by H. Y. Hanna
“And you were there from ten o’clock until midnight?”
“Yes, she was,” a thick, accented voice spoke up. Mikhail stepped forwards. “I was in Junior Common Room also. I saw Tatiana Vladimirovna—she was there during that whole time.”
I saw Tanya glance at him quickly, and her lips parted slightly as if she was about to say something, then she changed her mind and pressed them together.
“And what were you doing there?” Devlin asked Mikhail.
“Me, I play the pool.”
“Were you playing with anyone?”
The Russian scholar gave him a contemptuous look. “No. I play myself.” His implication was obvious—that nobody would be good enough to play with him. I found his pompous, superior manner incredibly irritating, as usual.
Devlin turned back to Tanya. “Was there anyone else in the J.C.R.?”
Tanya looked bored. “A few people came in, yes. Earlier, around ten o’clock. They sit and watch news. And then two girls come and sit beside me. They talked very loudly. But after that, it was just Mikhail and me. He was beside pool table and I was on sofa by window.”
“And after that?”
“I go back to my room. You ask that girl, Nicola—she lives on my staircase. I pass her as I am going in. Anyway…” Tanya tossed her head. “These are stupid questions! You think I kill Damian? Why? He is nothing to me.”
“That’s not what you said to me last time,” I spoke up, hobbling forwards on my crutches.
Tanya turned to me, her eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”
“When I saw you at the café in town,” I reminded her. “You told me that you were angry at Damian for trying to get you in trouble with the police. You said: ‘Damian will be sorry for what he has tried to do to me. I will make him pay’—remember?”
Mikhail made a sudden, irritable movement towards me, like a dog bristling at someone insulting his master, but I ignored him. All my attention was on Tanya. Was I imagining it or did the girl look slightly uneasy underneath her haughty demeanour?
“I did not say that!” she snarled. “You are daughter of bitch! You are just like everybody else, trying to attack me. Da ti yebanulsa! I am not talking anymore without lawyer. Out of my way!”
She shoved me violently aside and stormed out of the quad. I gasped in surprise as her shove sent me reeling backwards. Staggering, I lost hold of my crutches, fell over, and collapsed in a heap on the ground.
“Gemma!” cried Devlin, rushing to my side, his blue eyes filled with concern. He lifted me tenderly and helped me to my feet. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, fine…” I said, catching my breath. I wriggled my ankle experimentally and was relieved when I felt no pain. “Just lost my balance.”
Devlin looked at the empty archway through which Tanya and Mikhail had disappeared, and his face hardened. “I’d like to haul that girl in for assault right now!”
“It’s okay, Devlin,” I said. “Don’t get upset on my account. If you bring her in and don’t have enough to hold her, you might never get another chance, given the lawyers she’s got around her. I’d rather you waited until the right moment, when you have enough evidence to arrest her—assuming that she’s guilty, of course.” I gave a wry laugh. “She might just be a really bad-tempered spoilt cow, that’s all… that doesn’t make her a murderer.”
“Still doesn’t excuse her for what she did to you just now,” said Devlin angrily.
“So it’s confirmed that Damian was killed between ten and midnight last night?” I asked.
“That’s what Jo reckons. We still have to find the murder weapon, though. He was strangled, but not with a rope or a wire. From the lack of abrasion marks around his neck, Jo thinks it was probably something very soft—like a silk cloth or scarf.” Devlin looked at the empty archway again thoughtfully. “I’m going to get a warrant to search Tanya Koskov’s room and confiscate any silk scarves she has; get Forensics to test them—see if there are any fibres or even DNA linked to Damian. It might take a while but if the evidence is there, we’ll find it,” he said grimly.
Then his eyes softened as he looked back at me. “You should get back home, Gemma, and rest that ankle. My sergeant says he’s questioned you formally already. If I have any further questions, I’ll give you a ring later.” He glanced around the quad and sighed. “I wish I could take you home myself but—”
“No, it’s fine, don’t worry,” I said. “I know you’ve got a lot to do here at the crime scene. And anyway, I’ve promised my mother to meet her at the Queen’s Lane Coffee House—she’s probably waiting there for me already.”
“I’ll get a squad car to drop you off there.”
“No, don’t be silly! It’s only five minutes’ walk up the High Street from here. I’ll be fine—I’ll just go slowly.” I reached up and gave him a kiss. “I’ll speak to you later.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Almost as surreal as discovering Damian Heath’s dead body was finding myself back in my parents’ house that afternoon, listening to my mother fuss over arrangements for dinner, as if nothing had happened.
“… and I thought I’d start with split-pea soup. Professor Obruchev says pea soup is very popular in Russia—they make it with dried beans and smoked meat—so I’m interested to see what he thinks of our English version and how it differs. Of course, I could have made mushroom soup—that’s apparently very popular too—or maybe broccoli soup… I don’t think they’ve got that, although they do have their famous Russian cabbage soup, of course… What do you think, darling?”
“Er…” My head was spinning with all the soup variations. “Why don’t we start with melon?”
My mother gave me a reproachful look. “One must start with a soup, darling, for a proper dinner! Oh, and don’t forget—I will need you to keep Professor Obruchev entertained while I check on the roast. I’m doing a rack of lamb with rosemary and garlic, and it will be in the oven already when he arrives, but I’ll have to make up the gravy from the juices and cook the root vegetables for the mash… And your father had to go to an unexpected meeting for the University Examinations Board this afternoon, so he might be home late. You’ll have to sit and chat with the professor.”
“Okay,” I said without much enthusiasm.
I had completely forgotten that today was the day the visiting Russian professor was coming to dinner. To be honest, after everything that had happened, the last thing I felt like doing was being sociable. But I knew there was no way I could get out of it, and a few hours later I found myself waiting for our guest after I had changed into a “nice dress” to please my mother.
When he arrived, Professor Obruchev seemed as jolly as ever, bouncing into the house in the same ancient brown suit, even more ancient shoes, and faded silk neckerchief, and pumping my hand enthusiastically when he saw me.
“Ah, Gemma Philipovna! I cannot tell you how much I have been thinking about wonderful food I had at your tearoom!”
“Oh… er, thank you,” I said. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“It was exquisite! Delicious! I must inform my wife when I return to Russia. Perhaps you can let me have some recipes and she can attempt to bake your British creations?”
“Oh… sure, I’ll ask my chef, Dora. She’s the one who produces all those delicious cakes and scones. I have to confess, I’m not much of a baker myself.”
“Ah, but you have talents in other directions, no? Your father has been telling me about murders in the village and in Oxford also, which you help police to solve. You have—what the English call it—a keen nose for truth?”
I gave an embarrassed laugh. “Well, a lot of it was luck, I think. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
“Ah, you are modest! That is very English. Always, you Englishmen talk less than it is. But now I hear that you are involved in new murder? Death of student on May morning?” He leaned closer and waggled his eyebrows. “Do you have idea already for identity of murd
erer?”
“Well, I…” I hesitated. His face was creased in his usual jovial smile and yet his eyes seemed to be watching me keenly.
“You are very interested in the murder,” I commented.
“Ah! But of course—murder is always fascinating! Especially when it is one as dramatic as this… like from pages of novel, no? I enjoy the detective story very much.”
“You should meet certain friends of mine,” I said with a wry smile. “They enjoy detective stories very much too. In fact, half the time, they seem to think that they are in a detective story! And they always think they know better than the police.”
“But yes, I believe also that sometimes the amateur can see things police cannot,” said Professor Obruchev earnestly. “Although in your case, you have special advantage, hmm? Your young man—he is detective in Criminal Investigation Department, your father tells me.”
“Yes, Devlin is a detective inspector with the Oxfordshire CID,” I admitted. “But he doesn’t talk about work much.”
“Ah, but he must tell you more than what is revealed to the public, no? For example, if they have suspect and are close to making arrest?”
I looked at him thoughtfully. “Professor—may I ask, why are you so interested in this case?”
He laughed easily. “Perhaps it is because it happens on day I arrive in Oxford. Oy! To think it should have been happening at same time, on other side of town!”
I looked at him in surprise. “You arrived in Oxford on May morning? I thought my mother said you arrived the day after.”
He looked flustered for a moment and said, “Yes, yes, there was mistake in dates. I came earlier but I did not want to trouble your parents so I did not contact them. I decide to see Oxford myself for one day first.”
“Oh darling, you’re not making Professor Obruchev discuss that dreadful murder business, are you?” said my mother, coming out of the kitchen to join us.
“It is my apologies, Mrs Rose!” cried the Russian professor, springing up. “It is I who invited Gemma to speak of this topic. You see, for me, it is exciting opportunity to come so close to murder. It is like famous mysteries that you British are so fond of reading and writing, is it not?”
“Well, murder and mayhem are certainly not fit subjects for the dinner table,” said my mother firmly. “We’ll go in and sit down now. Philip has rung and said that he is on his way, so he should be joining us any moment.”
We followed her meekly into the dining room and took our places at the table, just as my father came hurrying through the front door. However, as Professor Obruchev made to sit down at the dining table, there was a mournful yowl and he sprang up again in shock. We all peered around to see Muesli stretched out on his chair, looking up at him reproachfully.
“Muesli!” cried my mother. “You naughty kitty! What are you doing there? Come off Professor Obruchev’s chair.”
“Meorrw!” said Muesli defiantly. She rolled on her back and twisted so that she was looking at us upside down, her head tilted in an adorable fashion, her green eyes unblinking.
“It is okay,” said the professor with a chuckle. “I have cats myself at home also; the Russian Blue—you know this cat? It has great green eyes, with black circle around, just like yours.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of Russian Blues. They’re beautiful,” I said. “Is it a boy or a girl?”
“I have two: one boy, one girl. They are brother and sister. The girl is Lilia—it is Russian for Lily; the boy is Rasputin. And this one?” He smiled as Muesli continued to stare up at him, upside down. “You call her by name for breakfast food?”
I laughed. “Yes, her name is Muesli, like the Swiss cereal with the rolled oats and dried fruits and nuts. It’s a bit similar to what Americans call ‘granola’, I think.”
“It is an unusual name, this, for cat.”
“I suppose so. She used to belong to someone who was a keen baker before I adopted her, so perhaps that explains it.”
“Come on, Muesli, you must get off now,” said my mother, trying to shove the little cat gently off the chair.
Muesli, however, was having none of it. She batted my mother’s hands away and gave a petulant, “Meorrw!”
“It is all right,” said Professor Obruchev. “I shall sit on this chair here next to her.”
So a new place setting had to be set up for the professor and everyone had to shift over one place, so that Muesli wasn’t disturbed. I rolled my eyes. How do cats always manage to get their own way in everything? The little tabby spent the rest of dinner watching Professor Obruchev, her big green eyes following his every movement as he drank the soup, then helped himself to the roast lamb, mint sauce, mash, and gravy. Finally, after a delicious dessert of sticky toffee pudding, we moved to the sitting room for tea and coffee, and Muesli followed us, once more settling herself next to the Russian professor and regarding him curiously.
“She seems to have taken to you,” said my father with a chuckle.
My mother made a flustered gesture. “If she is bothering you, Professor, we can always—”
“No, no, it is fine. As I say, I like cats. It seems that she would like to play?” he said with a laugh as Muesli reached up suddenly and swiped one of the dangling ends of the neckerchief tied around his throat.
“Muesli!” cried my mother in mortification. “I’m so sorry—”
“No, it is fine,” the professor assured her. “All cats are like this. Mine also.”
He sat back and tried to smooth his neckerchief flat against his chest, but the more he tried to tuck it away, the more Muesli seemed interested in the silky fabric. She reached up again and caught it with her paw. My mother took a sharp intake of breath as we saw Muesli’s sharp little claws dig into the fragile fabric.
I looked around and picked up a fishing rod toy lying on a side table. “Here, would you like to use this, Professor?” I said hastily.
Professor Obruchev took the toy and gave it a flick. Muesli’s head jerked and I saw her pupils dilate, her eyes growing dark and enormous. She turned, the neckerchief forgotten, and pounced on the feather bait at the end of the string.
“Oho! She is fast, this one!” laughed Professor Obruchev as he waved the rod around and Muesli chased after it.
I had to admit, I was pretty impressed by my little cat’s reflexes: no matter how quickly the professor flicked and jerked the string, she always seemed to be one step ahead of him, pouncing and twisting through the air. Her prowess seemed to egg the professor on, getting him worked up in a fever of excitement as he attempted to outwit Muesli.
“Aaah! No… no… Oy! You see, I am faster!” He laughed and yanked the rod sideways, jerking the bait out of Muesli’s claws just in the nick of time. The little cat sprang after it, grabbing the string and rolling over, kicking and clawing with her back legs. “Ozornik! That is good… But you shall not win… aaah… no! I have new trick for you… I do this! And this! Ah, but you are clever… oh! Ne etot—”
“Professor!” I grabbed his arm. “What was that you said just now?”
He looked at me in puzzlement. “I… I am not sure…?”
“The last thing you just said,” I said urgently.
“I said ‘ne etot’. It means: ‘not this one’.”
I leaned forwards eagerly. “Is there another phrase in Russian that sounds similar?”
They were all looking at me in bemusement now, my mother and father in particular.
“What do you mean, ‘similar’?” said the professor. “There are many phrases that are similar, using these words—”
“I was thinking of something that sounded like… ‘NATO joy evict’?”
“NATO joy evict?” The professor frowned. “But that makes no sense.”
“No, not in English, but I just realised… perhaps it’s a phrase in Russian? I’m probably pronouncing it wrong. I’m actually repeating what someone else said, but does it sound like any phrase in Russian to you?”
“NATO joy evict�
�� nato joy evict…” the professor mumbled, looking down and stroking his beard. Then he brightened. “Perhaps you refer to ‘ne tot chelovek’?”
“Yes!” I said excitedly. “Yes, that could be it! What does it mean?” I looked at him eagerly.
“It means ‘not this man’—or perhaps in English you would say ‘wrong man’.”
“Wrong man?” I stared at him, my mind spinning.
“Where did you hear it—these words?” asked the professor.
“I—” I stopped short, remembering his eager prying into the progress of the investigation, and the fact that he had actually arrived in Oxford on the day of the murder, not after the murder as I had thought… Maybe I was just being paranoid again, but what did I really know about Professor Obruchev? He wasn’t a close colleague of my father’s. Was it just a coincidence that a Russian scholar—who happened to know the Koskovs personally—should arrive in Oxford at around the same time as Charlie’s murder?
“Oh, um… it was nothing important,” I said, giving him a nonchalant smile. “It was just a phrase I heard some tourists say in my tearoom and I wondered what it meant. There was a large group of young men and they got very loud and excitable, shouting this phrase at each other. They must have been discussing a story about mistaken identity or something.”
Professor Obruchev seemed satisfied and didn’t question me further. By this time, Muesli seemed to have calmed down and had settled next to our guest to give herself a wash. My mother hastened to pour the tea and coffee, and pass around the box of Belgian chocolates. Conversation wandered to the state of British politics and I tuned out, leaning back on the sofa instead and brooding over what I had just learned.
It was all still guesswork, of course, but if that phrase had been heard next to Charlie, just before he went over the bridge, there was a chance that it had been uttered by the murderer. Which meant that the murderer was Russian and, in the heat of the moment, he had blurted out the words in his native tongue.
It also suggests that the murderer made a mistake, I thought with sudden excitement. The Australian backpacker had reported that he heard someone cry “Aagh!” and then this phrase: “Ne tot chelovek!”—which could have been the murderer crying: “Aagh! Wrong man!”
