Death at the Alma Mater Read online

  She had returned from the mystery conference in Scotland, had a break-off dinner with Gerald, and then she’d waited to hear from Arthur St. Just, the Cambridgeshire DCI who had run off with her heart. And waited. Feeling more like a conceited fool each day, she’d waited.

  Breaking it off with Gerald had been the right thing to do, and inevitable in any case. That was all right. But … where was St. Just? That detective with the burning eyes, as she’d come to think of him. The man whose integrity seemed to surround him like a force field, compelling her to reexamine all her preconceived notions about the police. She found him absurdly attractive, like a matinee idol of the thirties, his face all craggy planes and angles, the kind of face that photographed so well in black and white.

  What now? she had wondered. Was she to be reduced to blockbuster, bodice-ripper prose?

  But she couldn’t have been wrong. She knew she had not misread the signs, misheard the words. She’d begun keeping a journal, so unique had it been in her experience to long for the sight of another human being in this way. She felt she’d go mad otherwise, for she wasn’t the type of woman to confide in girlfriends. Then she’d torn up the journal, afraid of its discovery.

  And so she’d waited some more, “focusing” on her thesis. And then, a little over three months ago, and one week after her return (it had seemed no less than two years), a handwritten letter had arrived on embossed notepaper: Would she do him the honor of having dinner with him at St. Germaine’s? She should have known. Arthur St. Just was an old-fashioned man. No phone calls for such in important occasion: no less than a formal invitation would do. He’d arrive on time with flowers, wearing his best suit and aftershave, driving a newly washed and hoovered car.

  She’d played hard to get for all of three minutes, then she’d dialed the number he’d provided.

  After that, with very little fuss or soul searching, Portia had settled into their relationship, although settled was the wrong word. Rather, she quickly had reached a near-constant state of ease and contentment. There was no drama between them, and no cause for it. She knew he would appear when he said he would. There was no angst. He loved her with a clear, unwavering, forthright, and simple intent, which she soon reciprocated, likewise without reservation.

  Smiling at the thought, she pulled the manuscript of her latest DCI Nankervis novel from the right bottom drawer of her desk. Her mystery writing, she knew, served as an escape from the opaque, brocaded prose of her dissertation, and from anything else that might be troubling her. Time and again her mind returned to her inspector, working his way through a complex investigation in the jagged peninsula of England known as Cornwall. It was all far more engrossing—and more solvable—than the high rate of recidivism. She was stymied, she knew, by her belief that she had to present an elegant solution to the problem in some kind of thundering, resounding conclusion—some humane and all-encompassing answer. That there was no real solution to all the ills of society she had become more and more convinced, the more she researched the mind-numbingly tedious and long catalog of essentially fruitless research, which always seemed to conclude with the sentence: “More research is needed.” Ah, well, it kept the academics employed. “The poor you will always have with you,” Jesus had said, and Portia wondered if he weren’t quite correct about that. He may as well have added, “And crime, too.”

  She reread her pages of the day before, and then began writing a scene where her detective was interviewing a suspect in a restaurant in Cornwall. He was supposed to have conducted this interview in the suspect’s home, but as Portia could think of no reason the suspect might offer to cook the detective a meal on the spot, or any reason he would trust the suspect enough to eat it, she felt a restaurant scene was called for. She had DCI Nankervis order roasted scallops with a vermouth sauce, slow-roasted lamb flavored with rosemary, fried zucchini, and scallion-potato puree. For the pudding course, a Tarte Tatin.

  Not surprisingly, when she put down her pen and paper an hour later it was because hunger had derailed her train of thought. Dinner tonight in college might be better than the norm, she thought, given the arrival of the weekend guests and the Master’s desire to impress; but also given the usual low standard, that might not be saying much. The vegetables would still be boiled to a consistency suitable for a toothless baby, and for pudding there would be something involving tinned fruit, as if summer had never arrived.

  Portia’s natural gourmet tendencies had been brought into full play by the poor choices available in college. She had a tiny kitchen in her college flat, from which she had managed to coax some miraculous results, the most memorable to date being Peking Duck, which duck had hung in her window to dry forthree days one winter as part of the process of producing the famously crisp skin. (She had daily expected a knock on the door asking her to remove the duck but no knock had arrived.) She kept a wine rack in her front hall closet stocked with the best vintages she could afford; she had once macerated fruit for fruitcake under a chair in her sitting room. Her supervision students had kept remarking on the wonderful smell, not knowing it was coming from underneath them.

  Perhaps a quiet Indian takeaway in her room would be the better option than dining in Hall, she thought now. Tomorrow night, the big gala dinner to which the Master had invited her—nay, commanded her to appear—might be marginally better, but the college “chef,” as she was now called, would still be in charge, so how much hope was there, really, for a lean portion of meat not disguised by a vile Mystery Sauce?

  Now thoroughly famished, thesis completely forgotten, Portia wandered off down the corridor to retrieve a power drink she’d left in the common refrigerator, praying it would still be there. They had a food thief in college—several, probably, so she knew the chances were against her. But—she checked her watch—the college bar would be open now. She could buy something to bring back to her room, enough to carry her over until she could get to the shops.

  She was in the area of the college designated for use by unmarried Fellows—a relatively modern add-on, circa 1780, connected by a long corridor to the main building. The circa 1980s, Gulag-style dormitories for the undergraduates, of no architectural distinction whatsoever, were tucked firmly behind a screen of trees, well away from the main building. The youngest students, who called it Cell Block Nineteen, were roundly encouraged to stay there, where they reigned in squalor, according to the Bursar, like wild monkeys surrounding the main compound. But their Junior Combination Room was in the main building.

  Portia’s steps carried her past the open door of this JCR, a room not unlike the waiting rooms of airports in many a third-world country, generations of slothful, untidy students having rendered redecoration pointless.

  Three students, having apparently escaped the cell block, sat watching the start of a DVD, laughing as they tried unsuccessfully to fast forward through the government’s copyright violation warnings. One of them, a young man who she remembered gloried in the name Gideon Absalom, began reciting his own version of the warning, adding additional, personalized threats.

  “We’ll take your wife and your children!” he sang. He stood and began dancing in an exuberant style, part hoochie koo, part Michael Jackson. “We’ll confiscate all of your property!” Here he leapt, spinning, into the air, landing en pointe with all the precision of a ballet dancer. “You’ll spend your life in prison!” he cried. The rest joined in the chorus, throwing their arms wide: “So don’t fuck with us!”

  In spite of herself, Portia, trying to slip past unobtrusively, let out a loud splutter of laughter. Gideon, seeing her, took a bow, smiling as he doffed an imaginary hat.

  Ah, to be young again.

  She continued towards the central staircase in the main entrance hall, where she nearly collided with the Bursar, and where she had her usual Stepford Wives-caliber exchange with him. Quite voluble in some circumstances, Mr. Bowles seemed not particularly comfortable around the female sex, which added to the stiltedness of most of the conversation
s Portia had had with him. He was quite a formal man, most at home, she thought, in black tie. Even his dark, slicked-back hair and rounded belly added to the illusion that one was addressing a penguin of good breeding but limited vocabulary. His embonpoint seemed to be increasing with his status as a pillar of the college, she noted. He must dine out frequently as a guest at other colleges; it couldn’t be because he enjoyed the food on offer from St. Mike’s kitchen.

  “How are you, m’dear?” he asked her now. He was the kind of man who called women m’dear, especially when he couldn’t recall their names. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes,” she agreed, falling into line. “Quite.”

  “Will you be at the dinner tomorrow?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Quite looking forward to it. Just popping into the bar and then back to work on the thesis!” she said heartily.

  “Quite, quite! You may find one or two of our visitors there. Pay them no mind.”

  “Quite!”

  The college bar, like all such amenities, was the heart and soul of the college. It nestled in a room just off the main entrance hall, near the Great Hall, and with a view over the front grounds. Small and cozy, it was surrounded on three sides by leather-padded benches; the bar itself ran the length of the fourth wall. It was largely intended for use by the undergraduate and graduate students, and although college Fellows were in theory welcome to mingle, they (horrified by the very idea) preferred to do their drinking in the sanctuary of the exclusive SCR at the far side of the Great Hall.

  There was only one other person in the bar. Somehow she’d become aware of his presence in college without having actually met him. Big and tall, with a voice to match. It was Augie Cramb, returned from his visit to the Eagle and changed for dinner. He was playing about with what looked like a GPS gadget, poking and prodding at its screen.

  “Howdy,” he said, by way of greeting.

  She smiled and nodded, hoping to grab a Coke from that night’s bartender (the college kept the students on a rota) and make her escape.

  The man was beside her now, one large paw extended. His costume—there was no other word—was a grab-bag of influences, with a tuxedo shirt, jacket, and bowtie paired with black Levis and a cowboy belt. The Wild West meets Brideshead. At least he’d left off the chaps.

  “Augie Cramb.”

  “How do you do. Portia De’Ath.”

  “You from around here?”

  She turned to accept the Coke from across the counter and said, “Only in a manner of speaking. I’m a Visiting Fellow of the college.”

  Augie’s jaw dropped. “You don’t say?” He gave her a playful punch on the arm, nearly spilling her drink. “But, wouldn’t you be called a Visiting Gal?” He threw back his head and laughed uproariously at this witticism. Portia smiled tightly and said, simply, “No.”

  Augie threw a fiver on the bar and, taking her arm, led her towards one of the benches. She had two options: Struggle madly as if she were being kidnapped by pirates, or politely acquiesce. The British in her acquiesced.

  “I was here as a student, about twenty years ago. They didn’t have fellers that looked like you then, I can tell you that.”

  “What were you reading?” she asked politely.

  “Law. Damned silly waste of time—it was my daddy’s idea. I always knew I was going into business. Anyway, they sent me an invite for this alumni weekend and it made me nostalgic, you know? Thought I’d come see how the old place was holding up.”

  “And what are your impressions?”

  “They could use an influx of cash, is my impression. Money’s being spent for show, but the infrastructure is coming apart. They’re gonna lose the chapel roof if they don’t act fast. ’Course I know that’s why we were invited, and I’m happy to oblige.”

  “I see. You’re in construction, then?”

  This caused another explosion of laughter. He had a truly infectious, puckish laugh, like someone who looked at all of life as suitable material for a comedy. Portia, despite earlier misgivings, found herself warming to him.

  “Lord, no,” he said at last. “I just have lots of money, you see. I’ll let someone else repair the roof. It’s why we’re all here, this group, this weekend. We’re all loaded.”

  He didn’t appear to be bragging, just stating a fact.

  “Anyway, I’ve been looking forward to this weekend for months. Even though flying is less a pleasure these days and more like being evacuated from a country where rioting has just broken out.”

  “Do you know all the visitors this weekend?” Portia asked, taking a sip of her drink.

  “Yep. Funny thing, that. We had a bumper crop of success stories, I reckon. Most of us what-you-call ‘matriculated’ at different times, but our years at St. Mike’s overlapped. I suppose you’ve heard of Lexy Laurant?”

  Portia grinned, nodded. “Yes, I’ve also heard of Weetabix.”

  “Exactly. Everyone knows Lexy, if only from the newspapers. Anyway, I haven’t seen her myself yet. She’s here with some playboy type in tow, so the bedder who does her room tells me. That’s because her ex-husband is here, too.”

  “You don’t say…”

  “And his wife.”

  “Oh. Awkward, that.”

  Another playful bop on the arm. “You can say that again, Visiting Gal.” Much as she liked him, she was pretty certain if he called her that again she’d wrest the GPS from his hands and beat him about the head with it. “I remember James—Sir James, as I suppose we must now call him,” Augie went on, oblivious. “Everything dress-right-dress with that one. Always knew which fork to use. La-di-da. I saw him and the missus just this afternoon. Too grand for the likes of me, a’course. But I’ll tell you what …” Here he lowered his voice confidentially, decreasing his range to half a mile. “I knew them when. Maybe that’s why they’ve no time for me now. You reckon?”

  “I reckon.” At the entrance to the room stood an attractive woman of perhaps forty years of age, of medium height but, in Portia’s estimation, dangerously thin. The woman’s most remarkable feature was her abundant coppery crown of curly hair, which seemed to take on a life of its own as she bounced into the room. “Hello, Augie,” she said. “Long time no see.”

  “Gwenn!” he shouted. Augie leapt up and the curly head vanished momentarily inside a bear hug.

  “I’m sure they’ve no time for me, either,” she said, once released. “Especially since I’m one of those reporters covering Lexy. Hello.” Here she aimed a hand in Portia’s direction.

  “I recognize you from the news, of course,” said Portia. “I should say, from the news desk on the telly—channel YTV, isn’t it?”

  Gwenn Pengelly, nodding, continued:

  “I’ll be writing a worshipful little piece on Lexy, of course. Too tailor-made for the likes of me, this weekend.”

  “I have to admit I’m curious,” said Portia. “What was she like? I mean, back before she became so well known?”

  Augie having returned with a drink for Gwenn and a refill for Portia, Gwenn addressed the ceiling, apparently with the effort of remembrance.

  “Lexy was lovely,” she said at last, “and she didn’t really know it then. Maybe she doesn’t know it now. Always carefully turned out, nicely dressed and all that. But it was as if she were dressing to please everyone but herself. Had a gorgeous figure and could have gotten away with anything. But she somehow always chose to wear what would give the least offense to the majority. She was the only one at the annual Garden party who wore a hat to match her outfit. You see the kind of thing I mean—the Queen wears clothes like that. It’s only later she began to acquire her reputation as a fashion icon.”

  Portia, realizing Gwenn’s description told her little of Lexy’s character, in which she was more interested than in her clothes, merely asked, “And Sir James?”

  “Oh, yes, as Augie says, we have to get used to Sir-ing him now, don’t we? What was he like? Good looking, gifted, polished. Lexy, never slow on t
he uptake in these matters, was after him like a shot. Then India went after him, or he went after her. India won the toss. Quite the scandal, wasn’t it, Augie?”

  But Augie, fiddling with the settings on his electronic device, appeared less than interested in this ancient news from the romance front.

  “Urghmph,” he said.

  As often will happen, one of the subjects of their gossip walked through the door just then. He nodded to the group—was it only guilt that made some of them think it was rather a cool nod? But having been served his drink, he walked over to join them. Portia’s first thought was that Gwenn’s assessment was right: Sir James was handsome in a rather retro, drawing-room comedy sort of way. Intelligence shone from his somewhat hooded eyes, separated by a large Roman nose. His wealth quietly announced itself via his impeccable grooming and the cut of his suit, cunningly designed to make him look both broader in the shoulders and leaner through the waist than he likely was. An embryonic paunch had been discretely disguised and even rendered acceptable by a tailor of some cunning: the Savile Row version of the Aloha shirt.

  Just then a woman entered on the arm of the Bursar. Sir James turned towards her, his face transformed by a welcoming smile. Portia had the fleeting impression of a comfortable-looking, middle-class woman, but one who had been made up for a Cinderella outing—she was appearing in the “after” photo so beloved of women’s magazines. Her style of dress, like Sir James’, was of an impeccable pedigree, but somehow Portia suspected she’d be much more at home in trousers, sweater, and boots. The woman continued chatting with a clearly besotted Bursar as Portia wondered at the woman’s appeal. From what she could overhear, the Bursar was talking about accounting methods and balance sheets. Portia heard him call her Lady Bassett. Sir James’ wife, then. She looked completely enthralled in the conversation, and the Bursar’s chest visibly puffed out as he warmed to his theme before such a rapt audience.