by Mike Ripley
‘Poor old Don Quixote,’ he said to himself, ‘gutted like a fish.’
A square had been cut, almost certainly with a razor blade, in the pages to a depth of half an inch and a good half-inch in from the edge. It was an old trick, used to provide a hiding place for small valuables or secrets, and in this case the secret that fitted perfectly into its paper coffin was a small, one-ounce tobacco tin.
It was a tin worth hiding, thought Campion, as it was one of those embarrassingly jolly ‘pin-up’ tins, decorated with a picture of an attractive brunette sitting in a heart-shaped leather chair, wearing a low-cut but formidable basque and something flimsy carefully arranged to allow a generous view of long black nylon’d legs and stocking tops. Although attractive as a model, the pictured lady seemed the most unlikely of pipe-smokers.
Campion eased the thin square tin out of its hidey-hole and used a fingernail as a lever on the bevelled edge. The tin opened with a satisfying pop to reveal neatly folded squares of light green paper, six of them, and without unfolding them, Campion could see that they were cheques.
They were all cheques for twenty-five pounds, dated over a period of eight months, but the most recent was a year ago and therefore all had lapsed, a matter which almost certainly did not worry the Southwold branch of Lloyds Bank on which they were drawn. The amount was standard, as was the payee, a name which Campion was not terribly surprised at: Mrs Edwina Meade.
It was the signature of the account holder which caused him to draw a sharp breath.
Before he left the cottage, Campion consulted the copy of Tabitha King’s timetable which had been given to him by departmental secretary Sheila. If she adhered to it, Tabitha King would be tied up teaching until six o’clock, which gave him time to fit in a surprise visit to another university department and to consider what action to take on the mildly erotic tobacco tin containing six folded cheques which was now in his jacket pocket.
As he climbed into the Jaguar, he waved cheerfully towards the windows of Mrs Meade’s house, and as he turned the car in the road to head back to the university, he gave a cheeky semi-quaver toot on the horn as he said aloud: ‘Why didn’t you cash those cheques, Edwina?’
The campus car park had more police cars than he remembered from that morning and curiosity got the better of him, so he took the path towards Black Dudley only to find Dr Szmodics coming bustling out of the open front door and making a beeline for him.
‘Jack, just the chap I need to pull a few strings for me,’ Campion hailed him.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Down in White Dudley, why? Have I missed anything?’
‘You might say that. The bishop’s been on the phone again.’
‘You surprise me,’ said Campion calmly, then added: ‘He didn’t ring Miss Simcox in Earth Sciences, did he?’
Szmodics did a double take of confusion. ‘No, he rang Gerry Meade direct, said he was sending somebody to keep an eye on you.’
‘That sounds ominous. Do we have any hints as to who it might be?’
‘None at all, only that Meade is meeting them off the train at Darsham Halt, but that’s really neither here nor there now.’
Although almost bursting to divulge something further, Dr Szmodics played his advantage and waited for Campion to prompt him.
Campion made it a statement, not a question. ‘I take it something more significant has happened.’
‘Stephanie Silva,’ said Dr Szmodics under his breath for dramatic effect.
‘There’s a coincidence,’ said Campion, hefting the copy of Cervantes he held in his left hand. ‘I was going to ask you where I might find her this afternoon. I need to have a word with her.’
‘You’d better join the queue then. Superintendent Appleyard’s men pulled her out of a seminar half an hour ago. I think he’s going to arrest her.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Campion, crestfallen. ‘I was hoping to discuss a book with her.’
Whatever Miss Silva was discussing with Superintendent Appleyard, it was not literature.
The vice chancellor’s office was being used for the interview, or interrogation, depending on how it was going, and the door was guarded by PC Peters, the constable whose duties, Campion had assumed, were confined to being Appleyard’s stenographer.
As Campion and Dr Szmodics approached, PC Peters stiffened his stance, the standard policeman’s on-duty stance, hands in the small of his back, feet apart, knees flexing slightly.
‘You can’t go in there, sirs. The VC and the super are going to be tied up for some time.’
‘With Miss Silva, I presume. I’m rather surprised you’re not in there taking notes,’ said Campion.
‘Got a WPC up from Ipswich in there. Always best to have one present when it’s a female suspect.’
‘Quite right, Constable, that’s a sensible and probably sensitive policy; very forward-thinking,’ said Campion. ‘So Miss Silva is a suspect, is she?’
The young policeman was impassive. ‘You can think that, sir, but I never said so.’
Campion turned to Dr Szmodics. ‘I think this young man has a great career ahead of him.’ Then he turned his smile on PC Peters and reached into his pocket. ‘I have no wish to disturb the superintendent, but I can trouble you with another matter. I hereby return the key to Professor Perez-Catalan’s cottage which you made me sign for this morning.’
‘Duly noted, sir, thank you.’ Peters took the proffered key and slipped it into the breast pocket of his uniform jacket, where it clinked faintly against the police whistle already there.
‘I also asked if I could see the other keys found on the professor’s key ring. One of your detectives was trying to identify them with Mr Meade.’
‘I remember, sir. They’re back now, over in the incident room.’ He nodded in the direction of what had been the Great Hall. ‘There’s a table with a filing tray marked “Evidence”. They’re in there.’
‘Thank you, Constable; I just want a quick look to satisfy my curiosity.’
‘I didn’t know you read Spanish,’ observed Dr Szmodics as he accompanied Campion across to the hall.
Campion patted the book tucked under his left arm. ‘Oh, this. I don’t, I just wanted to talk to Miss Silva about it.’
‘I could find a translation for you easily enough,’ Szmodics offered. ‘We have lots of them kicking around the department.’
Campion saw an opportunity and took it. ‘That would be incredibly decent of you,’ said Campion, standing still and looking squarely into Szmodics’s eyes.
‘You mean now?’
‘If it’s not too much trouble.’
Mr Campion’s luck held. The incident room was devoid not only of incident, but mostly of policemen, only two plain-clothes detectives pecking at typewriters in a far corner. Neither took any notice of Campion as he approached the table bearing filing trays with handwritten signs saying ‘Evidence’ sellotaped to them.
The professor’s key ring was hard to miss, containing enough keys to distort even the most flexible pocket fabric, and if found on a certain type of individual in the East End of London would inevitably have led to a charge of going equipped for theft or burglary.
Campion placed the leather-bound book he had been nursing on top of the filing tray to mask the movements of his hands as they flipped through the key ring. The majority of keys conformed to the standard design of the cylinder locks used throughout the university; two or three looked as if they might fit a filing cabinet or a mail box, and two were thick, modern, double-edged security keys which Campion guessed allowed entry to the Computing Centre. One key stood out: a three-inch-long old-style iron mortise lock key, bigger and heavier than any of the others. In design, it was not all that advanced from something which could have been found on an archaeological excavation of an Anglo-Saxon homestead.
With a dexterity which impressed even himself, Campion separated that key from its companions and, flipping open Don Quixote with a stage magician’s flourish, he tr
ansferred it to the square paper grave which had been cut into the pages, closed the book and replaced it in his armpit.
Back in the lobby, he grinned inanely at PC Peters, who responded with a loud sigh and a flexing of the knees to indicate that the superintendent was still involved in giving Miss Silva a thorough grilling, and turned left to the staircase leading to the vice chancellor’s private quarters.
It was Dolores Downes who answered his polite knock. ‘Hello, Mr Campion, I’m afraid my husband is busy with the police.’
‘Excellent, may I come in?’
‘If you must; I’m rather busy preparing the guest room for your colleague.’
‘My colleague?’
‘I have been told to expect another visitor from the bishop,’ she said, leaving no doubt that she had been instructed rather than consulted. ‘So I am preparing the room you had. The police have no objections and Roger tells me they will soon be packing up and getting – how do you say it? – out from under our feet. Perhaps you should move back here instead of living with the students?’
‘No, no, I’m perfectly happy where I am, but that’s not why I’m here.’
Dolores waved a strand of hair from her eyes; she had beautiful, nervous brown eyes.
‘Then why are you here, Mr Campion?’ she asked with a quiver in her voice.
Campion drew a deep breath. ‘To ask you why you’ve been writing cheques to Edwina Meade.’
As he was leaving Black Dudley, he met Dr Szmodics coming in clutching a paperback edition of Don Quixote. Campion thanked him and slotted the book next to the larger Spanish edition under his arm.
‘Thank you, that’s my homework for the week, though I had hoped to get a few tips on the texts from Miss Silva,’ Campion said, and then answered Szmodics’s unasked question. ‘But that doesn’t seem likely as she’s still in there getting a grilling from Appleyard.’
‘Do you think the police have a case against her?’
‘For Pascual’s murder? I have absolutely no idea. I’ve not even spoken to the woman. She was next on my little list.’
‘You have a little list?’
‘I have a little list but, please, let us not descend into Gilbert and Sullivan. I am totally in the dark as to what the police might have against her, other than that she and Pascual clashed over computer time. That seems to be fairly common knowledge.’
‘It was,’ agreed Szmodics. ‘Some of the clashes were quite public which made her very popular with the students in my department and the more radical elements encouraged by Thurible among the sociologists. That’s why there’ll be trouble if they don’t release her soon.’
‘What do you mean, Jack?’
Dr Szmodics appeared surprised at the question, but remembered that Campion was new to student politics. ‘The police made a big mistake arresting Stephanie while she was teaching a seminar group.’
‘I think they “took her in for questioning” is the legal terminology,’ said Campion. ‘There’s been no formal charge made against her yet as far as I’m aware.’
‘That won’t cut any ice with the angry mob forming down in the piazzas,’ said Szmodics. ‘In my time as dean of students, I know the signs. First they gather in groups, then they start making placards and banners, then they start sharpening the pitchforks and making torches. Then comes the marching and the chanting …’
‘You sound as if you’re predicting a riot,’ said Campion, realizing that Dr Szmodics was being partly serious.
‘We’ve had them before and this is a far more exciting cause than protesting about price increases in the refectory. They’ll get a good turnout for this one.’
TWELVE
Riot Act
Mr Campion had always been of the opinion that anyone who encouraged others to run into battle, or march towards the sounds of the guns, was probably a staff officer quartered well behind the front line, but on this occasion that was exactly what he found himself doing.
‘Shall we wander over to the piazzas to observe the enemy?’ he said to Dr Szmodics. ‘I haven’t seen an angry village mob for a long time. Were you serious about the pitchforks and torches? If you were, they were a nice touch of local colour.’
‘Are you sure about this, Campion? When students start protesting, they tend not to respect either age or manners.’
‘Well, I won’t hold them responsible for their youth and I’m sure I can be just as rude as they if the Furies take me. And remember, I am the official Visitor and it is my duty to mediate between the student body and the university authorities.’
‘But your remit doesn’t run to negotiating on behalf of the police, does it?’
‘I’m sure Superintendent Appleyard can look after himself,’ said Campion, ‘but where are your police?’
‘My police? What do you mean?’
‘The university porters; they are in charge of campus security, are they not?’
Dr Szmodics snorted in surprise. ‘You’ve seen them; they’re nearly all of pensionable age and if they’ve any sense they’ll stay out of sight. In any case, Gerry Meade has disappeared off to Darsham Halt to collect another envoy from the bishop, so I suppose Bill Warren is in charge and he’s probably hiding back in the porters’ lodge, crouched down below the window with the lights off.’
‘I’ve met with Bill Warren,’ said Campion, ‘and I need another word with him before I forget. Look, we have reinforcements!’
As Campion and Szmodics walked down the path towards the lake bridge, a lone figure was hurrying up the path from Piazza 2. As he approached with long, athletic strides, the smart light brown, almost bronze, suit and blue paisley cravat suggested it was unlikely to be a student; very quickly he was identifiable as the handsome and fashionable Professor Thurible. The three met in the middle of the bridge.
‘Jack.’
‘Yorick.’
‘Then I must be Horatius,’ said Campion, ‘if we are to defend the bridge. Black Dudley will have to stand in for Ancient Rome and the students can be the invading Etruscans, or whatever they were.’ Campion noted the expressions on their faces. ‘Or I could read an improving book to them. Do you think some Cervantes would calm them down, Professor?’
He held out the leather-bound Spanish edition but Thurible showed no sign of recognizing the book. ‘This is no time for your upper-class manners or public-school humour.’
‘That’s pretty strong stuff coming from an old Harrovian,’ Campion riposted.
Professor Thurible’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve done your homework.’
‘A pure guess, old boy, a shot in the dark,’ Campion grinned, ‘but we really should not argue amongst ourselves. What is the situation down below? Are the natives restless and the war drums beating?’
‘Stephanie’s students are certainly furious and they’ve whipped up all their friends in your department, Jack.’
‘With a little help from some of the professional agitators in Sociology, no doubt,’ said Szmodics.
‘Stephanie is very popular across the university and the students are going to demand her release,’ Thurible retorted.
‘If that’s their noble cause,’ Campion interrupted, ‘why are you not marching with them?’
‘I may yet be, but I want to be sure of a few things before I go up against the police. If Stephanie is being unjustly held or harassed in any way, then I’ll be leading the charge, but if the boys in blue have a case against her …’
‘It wouldn’t look good to be seen defending the murderer of a fellow professor, would it?’ Campion suggested. ‘I can’t see that going down well in the world of academia.’
‘Yes, well, what is the situation in Gestapo headquarters up at Black Dudley?’
‘I hardly think Mr Appleyard is getting busy with a rubber truncheon,’ said Campion, ‘but it can’t be pleasant for Miss Silva, whom we should presume innocent, at least for the moment. To be honest, Professor Thurible, we are in the dark as to why Miss Silva has been brought in for questioning. I
do not believe she has been charged with anything yet, otherwise she would have been removed from the university.’
‘Are you willing to tell a crowd of angry students that?’
‘With you and Dr Szmodics beside me, certainly.’ Campion looked at them both. ‘Are you with me, gentlemen? Shall we hold the bridge?’
‘We must try,’ said Dr Szmodics.
Yorick Thurible asked a supplementary question with a sly grin.
‘I’m not up on Roman history, Campion, so remind me. Did that Horatius bloke end up on the winning side?’
‘Yes, he did, he was quite the hero, although it was a rather bloody battle from what I’ve read, and Horatius suffered several wounds including a spear in the buttocks in one account.’ Campion looked at Thurible over the tops of his spectacles. ‘But I assume that Miss Silva is a cause worth suffering the slings of outraged students for. I’ve never met her, so tell me, why is she so popular?’
‘She’s a good teacher and a first-class academic,’ said Thurible, shuffling into position on Campion’s left side. ‘Those two things do not always go together.’
‘She’s a firebrand,’ said Szmodics, assuming the role of Campion’s right flank, ‘always determined to get her own way.’
‘She’s also the most attractive member of staff in Language and Linguistics by a long chalk,’ said Thurible mischievously.
‘My, my,’ Campion said, imitating a disapproving aunt, ‘there seem to be sex symbols everywhere on campus. If Perez-Catalan was the Don Juan of Earth Sciences and Miss Silva is the pin-up of Language and Linguistics, who is the heart-throb of Arts and Humanities? You?’
‘Oh, Yorick is way above such things,’ said Szmodics. ‘He keeps himself pure for the revolution …’
‘Jack, please …’
‘And has a career mapped out in politics, so he makes sure he has no dirty laundry in his baggage.’
‘I thought that was a prerequisite for a politician,’ said Campion, gazing down the sloping path which led to Piazza 2, ‘but now is not the time for that debate. The natives appear to be restless, and restlessly moving this way.’