband for the funeral service. Peter is going to conduct it, at the crematorium, and then we’ll have a gathering at the Cambridge Arms. The college offered a room here, but I think that would be too upsetting, don’t you?”
“What are you doing with everything?"
“Well, sell the books I suppose, although I didn’t care much for that unsavory character Giles got hold of. I think he runs a second hand bookstore over by Magdalene College. Do you know it?”
“No, I don’t think so."
“Tell me, do you think a hundred pounds is too little for all those books?”
“I’m really not sure,” said Smailes weakly
“And then give away the clothes, I suppose. Peter and I will take the typewriter—it’s really the only thing of value, that we can use. And of course, his files. I couldn’t bear to throw out all those notes—he’s been keeping them since he was eleven years old. The family gave him the filing cabinet as a gift, when he was sixteen, I think. He could already almost fill it up then. But that’s about all we can manage, in the Volvo.”
“How long have you known Mr. Allerton?"
“Giles? Good lord, since he was a boy. You see, Simon was at school with Hugh, his elder brother, and they lived nearby when we were growing up. So they were often around in the holidays, and Giles would tag along. I think he rather looked up to Simon and Hugh. He’s not like them at all.”
“How so?"
“Well, he’s awfully irresponsible. Gambles on horse races, gets into scrapes with the police, drinks a lot. Always has lots of girlfriends, it seems. Hugh, his brother, is completely different. Studying divinity at Oxford, and has the makings of a first-class theologian, I think. Peter and I find him fascinating. My husband has a parish, you know. Church of England. We always found it interesting, that Simon and Hugh retained their friendship, because Simon was really quite a convinced atheist, unfortunately, and Hugh is a committed Christian, obviously. Do you have a faith, officer?”
“Sort of,” said Smailes, awkwardly
“I do find it helps, in such a terrible time as this. I don’t know how I could face such a tragedy without it. You see, I know that although Simon was not a believer, and although I feel suicide is a mortal sin, I know that God loved my brother and will forgive him. And I know that Simon now is no longer suffering.”
Smailes felt self-conscious. “I have no further questions,” he said.
When they returned to the room, both Allerton and the bookseller had left. Bowles’ papers and letters were still strewn on the rug in the middle of the floor. The room felt abandoned. Alice Wentworth went straight to the file cabinet and began replacing the notes that Smailes had borrowed. When she had finished, she looked in the front of the drawer and pulled out a hanging file.
“Yes, here it is. You must have missed it.” She handed Smailes the file. It had no index tab. Inside was a stapled document, about fifty pages long. The title page said The Kennedy Theorem.
“Would you like to borrow it?"
“Well, if I might,” he said off-handedly. “Give me your address so I can send it back to you.”
“Yes, certainly,” she said, reaching inside her handbag for a pen. “Or you could come, tomorrow. The funeral service, if that’s not inappropriate. You could return it then.”
“Yes, perhaps,” said the detective, knowing he could call for the address if he needed it. “By the way, that’s an IBM typewriter, isn’t it? Pretty expensive, I think. Did your brother have money for this kind of purchase?”
Alice Wentworth was not troubled by the question. “We both inherited some money when my father died. An insurance policy. That was his profession, you know.”
“A car accident, wasn’t it?"
“Yes, that’s what was decided at the inquest. But there was no other vehicle involved, and I think some people thought it might have been suicide. The insurance company certainly did, because they didn’t want to pay out. It was quite a lot.” Her face betrayed no emotion.
“How much?” asked the detective
“My mother, Simon and I each received fifty thousand pounds.”
“What did you and your brother think about your father’s death?”
“We thought it was an accident,” she said impassively.
“There’s one more favor I’d like to ask, if I may,” said Smailes, but it seemed that Alice Wentworth had anticipated him, because she walked to the file cabinet and opened the second drawer.
“Help yourself,” she said.
Chapter Eight
“SO TELL THE TRUTH. What’s he like to work for?”
“Now detective. That’s really none of your business.”
Her name was Tiffany Pollock and she said she came from Adelaide in Australia. Smailes found her straightforward manner engaging, and had begun flirting with her immediately. She told him she had come to England on a visit the year before, and had decided to stay. Then she found the job as Hawken’s secretary, which she said she liked. Smailes wanted to know if she had decided to stay for romantic reasons, and again she warned him, with mock severity, to mind his own business. With her dark skin, white teeth and make-up of primary colors, she seemed exotically female in the stiff male redoubt of th
e college administration. He liked the way she called him “diticktive,” it was so un-British. He toyed with the idea of asking her out for a drink, but he could not imagine that such a lovely creature would be available, or if she was, would be interested in him, a tall, doughy policeman. He realized that he did not really need to see Hawken at all, that he had contrived this visit largely as an excuse to see her again.
“Does he teach? Dr. Hawken? I mean, could I go hear him lecture on my day off?”
Tiffany made the error of assuming he was serious. “Naw, I don’t think so, at least not since I’ve been here. He’s officially with the History Department, though, I know that much. Why don’t ya ask him?”
“Modern American History. That’s my field. We could hold a discussion.”
Tiffany looked at him archly from behind her typewriter. “That’s right, and I’m a cultural attachee for Tasmania, didn’t I tell ya?” She gave him a gleaming smile and a wink that made his heart quicken. Her telephone handset buzzed and she leant on a button, still smiling at him.
“Ask Mr. Smailes to step in, Miss Pollock,” said Hawken’s voice metallically.
Smailes and Hawken faced each other cagily, like contestants who had already gone several rounds. Smailes told him that after his interview with Gorham-Leach, his inquiries would be concluded, and that he would file his report within a few days. He had found nothing to change his opinion that young Bowles had taken his own life, while his sanity was disturbed. It seemed unlikely that they would discover the cause of the specific disturbance, but this was unlikely to trouble the coroner, who would no doubt arrive at the same conclusion. And Smailes had to admit to himself, despite a few nagging doubts, that the conclusion was logical. He wondered what would happen to the remainder of Bowles’ wealth, the inheritance from his father. It would doubtless go to his sister or mother. It did not seem significant.
Nigel Hawken felt placated by this information, and allowed himself to rest against the back of the sofa with his good hand. The affair would not damage the college further, it seemed. The report of the death in the local paper had been a modest piece hidden in the back pages and there was little reason to expect follow-up coverage. The inquest would be weeks away, by when the death of Simon Bowles would be of little interest to anyone. He could probably begin his report to the college council later that day. And he would finally be rid of this annoying, obtuse man from Cambridge CID.
There were a number of things Smailes could pursue at what he assumed would be his last interview with Nigel Hawken. The nature of Bowles’ latest research project, for instance, or the fact that the dead man had in all likelihood travelled down to London the day before his death, to visit Somerset House. Or that Bowles’ father was also perhaps a suicide. Or that yesterday he had seen Paul Beecroft talking with Bunty Allen, the bedder, hours after she had been sent home for the day. But he was disinclined to discuss any of them. He wondered if he felt intimidated by Hawken’s scornful manner, or whether he knew that privately he was not quite ready to conclude this case, and did not want to play any of these cards at present. He hoped it was the latter.
Instead he asked about Gorham-Leach. “So is there anything in particular I should know about this chap, before we meet?”
“G-L?” asked Hawken. The very mention of his name seemed to give him pleasure. “A marvellous man, is about all I can say. I’ve known him myself for years. He was a young don here when I came up before the war. Brilliant, of course. Been with the Cavendish and the CRI, off and on, all his life. I saw him a little, during the War—we both had desk jobs for a while with the War Office. Then he was in America for a time, after the war. Top nuclear man, I think. He’s been back at St. Margaret’s since the early sixties. Won the Nobel five years or so after he joined us. Semi-retired now, although he likes to stay in touch with college affairs. Teaches hardly at all, but always has to have a special auditorium when he does. Thousands show up, you know. It really was unusual that he agreed to supervise young Bowles’ thesis in whatever it was—maths or physics, I suppose. Shows you what a bright fellow he was, I suppose. But for all G-L’s eminence, I think you’ll find him a charming, modest man. My wife and I are particularly fond of his company. He’s a widower, now. His wife died of cancer, must be four years ago. I think he has a son, who’s a lecturer somewhere. Is that enough?”
Smailes had recognized the name of the world famous Cavendish laboratory, where British scientists had first split the atom. The other institution was new to him.
“What’s CRI, if I may?” he asked
“Cambridge Research Institute. In the science park up the Bedford Road. Basically a spin-off from the Cavendish. Works pretty well exclusively on government defense contracts. Top end theoretical stuff, you know. G-L has been one of the leading figures there for twenty years or so.”
Smailes made some further notes in his book and looked up at Hawken.
“You’ve been very helpful,” he said, “and thank you for all your cooperation in this, ah, unfortunate business.”
“Not at all,” said Hawken, smiling his thin-lipped smile. “Not at all.”
Smailes was a little surprised to find the door to his interview room open when he returned, and to find a tall, soberly dressed figure standing at the far end of the room, staring silently out onto the River Cam. The man faced away from Smailes, who assumed it was Gorham-Leach, a few minutes early for their appointment. He tried to suppress any facial expression when the man turned round and he saw it was the head porter, Paul Beecroft. Probably something about keys, or paperwork, or dealings with the press. Smailes closed the door quietly behind him.
“Mr. Beecroft, please sit down. How can I help you?”
He took the chair behind the desk but Beecroft made no movement. Smailes took out his cigarettes and offered them to the older man, who waved his hand slightly. He seemed to be considering how to begin.
“I wanted a word with you, in private, officer, before you leave. You are finishing your inquiries today, I understand?”
“Probably.”
“Yes, well. Excuse me, but this is rather difficult for me.”
“Does it involve what you learned from Mrs. Allen yesterday afternoon?”
Beecroft looked shocked and actually stepped back a pace.
“I saw you talking to her when I stopped by the lodge on my way out yesterday. I assumed you had called her back to question her about Bowles. Am I right?”
Beecroft seemed relieved at the explanation. “Yes, yes you are. She put up quite a fuss at first, until I offered to pay her fares. I’m glad I did though.”
“Really.” Let him find his own words, Smailes told himself.
“I don’t quite know how to say this, and, believe me, I’m not accusing anybody. But it’s to do with one of our junior porters. Alan Fenwick. He’s called in sick the last two days. But yesterday, I learn that he has, well, a friendship with Mr. Bowles. One of the other junior men in the lodge, Mr. Givens, told me that he thought, you know, Fenwick and Bowles had been seeing each other a bit. I called Bunty, I’m sorry, Mrs. Allen, back in to see if she’d ever seen Fenwick around Bowles’ room. Bedders see a lot of things, you know Mr. Smailes, that they don’t talk about.”
“And?"
“Well, she doesn’t know Fenwick by sight as he works the late shift and she’s always done by two, but when I describe him to her, she says yes, she thinks she’s seen him on the corridor a couple of times early in the morning and just assumed he was someone new in the lodge she hadn’t met yet, delivering a message or something.”
“Describe him to me."
“Fenwick? Blonde, slim build, nineteen or twenty. Bit effeminate.”
“Homosexual?"
“Well, could be. But I aren’t pointing any fingers, you see. It’s just, he’s been out the last two days, starting the day after Bowles kills himself, and then I’m told he’s been friendly with the chap. I thought I’d give him the benefit of the doubt, you know, see if he sh
ows up today, and talk to him myself. It’s serious, you see. Strictly forbidden.”
“What?”
“Any kind of, well, friendships with the junior members. Male or female. Strictly forbidden. May I?”
Smailes had left the Marlboro packet and his lighter on the desk top. Beecroft took the seat across the desk from the detective and lit one slowly. He looked a little shaken.
“Why are you telling me this? Why not Hawken?”
“Well, I don’t want to accuse anyone unfairly, you see. It could be that my chap is mistaken, that Mrs. Allen is mistaken, and that he’s just out sick, see. To tell you the truth, I’d rather not have Hawken on the warpath on this one, unless I know it’s true. He would sack young Fenwick automatically. Then there’d be a big palaver, I know it.”
“And you would be in the hot seat?”
“Well, there’d be an inquisition. He’d want to know how Fenwick was taken on, and how come I didn’t know his background, even though he always has the last word on new hires. And then, I thought, maybe he does know something.”
“Fenwick?”
“Yes. Maybe he’s not telling the truth calling in sick. Maybe he’s left town, you know. It’s possible. I talked to the switchboard man and apparently he’s called in both days from a call box. Could be from anywhere, couldn’t it? So I thought you’d be a better person to tell, all round.”
