by Olly Jarvis
‘Not at all, the honour is all mine.’
Desmond gave a grateful smile. He leaned forward on his elbows. ‘Your alma mater was Newnham College, I believe?’
‘It was,’ she replied, wondering what else he knew. ‘So, you’ve done your homework?’
‘Homework is our business,’ he said, arching back in a superior pose.
They both laughed without sincerity in their voices.
‘I must apologise for all the cloak and dagger,’ he said, his hand movements losing a little of their finesse. ‘I’m sure you’re not used to taking a job where you’ve been told so little?’
‘It’s fine,’ she replied. ‘You can fill me in now, unless there is a written brief to counsel?’
He tapped a finger on the flimsy file on his desk. ‘Perhaps I should begin by saying that this is very sensitive.’ He lowered his voice: ‘The reputation of the college and the wider university is of the greatest importance to our continued success.’
‘Understood.’ She’d lost count of the number of times new instructions had begun with that speech.
‘We had – have,’ he corrected, ‘an academic at De Jure called Matthew Shepherd.’ Desmond adjusted his posture. ‘He left a few weeks ago.’
‘Left?’
‘Well actually, that’s the issue here.’ He cleared his throat. ‘He disappeared.’
‘I see.’ She decided to let him tell her more before pressing him on her role. She deduced by his worried expression that this disappearance wasn’t a case of going on holiday and not telling anyone.
He continued, ‘There was a police enquiry, obviously very thorough, and they concluded that he left of his own accord.’
‘That there was nothing untoward?’
‘Exactly. Apparently, he just packed a bag and went.’
‘I see,’ Ella replied. ‘What’s his discipline?’
Desmond took his time formulating a reply. ‘He doesn’t really have one, not in the traditional sense.’
‘Really?’ Ella said, being drawn in for the first time.
‘He had degrees in European history, astrophysics and numerous languages, and all before he was eighteen.’ He took a breath, then said more slowly: ‘Matthew was a true polymath, he transcended the concept of subject headings – thought outside the box.’
‘Wow.’ Ella didn’t know what else to say.
‘Wow indeed,’ he replied. ‘He is, in my opinion,’ he said, lowering his head and raising a finger for emphasis, ‘and that of many others, the greatest polymath since da Vinci.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, maybe not Da Vinci,’ Desmond corrected. ‘Certainly, since Newton.’
Ella shot him a quizzical glance. ‘Why haven’t I heard of him?’
‘He shuns publicity and he’s not published anything for some time,’ he said. ‘Not his thing.’ His expression was one of resigned pragmatism. ‘He’s been with us for almost ten years, on one of our special bursaries. We just let him get on with it.’ He stopped as if to consider the policy for the first time. ‘Attracting someone like Matthew under our umbrella was of huge importance to us. You have to understand, these people come along once or twice in a millennium.’ He was in full lecture mode now. ‘Having him here reminds us what Cambridge is all about.’
‘You’ve no idea what he was working on in all that time?’
Desmond rubbed his chin. ‘Like all polymaths, he was trying to answer the big questions.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘The big questions?’ She remembered Lizzie’s use of the phrase. ‘What does that mean?’
He smiled, as if about to explain something to a child. ‘How and why?’
‘How and why?’
‘Yes,’ he replied as if these were the questions that everyone was asking.
It took Ella a moment to refocus on controlling the meeting. ‘Have you got any of his devices, laptops?’
‘We think he had one phone and one laptop; he took them with him.’ Desmond was back in business mode now.
‘The police report?’
‘They won’t part with it – legal reasons apparently.’
Considering this, she glanced over at an eighteenth-century portrait on the wall of some noble gent in a red hunting jacket with a riding crop by his thigh, standing proud and looking off into the middle distance. She fixed her gaze on the Master again. ‘So, where do I come in?’
He sat back, clearly a man comfortable giving orders. ‘We would like you to chair an internal inquiry, on behalf of the university – to find out what happened to Matthew – and write a report.’ Leaning forward he said, ‘We’re very worried about him.’
Ella decided to go through the motions of subservient lawyer. ‘The police don’t know where he is?’
‘No.’
‘Has anyone heard from him?’
‘No, nothing, the trail went cold on the day he disappeared.’
‘I’m confused.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘Why me, why not hire an investigator?’
‘There are other matters to consider.’
‘As his employer?’
‘Yes.’ He sighed. ‘This is new ground for us. There are legal issues: do we stop paying his wages? Was he having some kind of breakdown? What are our obligations?’
Something didn’t feel right. ‘So, what is the exact remit of this inquiry?’
Desmond opened a folder in front of him and slid the top page across the desk.
Ella picked it up and read aloud: ‘One, where is Matthew Shepherd? Two, why did he leave?’ She paused. ‘Why number three?’
‘What was he working on when he disappeared? We’d like to know because strictly speaking, that’s the property of the university.’
Ella got up and began to pace the room while she decided on her next step. ‘Can I speak plainly?’
‘Of course.’
‘You already have a police report saying there was no foul play,’ she said, vocalising her thoughts as she worked them through. ‘Your obligations to this man finished the moment he abandoned his post.’
Desmond’s eyes followed her around the room, but he didn’t comment on her observations.
‘There’s no real need for an inquiry,’ she said, watching Desmond carefully. ‘Certainly not chaired by someone from outside the college.’
Still no comment.
She frowned. ‘An inquiry is the last thing you’d want. All that publicity…?’ Although rusty, her analytical mind was beginning to get into gear. ‘Unless someone was putting pressure on De Jure?’
Desmond’s eyes flickered.
‘Someone who was unhappy with the police findings?’
Desmond nodded. ‘Impressive. His brother, Cameron, he’s in Arizona. Non-profit lawyer and a politician, the worst combination.’ He looked at Ella. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken,’ she replied without emotion.
‘Been making a lot of noise. He will want to speak to the inquiry. Quite a big wig apparently. I’m told he could be the next state governor.’
She was still thinking it through. ‘So, you instructed me because of my reputation as a barrister?’
‘In part,’ he replied,
‘You thought that would calm the waters and placate any conspiracy theorists?’
He picked up a fountain pen and began to rotate it with his fingers. ‘You understand university politics, Miss Blake.’
‘And his brother thinks whatever he was working on is connected to his disappearance?’
Desmond carefully placed the pen back on the desk. ‘He does,’ he replied, sighing.
Ella stopped pacing and fixed Desmond with one of her adversarial stares. ‘Do you?’
He didn’t return the eye contact. ‘I really don’t know.’ He held out his palms. ‘Matthew was unique, possibly mildly autistic or aspergic, some would say lacking in empathy, or at least social skills. Going off without telling anyone couldn’t be said to be entirely out of character.’ He returned her gaze now. ‘That may be difficult for hi
s brother to hear.’
Ella could see how troubled he was by it all. She dreaded the answer to her next question. ‘But why me? You must be aware that I haven’t accepted any work for three years? You’d never request someone who’d been out of the game for so long, unless…’ She stopped. ‘Unless I had some special skill?’
Desmond stood up and walked around the desk to face her. ‘You came highly recommended. And you have a PhD in history,’ he replied, as if the answer was obvious.
She looked at him, surprised. ‘That was over twenty years ago.’
Desmond was unruffled by her derision. ‘I’m told you read everything.’ He rested an elbow on the mantelpiece. ‘We think whatever Matthew was working on had some connection with world history.’
‘Which period?’ she asked, finding herself becoming intrigued.
Desmond shrugged. ‘All of it.’
Ella scoffed. ‘How do you know?’
‘Many of the books he was borrowing from the libraries are still in his room.’
Ella fell silent, trying to take it all in. This brief was definitely a first. ‘So, who recommended me?’
‘Oh,’ he replied, sounding matter-of-fact. ‘One of our professors, he’s on the committee, Simon Carter.’
She smiled. It had been a while since she’d heard that name. ‘I should’ve guessed.’ She stared through the oval window at the cotton wool clouds.
Desmond put a hand on a binder on the desk. ‘The police contact is in this file, a young detective called McDonald.’
Ella glanced at the folder. ‘Do you have a photo of Matthew?’
He opened it and handed her his picture.
She studied the mugshot, taken in some passport booth. ‘He’s young?’
‘Yes, thirty-two, a US national, from Arizona. Father was African American. Both parents are dead.’ He got up and walked around the desk. ‘Any questions, my details are in there,’ he said, handing her the file.
‘Thanks,’ she replied, still thinking about Simon. ‘Is the inquiry confidential?’
‘We’ve discussed that in committee. Not the fact of the inquiry…’ he said, wagging a finger a little too close to her face. ‘That would go against our policy of transparency at De Jure, but for now, your findings should be.’
‘Makes sense,’ she replied, putting more space between her and his finger.
‘Of course, you know what De Jure means, Miss Blake?’
‘Yes, it’s Latin – according to law,’ she replied.
Desmond seemed reassured. ‘That’s how we do things here.’
She blinked. ‘Of course.’
‘Right,’ he said, moving back around the desk and opening one of the drawers. ‘Here are the keys to Matthew’s rooms, Bartlett will show you there,’ he said, ushering her towards the door. ‘We’re hoping you’ll have this wrapped up very quickly, I know how you barristers work.’ He opened the door and signalled to the porter who was waiting down the narrow corridor.
‘Hang on,’ Ella protested as she took the keys and dropped them in her tote. ‘Can you tell me a little more. I don’t know anything about him.’
‘No one does, I’m afraid, he was a very private man.’
‘At least tell me if he had any particular interests, apart from history?’ she asked, pausing in the doorway.
Desmond was silent for a moment, tapping his chin. ‘The ancient Greeks, Aristotle, for one. It’s no exaggeration to say Matthew was obsessed with him, and Plato.’ He looked down the corridor. ‘Mr Bartlett, would you mind taking Miss Blake to Mr Shepherd’s rooms?’
Bartlett gave an almost imperceptible bow. ‘This way, ma’am.’
‘Oh, and don’t forget this,’ Desmond called after her. ‘It’s a pass, access all areas, in case you need the college libraries, many are open around the clock.’
Chapter Seven
Lizzie Blake had one of the best rooms in her halls of residence, but it was the terrace leading onto the gardens of the Stephen Hawking Building that she loved the most. And she had her favourite seat. It was the perfect place to read, although today reading was proving challenging.
A few spots of rain landed on her copy of Homer’s Iliad and soaked into the page. Holding it closed with her finger as a bookmark, she let it drop into her lap and peered over the top of her reading glasses. The gardener, Jay, in brown dungarees and heavy boots, was messing with an upturned mower, preparing for the first cut of the year. He was tall and lithe. His thick, straight black hair and faintly dusky skin tone made his ethnicity hard to place.
She liked to watch him nurturing his surroundings, totally immersed in his work. Something made him look up. He gave a bashful smile.
Lizzie blushed.
He raised an arm and waved.
In panic, she held her book up and opened it as a screen, pulse racing. With so many available undergrads, their tongues hanging out like hungry puppies, she couldn’t understand why she fancied the college gardener. There was just something about him. A force pulling her to him, even though they’d hardly spoken.
She watched him saunter across the lawn towards the shed, her mind lurching from him to her latest essay and finally, inevitably, to her mother. Lizzie didn’t want her here, pulling her back into the abyss. Was she being selfish? She felt guilty. She got up, put the book in her backpack and set off towards the rows of bicycles on the stand outside the halls, fiddling anxiously with the straps of her bag. She unlocked her bike and wrapped the chain around the bar underneath the saddle.
‘Morning, Lizzie.’
She looked up.
Jay was pushing a green wheelie bin in her direction.
‘Morning, Jay,’ she replied. She stole a lingering look at his face. He was young, like her – twenty at most.
He gave her a shy half-smile as he passed.
‘Nice and sunny,’ she spluttered, determined this time to make their conversation last more than a few words.
He stopped. ‘Yes,’ he replied with a fuller smile. ‘Makes my job easier. Off to a lecture?’
‘To see my tutor.’ She found herself pointing in the direction of Cambridge town centre.
‘I know where the college is,’ he replied. ‘I do some work there too, you know, maintaining the courtyards.’
‘Oh, right of course.’ She felt a fool. ‘Such beautiful surroundings.’
He put his hands in his pockets then took them out again. ‘Yes, we’re very lucky.’
She couldn’t tell if he was being ironic. ‘Well, better get on,’ she said, chastising herself for being unable to cope with the intensity of the encounter. She got on her bike and cycled off down the road, then slowed, falling into line behind the rows of cyclists waiting at the lights.
She could feel her heart beating. She looked over her shoulder but Jay was gone. The lights changed and she pedalled hard across the Backs, crossing over one of the bridges spanning the Cam. Her bike chain’s clanking grind was getting worse. Distracted by the noise she came out onto Trinity Street, then there was an almighty crash.
She found herself on the ground.
‘Oh my God, are you OK?’ A young man was lying beside her, tangled up in his own bicycle. ‘I’m sorry, you came out of nowhere.’
Lizzie sat up and touched her forehead, then checked her hand for blood. ‘I’m all right.’
‘Thank God, I’m so sorry,’ he said, untangling himself and getting to his feet.
‘It’s my fault,’ she replied, still dazed. ‘I wasn’t looking.’ Across the road, a group of Chinese students stopped and watched them, whispering excitedly to one another.
The man crouched down and gently pulled her up. ‘OK?’
She nodded, looking nervously around at the gathering crowd.
With an appealing self-assurance he lightly brushed some dirt off the front of her jeans, picked up her bike, then stood astride the front wheel and began straightening the handlebars. ‘Nothing to see here,’ he said, laughing at the spectators who began to disperse
. ‘At least let me take you for elevenses?’ he asked, followed by a carefree grin.
She giggled. ‘Haven’t heard that phrase for years.’
He laughed.
She looked at her shoes. ‘I haven’t really got time.’
He bent his knees to make eye contact. ‘Not even ten minutes, just to make sure you haven’t got concussion?’
She looked up and gave a nervous smile. ‘OK,’ she replied. ‘Why not.’
He grinned again and picked up her bike. ‘That should do it,’ he said, showing her that the bars were aligned.
They wheeled the cycles to a stand and went into the nearest coffee shop. He helped her to a table by the window. ‘Coke or tea?’ he offered. ‘You need sugar for the shock.’
‘Tea, please.’ She watched him order from the waitress with an easy confidence. It felt refreshing to be with a stranger, someone who didn’t know what a loner she was, that she hadn’t even been on a date in the two terms she’d been at Cambridge. Perhaps this could be a chance to reinvent herself. Become someone that goes to parties and plays drinking games. Be one of those people that clamber back through the gardens at 3 a.m. laughing like a hyena.
‘I’m Greg by the way, Greg Brooks.’ He reached across the table to shake her hand.
She did the same. ‘Lizzie Blake.’
‘Undergrad?’
‘Yeah, history at Gonville and Caius,’ she replied. ‘You?’
‘Postgrad, international politics at Wolfson.’
‘Ah,’ she said, half-closing one eye. ‘Then I know you must be over twenty-one.’
‘Twenty-five, the eternal student, I’m afraid.’
She studied his face, strong but kind. ‘There’re worse crimes.’
Chapter Eight
Ella reflected on the briefing as she tried to keep pace with Bartlett, feeling unnerved. It felt strange to be working again, but she tried to dismiss her anxieties. She caught up with the porter. ‘Did you know Mr Shepherd?’
‘Not to talk to, ma’am,’ he replied, without altering his pace. ‘I’d see him out and about.’ They turned onto another corridor connecting two buildings which had tall, stained glass windows on either side. ‘Not one for eye-contact, like all the brainy ones, if you know what I mean?’
