by Mike Ripley
His mind had nothing more on it than the prospect of a cheering brew as he crossed the curved wooden bridge over what the student newspaper called ‘the fake lake’ until he felt his feet sliding from under him. Startled, he grabbed at the handrail to his left and instantly recoiled as his palm made contact with something wet and sticky instead of solid wood.
Recovering his footing and employing his torch, Bill Warren’s hitherto untrammelled mind confirmed that he was standing in, and touching, blood, and small traverse of the beam over the rail showed, in the still water below, the source.
‘I know now I shouldn’t have touched the body,’ he told Campion, ‘and Mr Appleyard gave me considerable grief for having done so, but it was just instinct. During the war I was an ambulance man in London during the Blitz, the second one in ’44 when we had the doodlebugs. You saw fresh blood and a body, and you went to help, to see if they were still alive. So I didn’t think twice. Didn’t think at all really, just splashed into the water and pulled him to the bank. It’s not deep at the edges, but I’ll be putting in for a new pair of shoes.’
Conscious that Bill Warren, as the finder of the body, had been continuously interviewed by professionals since before dawn, Campion had no wish to keep him from a long-delayed breakfast or add to the shock he had suffered, so he asked only a few questions and as gently as he could.
‘He was dead when you got him out of the water?’
‘As a doornail. I knew straight off there was nothing I could do for him, so I ran up to the Dudley and got on the phone to Mr Meade.’
‘You rang Big Gerry first, before anyone else?’
‘Them’s standing orders,’ Warren said, surprised at the question. ‘Gerry told me to ring the vice chancellor on the internal line and he told me to dial 999.’
‘Could you tell it was Professor Perez-Catalan?’
‘Oh yes, straight away. We’ve had run-ins with him before.’ Campion chose to let that one go – for the moment. ‘It was the vice chancellor who did the formal identification for the police, but I knew who it was right enough, and so did Doc Woodford when she arrived.’
‘Dr Woodford was on the scene?’
‘She turned up before the police did. I remembered we had those windbreaks in the lost property cupboard – some students had nicked them for a laugh last summer after a trip to Yarmouth beach – and figured they would keep prying eyes away. Miss Woodford just appeared coming over the bridge. Gave me a bit of start, to be honest. I just reckoned the vice chancellor had called her, her being our medical officer.’
‘She responded pretty quickly, didn’t she?’
Warren had shrugged his shoulders. ‘Didn’t have far to come, did she? She lives in one of the pyramids – Chomsky, I think, or one of them other daft names.’
‘And how did Dr Woodford react?’
‘React? Well she was shaken up, that’s for sure. Actually shaking she was, like she’d seen a ghost, which in a way she had. Still, she didn’t get hysterical or anything. She’s a doctor, after all, and must be used to bodies. Did a quick examination, felt for a pulse under his chin and said he was a goner, though I could have told her that. In fact, I did.’
‘Could you see how he died?’ Campion asked quietly.
‘Have to be blind not to see that bloody great carving knife sticking out of the back of his neck,’ said Bill Warren ruefully.
As Dr Woodford had given her statement to the police earlier and did not seem inclined to gossip, she had been allowed to return to her surgery in the Administration block, where several hundred new students would be waiting to register with her service. There were, however, plenty of other members of the university’s staff who were willing to offer information, or at least an opinion, to anyone who would listen.
Estates Officer Gregor Marshall had adopted the air of a harassed businessman irritated by the last-minute cancellation of one meeting but anxious to move on to the next.
‘Everyone on campus had a good reason to kill him,’ he told a surprised Campion who had not asked a question, ‘apart from his students, that is. They seemed to adore him, God knows why.’
‘I thought the professor was a shining star, perhaps the shining star in the university firmament; a brilliant scientist in a ground-breaking new field.’
‘Well, he certainly thought so, and never did he miss an opportunity to tell all and sundry that he was.’
‘And that put some of his colleagues’ noses out of joint, did it?’ Campion probed.
‘You bet it did, but then they’re all prima donnas if you ask me. He has papers in all the scientific journals, wins prizes and gets on the telly whenever there’s an earthquake or a volcano anywhere that requires a resident expert. Students queue up to get into earth sciences, from all over the world as well. Do you know how important foreign student fees are to the university?’
‘So academic jealousy is a possible motive then?’
‘Not directly, at least not within his field. The other disciplines just have to be more outrageous to get the same amount of recognition. Like Thurible, the charming middle-class face of revolution, who goes to posh parties where they drink fine wines and gossip about their au pair girls. Next thing they know, Thurible has written a sarcastic article in the lefty press lambasting them for being petty bourgeoisie and not sending their kids to comprehensive schools. And he’d give his eye teeth to be a television expert like Catalan; on any subject, it wouldn’t matter to Yorick as long as it was controversial.’
‘That sounds like a clash of egos, which is part and parcel of the academic life. It is, though, in my humble opinion, rarely a motive for murder,’ said Campion, feigning disinterest. ‘Academics tend to be quiet, reflective beasts who chew things over carefully before resorting to violence; rather like cows, I suppose.’
Gregor Marshall snorted in surprise. ‘You wouldn’t say that if you were caught in a stampede!’
‘Probably not,’ Campion conceded, ‘but university professors rarely stampede.’
‘They do if they want to get computing time,’ said Marshall, clearly convinced he was stating the obvious.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand what computers have to do with anything.’
‘They have everything to do with why just about every academic outside of the Earth Sciences department, and maybe one or two in there, had it in for Perez-Catalan. Didn’t he tell you what his pet subject was?’
‘Plate tectonics and something about an algorithm, though I can’t pretend I understood much of it, except that by studying seismographic readings he can somehow predict where there are deposits of heavy metals in the Andes.’
‘Yes, that’s about it, and all we mere mortals need to know is that it’s big stuff in scientific terms and the professor came here because of our brand-spanking-new Computing Centre, which he treats as his personal property. His research project takes up eighty per cent of our computing capacity, leaving very little for all the other departments to fight over, and that causes resentment. You should have heard Jack Szmodics arguing with him about it last term, how important work in linguistic analysis – whatever that is – was being held back due to lack of computer time.’
‘Just because the late professor was not diplomatic in dealing with his colleagues doesn’t mean he made enemies, though,’ Campion argued but with little conviction.
‘Ask Roger Downes about that!’ Marshall was as indignant as a Mothers’ Union secretary being told by the local vicar that her jam was substandard. ‘The vice chancellor has had his hands full since that little beggar arrived. Not just the squabbles between the academics and the political pressures, but also the scandals involving some of the campus wives.’
Marshall leaned in and lowered his voice. ‘He fancied himself with the ladies, you know. Had some success by all accounts.’
Mr Campion tactfully refused to pursue this saucy morsel. ‘You mentioned political pressures. Where did they come from?’
‘Our government, his
government back in Chile, plus every other South American country with the Andes in their back yard, not to mention the proper Americans who regard South America as their back yard. That algorithm he’s working on is hot stuff in some circles. His death could be a diplomatic incident unless things get sorted out quickly.’
‘I should have been more aware,’ said Campion, ‘or paid more attention, but I’m afraid I have an off switch when it comes to things mathematical. It seems there are quite a few people with an interest in the life of our professor, not to mention at least one with an interest in his death.’
‘Like I said, he had a lot of enemies.’
‘Well you certainly implied that.’ Campion looked over the rims of his glasses. ‘How about the Estates Office, Mr Marshall? Did Perez-Catalan rub you up the wrong way?’
‘No more than any of the other whining academics around here, always wanting more resources because their work is more important than the chap’s in the next office. And then they notice that the office next door is bigger than theirs, so that goes on their shopping list, along with a reserved parking place, direct phone lines, tape recorders, slide projectors, electric typewriters – the list is endless. They cause me more trouble than the students. At least they go home at the end of a term.’
‘And the porters?’
‘What about the porters?’
‘They are under your command, part of your empire, are they not?’
‘I wouldn’t put it like that, but yes, the portering service is part of my responsibility. Do you have a problem with them?’
‘Personally, not at all.’ Campion smiled his most innocent smile. ‘It’s just that earlier, in front of the police, Gerontius Meade offered the opinion – an unrequested opinion – that Professor Perez-Catalan was the most unpopular person on campus. I wondered what the professor had done to upset such a fine body of men.’
Once more Marshall leaned his head in towards Campion’s face as if imparting a state secret.
‘We had a sit-in here last year,’ he said in hushed tones.
‘I know,’ Campion whispered back. ‘I read about it in the papers. It even made the Hampstead and Highgate Express.’
‘It made everywhere,’ Marshall said through gritted teeth. ‘The professor saw to that, claiming that the occupation of the Earth Sciences department was disrupting valuable scientific research which was vital to the third world.’
‘The bad public relations I understand, but why did Gerry Meade seem to take it so personally?’
‘The students were objecting to price increases in the bar …’
‘Which you authorized.’
‘I most certainly did. With inflation running at nine per cent, I have to balance the books. The academics don’t care about such things and the students just want cheap beer. Anyway, we all knew when and where the sit-in was coming, and we could have – should have – prevented it, even though Professor Thurible and his acolytes would have claimed that we were reactionary fascists crushing free speech. Gerry Meade decided that complete absence was the best way to avoid confrontation, and called a union meeting down at The Plough in White Dudley at exactly the time the Students’ Union just walked in and started their siege of Piazza 3. Took us eight days and an injunction to get them out.’
‘And Perez-Catalan took this badly?’
‘You bet he did; he was furious with the university for allowing his vital research to be interrupted, and afterwards he demanded that Gerry Meade be disciplined for abandoning his duties. Called him a coward to his face and lobbied the vice chancellor for him to be fired. He would have put old Gerry up against a wall and taken charge of the firing squad himself if he could.’ Marshall showed a mouthful of wolfish teeth as he grinned at the thought. ‘That’s the way they do it in South American universities, isn’t it?’
‘I really wouldn’t know,’ said Campion airily. ‘We never used firing squads at Cambridge, but for Oxford I cannot speak.’
SIX
Sorcerer’s Apprentice
Mr Campion was clearly shocked, his complexion a deadly shade of ivory, his hand trembling then searching in vain for the cigarettes he had forsworn years ago.
‘Are you all right, Campion?’ Dr Downes was genuinely concerned. ‘For a minute there, I thought you were having a stroke.’
‘As good as, Vice Chancellor. Your secretary just put a phone call through to me from our mutual nemesis the bishop.’
‘I’m so sorry. She has specific instructions to divert him when he rings.’
‘Unfortunately, I was not the diversion, I was the objective. It was me he wanted to talk to and when I say talk I mean sermonize. I’m afraid you are likely to be stuck with me for a day or so. The bishop is demanding daily reports from his university Visitor, whom he regards as something of an expert on crime at Black Dudley, though I cannot think why.’
With so many other larger problems on his mind, Campion felt guilty about adding to the vice chancellor’s housekeeping woes.
‘I have no wish to impose on you, or Mrs Downes,’ he said, ‘and I suspect Superintendent Appleyard would not wish me to stay in the Dudley itself as I think he fancies it as his headquarters. So, is there anywhere nearby I can camp? Is there a bed-and-breakfast or a pub with rooms in White Dudley?’
‘There’s The Plough, but they don’t have guest rooms and any house which could do bed-and-breakfast will have already rented its spare bedrooms to our students or junior staff. But if you don’t mind roughing it …’
‘Not at all,’ grinned Campion, ‘my needs are few and my wants mostly imaginary.’
‘If you don’t mind heights and are prepared to have your slumbers disturbed by loud music late at night, then the staff flat at the peak of our Durkheim pyramid is vacant at the moment. It was allocated to a new member of staff, a Dr Gourvish, who has had to delay his arrival after breaking his leg by falling down a mountain on a climbing holiday.’
‘Not the Andes by any chance?’
‘Good heavens, no,’ said Downes with mild astonishment. ‘Snowdonia actually. Why would you think the Andes?’
‘Absolutely no sane reason, Vice Chancellor,’ said Campion, shaking his head. ‘Flippancy brought on by a looming sense of dread.’
‘You’re not still worrying about the bishop’s telephone call, are you?’
‘No, not about that, but about the phone call I now have to make. To my wife.’
Mr Campion’s fear of incurring his wife’s displeasure was, as it always was, misplaced. Usually this was because Lady Amanda, after thirty years of marriage, knew her husband better than he knew himself, and partly because she was incapable of remaining angry at him for any significant length of time. On this particular occasion, Amanda saved her husband any discomfort by successfully pre-empting his telephone call by the simple expedient of not being at Monewdon Hall when it came through at one o’clock – exactly the time she had expected it.
Campion felt a guilty relief when he discovered that it was Guffy Randall on the other end of the line.
‘She’s gone, Albert. Mary drove her to the station to catch an earlier train. Left me having to forage for my own lunch. Thank you very much.’
‘Was she cross with me?’
‘Amanda? No more than usual, which is to say not seriously. More resigned than anything. Knew you just couldn’t resist poking around at Black Dudley if there’d been a murder and, anyway, she spotted that you’d taken your overnight bag with you. She doesn’t miss much, that gal.’
‘I know,’ said Campion affectionately, ‘that’s only one of her many qualities. She was wise to head off without me as I have, as she anticipated, been unavoidably delayed, and I will be lodging on campus for the next couple of days.’
‘She said that you’d say something like that and to tell you to be careful. You are not to engage in any student pranks or beer drinking competitions, stay away from politics and do not – she repeated not – go on any protest marches or start any revolutions.�
��
‘That pretty much curtails my freedom, doesn’t it? Not to mention my enjoyment.’
‘She was quite strict about it, Albert. She said that if you did any of those things, or even thought about doing them, she would embarrass you in front of your young audience and you’d never be able to show your face on campus again. She sounded as if she meant it.’
‘I’m sure she does, Guffy. In fact I know she does.’
Around one o’clock Superintendent Appleyard and most of his detective team left Black Dudley, the police presence reduced to two constables on watch to make sure the crime scene was not tampered with or visited by ghoulish souvenir hunters. The official reason for their temporary departure was to search Professor Perez-Catalan’s house in White Dudley, to which end Gerry Meade was acting as an enthusiastic gundog. Campion suspected that Big Gerry had tempted them into trying a ploughman’s lunch at his local pub, a service for which the landlord no doubt rewarded him with liquid commission.
‘Dolores will happily rustle up some lunch for you, Campion,’ said Dr Downes, as policemen and the staff who had given statements began to drift from the house. ‘Mr Appleyard said no one could leave the campus, so you might as well make yourself at home.’
Campion, still fortified by the residual effects of a Monewdon breakfast, had not really thought about lunch, though he had thought about Dolores Downes.
He felt guilty for not having taken more notice of the vice chancellor’s wife on his earlier visit, when she had been an immaculate hostess and he was sure he had been a perfect house guest. That morning, with all the chaos and confusion that comes with a dead body virtually on the doorstep, the arrival of the police and the disruption of normal routine, she had behaved with a cool, quiet efficiency; perhaps too quiet.