Mr Campion's Visit

by Mike Ripley

  A bout of hysterics would not have been out of place, Campion considered, as the poor woman had experienced a murder on what was, in effect, her front lawn; had had her house invaded and occupied and surely must have thought of the possible consequences for the university and her husband’s career.

  Dolores Downes was, as Amanda had warned him, a strikingly beautiful woman who would have graced the fashion pages of a society magazine, and the stoicism she had displayed that morning as her world collapsed around her added to her nobility. Her interview with Superintendent Appleyard had been short, which could mean she had nothing to contribute to the investigation, and presumably painless, though Campion had observed that she emerged from it with a slightly quivering lower lip and a moistness in the eyes. He was confident he had been the only one present who had noticed this crumpling of her mask and was willing to bet that Appleyard had not.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Campion said at last, ‘I have imposed on your wife – we all have – too much already. I must say she is taking all this very well.’

  ‘Dolores is a strong woman,’ said Downes, ‘and she was kind to Pascual when he first came to the university. He didn’t know anyone, so Dolores took him under her wing somewhat, organizing dinner parties and Spanish evenings with wine and tapas so he could meet people. She’s more upset by his death than she lets on.’

  ‘The professor must have felt quite at home with all the Spanish speakers around here.’

  ‘He insisted we always spoke English,’ said Downes with a brief smile of memory. ‘He said advances in science would only be recognized internationally if they were in English, plus him speaking English with a sexy Spanish accent would be a sure-fire hit with the ladies.’

  ‘An interesting fellow all round,’ said Campion. ‘I wish I had paid more attention the other day when he described his work. Is there anyone I could talk to, to get an idea of what he was like to work with?’

  ‘Nigel Honeycutt would be your man,’ said Downes without hesitation. ‘He’s – he was – Pascual’s second-in-command for all intents and purposes. The sorcerer’s apprentice, so to speak, though a bit left-wing. Just got tenure as a lecturer, but the professor was supervising his PhD.’

  ‘Has he been called in by Appleyard yet?’

  ‘Not yet. I think Appleyard is going to descend on Earth Sciences this afternoon. If you want to chat with Honeycutt before then, you could catch him in our little pub in the refectory. He usually takes his lunch there with his student friends.’

  Mr Campion raised his eyebrows. ‘You said that, Vice Chancellor, as if you disapprove of members of staff having friends among the students.’

  ‘The sort of students Honeycutt attracts, yes. What you might call the radical elements.’

  ‘I take it you do not mean radical elements in the scientific sense?’

  ‘Sadly, no, rather the political; the extreme political.’

  ‘Is the School of Earth Sciences a hotbed of left-wingers?’

  ‘Not really. Most scientists are naturally conservative. Our lefties tend to study sociology under Yorick Thurible, but Pascual had a touch of the Che Guevara about him, making him ideal as a romantic lead, a bit of a matinee idol, in fact.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that make Professor Thurible just the tiniest bit jealous?’ suggested Campion.

  ‘Almost certainly it did,’ said Dr Downes, ‘but Yorick has such an ego, he would never admit to being jealous of another academic, or any mere mortal.’

  ‘So no grudges or feuds there then?’

  ‘Not on Yorick’s part, I would think. He would only feud with an equal, and he’s yet to meet one of those. As for Pascual, he would challenge anyone who tried to take away his computer time to a duel to the death, but I don’t think he would hold a grudge.’ Downes paused and studied Campion’s face. ‘I’m sorry, Campion, have I shocked you? You look quite stunned.’

  ‘I was just considering, Vice Chancellor, that it’s a wonder you haven’t had a murder here long before now.’

  Mr Campion found Nigel Honeycutt in the refectory bar with little difficulty. Being the first day of lectures and seminars of the new term, and new students having yet to realize that attendance was not compulsory, the bar was half-empty and only one customer was seated alone at a table reading the New Scientist. His clothing also made him stand out from the overdressed first-years, still unsure of what fashionable uniform to adopt, and the returning second- and third-years who had dressed in whatever had come to hand without a thought to the last time it had been laundered. Apart from Campion, he was the only one in the bar wearing a tie, a thick black woollen affair over a blue shirt with a button-down collar, and a brown corduroy suit which shone where it had seen better days. He was drinking what appeared to be a pint of bitter and picking at the remains of a ploughman’s lunch.

  ‘Mr Honeycutt? My name is Albert Campion. Do you mind if I join you?’

  ‘Nobody’s stopping you, so you might as well,’ said the scientist, laying his journal down and edging his way along the bench seat to make room.

  ‘I am the university Visitor,’ said Campion, ‘but this is my first visit to the refectory. Could you recommend anything from the menu?’

  ‘I would if there was a menu, but in this bar they only do ploughman’s lunches. They’re not bad, actually; bit of French bread, two pats of butter, two bits of cheese, one white one red, pickled red cabbage and two large pickled onions. Not bad for two-and-six, though the university will put the price up to fifteen p with decimalization next year.’

  The younger man spoke with deliberate world-weariness and without a trace of humour or irony.

  ‘I’m not sure that bar prices are in the remit of the Visitor,’ said Mr Campion, ‘but I’ll take your advice. Can I get you another drink?’

  Honeycutt emptied his glass and rapped it down on the table.

  ‘Pint of Adnams if you’re buying. They don’t keep it well, but it’s the only real ale they stock.’

  ‘Are the other ales unreal then?’

  ‘They’re all keg beers, national brands made in factories, all fizz and chilled to hell. The big brewers are adulterating the workers’ pint, just like they always did, except now they do it through advertising on the television.’

  ‘How interesting,’ said Campion, picking up Honeycutt’s empty glass, ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that before now.’

  ‘You wait, there’s a revolution coming. A revolution in beer-drinking.’

  Mr Campion turned towards the bar.

  ‘Then I’ll make sure I’m on the right side.’

  Whatever Honeycutt’s view of the optimum beer to accompany it, the university’s attempts at a ploughman’s lunch were very acceptable; the portions generous and the cheeses distinctive once freed from their cellophane straitjackets.

  Campion ferried his meal – and a pint of bitter for Honeycutt and a bottle of stout for himself – from bar to table, sat down and folded his long legs away so that he could carefully decant his Guinness into a glass, producing the perfect creamy head. He took particular care to drain the bottle; the last few drops, delivered with a flick of the wrist, plopped into tiny brown spots in the centre of the foam head.

  ‘Perfect!’ Campion said as if to himself, although he had made sure that young Mr Honeycutt’s attention had been tweaked by his little pantomime.

  ‘What is?’ asked Honeycutt, who was after all a scientist and therefore intrigued by natural phenomena.

  Campion relaxed back in the bench seat then extended a forefinger to indicate the red and white cheeses on his plate and the black and white stout in his glass.

  ‘The French say that wine is the assassin of cheese. I feel that cheese is the assassin of most beer, so to give one’s beer a fighting chance, one has to choose a heavyweight beer like a stout, and I have been especially lucky in my choice today.’

  ‘How?’ Honeycutt was now as interested in Campion’s diet as he had been in his New Scientist.

  ‘See
those little brown spots in the middle of the head? Those are dark truffles of yeasty goodness and you get them in the last of a bulk brew to be put into bottles. They are like the meat juices left in a roasting tin; they make the best gravy.’

  ‘You know about beer,’ said Honeycutt, impressed.

  ‘Not really,’ smiled Campion. ‘I have an acquaintance at Brewers’ Hall in London who acts as my advisor and, more often than not, my official taster. But I am not visiting the campus to try the beer.’

  ‘You’re here because of Pascual.’

  ‘Inadvertently. My official visit was last week, but I was too slow in making my getaway and so I’m back to offer any help I can.’

  ‘And can you help? Is that what Visitors do – investigate murders? I heard your talk to the new intake. You seem to have been hired to frighten the first-years, warning them not to go on protest marches.’

  ‘That’s a touch unfair,’ said Campion, buttering a fistful of bread and slicing his oblongs of cheese into manageable pieces. ‘I was only suggesting that they think before they act when it comes to trying to overthrow society. That rarely ends well, and for students enjoying all the benefits of university life, responsibility-free for three years at the taxpayers’ expense, it’s hardly a realistic goal.’

  ‘You should have told them, Mr Visitor, to be realistic and demand the impossible!’

  ‘Do I detect an echo of the Paris riots of ’68? Soyez réalistes, demandez l’impossible was one of the popular slogans, wasn’t it? The sort of sentiment I would have associated with a radical sociologist rather than a hard-headed earth scientist, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘Pascual has a poster in his office with it in Spanish under a picture of Che Guevara.’

  ‘Ah, the sainted Che.’ Campion raised his glass in a silent toast. ‘Does that mean that Professor Perez-Catalan was a Marxist revolutionary?’

  ‘Not a Marxist, he despised organized politics of all shades, but he had a revolutionary approach to his research. He believed the results of his work should benefit the poorer people of his country.’

  ‘A noble sentiment, no doubt.’ Campion seemed intent on chasing a pickled onion around his plate. ‘They’ve just had an election in Chile, haven’t they?’

  ‘Yes, a close one. Pascual was delighted to hear that the socialist Allende won – he was a big supporter.’

  ‘I believe there was speculation that his campaign was funded by Russia and the KGB.’

  Honeycutt responded as if stung. ‘I think you’ll find that America’s CIA contributed more than twice as much to Allende’s opponent, as well as a few dirty tricks along the way.’

  ‘I’m sure you are right,’ Campion said affably, ‘but Chile and Chilean politics are such a long way away. How was the professor going to help the poor and needy of his country from here in darkest Suffolk?’

  ‘With his algorithm,’ said Honeycutt with astonishment that such a question needed asking.

  ‘Oh yes, his famous algorithm.’

  ‘It’s not famous yet, but it will be.’

  Campion abandoned his pursuit of pickled onions, placed his hands in his lap and turned to face Honeycutt head-on. ‘He did try and explain it to me when I met him briefly last week. I followed as best I could and for a moment I thought I’d grasped it, but then it was gone, and I realized I was a bear of very little brain when it came to science.’

  Honeycutt sighed the sigh of a put-upon man, but it was half-hearted, for few dedicated scientists can resist explaining their work, however stubborn or stupid their audience, and he soon warmed to his task.

  ‘Pascual came to this country, and this university specifically, because he needed computer power which was not available to him back home in Santiago. To work out his algorithm, he has had to analyse thousands of seismographic recordings taken along the subduction zone where the Pacific and continental plates collide.’

  He paused to examine Campion’s face, but Mr Campion was nodding enthusiastically.

  ‘With you so far.’

  ‘Pascual’s theory,’ Honeycutt continued, gathering pace, ‘was that by looking at them in conjunction with known geological strata and mineral deposits, plus chemical samples taken from existing mines, he could come up with an algorithm, a formula, for predicting the presence of valuable minerals, particularly the heavy metals such as zinc lead and tungsten.’

  ‘I think he mentioned uranium and gold.’

  ‘Yes, those too.’

  ‘So essentially this algorithm of his, if it worked, could be a sort of computerized divining rod?’

  ‘Putting it very crudely … you could say that.’

  ‘However crudely, could I say that if I were, for example, an international mining company or perhaps even a government interested in securing supplies of such heavy metals, then the professor’s algorithm would be high on my Christmas list?’

  ‘You could, but it wouldn’t be something you could go out and buy.’ Honeycutt appeared somewhat disturbed by Campion’s question.

  ‘Why not? Please correct me if I’m wrong, but this algorithm is something like a formula, isn’t it? If I had come up with a chemical formula for, let us say, turning sea water into four-star petrol, wouldn’t I be tempted to sell it to the highest bidder?’

  ‘You might; Pascual wouldn’t. His priority was to publish his findings in the scientific journals for peer review and, if his theories are correct, they would be put to use improving the economies of some of the poorest countries in the world.’

  ‘And in doing so increase the profits of multinational mining companies.’

  ‘As long as capitalism retains its stranglehold on the Western world, probably yes.’

  The younger man jutted his jaw, as if daring Campion to counter-punch physically rather than verbally.

  ‘Do I take it you would prefer a more communist philosophy to prevail?’ Campion said quietly.

  ‘I make no secret of it!’ Honeycutt picked up his glass, toasted himself and drained it. ‘I am a member of IS, the International Socialists, who will be in the vanguard of social change in this country when it comes.’

  ‘While we are waiting for that,’ said Mr Campion, ‘would you allow this old, reactionary capitalist to buy you another drink?’

  Honeycutt put the flat of his hand over his empty glass. ‘No, better not. I have a lot to do this afternoon, seeing students and sorting out Pascual’s teaching commitments.’

  ‘And you’ll be continuing his research, I presume?’

  ‘As best I can, and it will probably fall to me to finish off the paper he was writing and get it published.’

  Campion was pleased to discover that Honeycutt’s academic responsibilities took precedence over the impending socialist revolution.

  ‘I have no doubt you will do a splendid job, Nigel, even though I haven’t really got a clue what your job is, but the vice chancellor referred to you as the sorcerer’s apprentice, so I am sure you will work your magic.’

  Honeycutt allowed himself a brief smile and a slight shake of a modest head.

  ‘Pascual was certainly the sorcerer when it came to handling vast amounts of data and theories from different disciplines. His colleagues in Chile called him El Mago – The Magician. I can only hope a little of his magic has rubbed off on me.’

  ‘You held him in high regard, I sense.’

  ‘The highest. He was supervising my doctorate, he was a great mentor and a good teacher. It was an honour to work under him.’

  ‘Can I ask if your high opinion of him is shared by your colleagues here in Earth Sciences?’

  ‘Oh, I get it; this is the third degree, is it? Who had a motive to do in poor Pascual?’

  ‘Not at all,’ soothed Campion. ‘You’ll get that from Superintendent Appleyard this afternoon – and, word to the wise, don’t volunteer any information on your political affiliations unless it seems germane to the enquiry.’

  ‘Typical fascist pig, is he?’

  ‘
I’ll have you know, my young friend, that several of my oldest and dearest friends are policemen, and they would react most strongly to being labelled fascists, though in the case of Mr Appleyard, I could be tempted to make an exception. He will certainly ask you about the professor’s politics.’

  Honeycutt’s expression had gone from truculence to nervousness. ‘I’ve told you, Pascual was not into organized political movements. He certainly had a socialist view of the world, but he was not committed to any party or movement, but the coppers will still call him “dangerously left-wing” when they talk to their lackeys in the press.’

  ‘I’ll have you know,’ Campion said with a huge grin, ‘that several of my oldest and dearest friends dislike journalists too.’

  There was a pause while Honeycutt registered a smile, then Campion continued.

  ‘You will forgive me, for I am very old and set in my ways, but I did not expect to find any left-wingers, dangerous or otherwise, among the staff of the science departments. I naturally assumed that the sociology department would be stuffed to the gunnels with them, but perhaps I have been misled by those lackeys of the fourth estate. My point is, I am sure the police follow a similar thought process.’

  Honeycutt waggled a forefinger to indicate that he had picked up on Campion’s meaning.

  ‘They won’t find Earth Sciences a hotbed of revolution – more’s the pity. I’m the only one who takes any interest in what’s going on in the world outside the laboratory. I think that’s why Pascual took me under his wing. The rest of the department are straight-laced Conservative voters to a man.’

  ‘And woman?’ Campion made it a question, but then elaborated. ‘I met one of your geology lecturers last week, a popular one judging by the reaction of one of her students.’

  ‘That would be Tabitha King,’ said Honeycutt. ‘She’s one of our rising stars. Pascual thought highly of her. Academically that is, even though she rebuffed his advances in no uncertain terms. Pascual just took it in his stride. It was just his way to try it on with anything female.’

  ‘A ladies’ man, as my mother might have said?’