by Roy Lewis
There had been nothing romantic about the flies buzzing around Rigby’s smashed skull, but Grout did not give voice to the thought. Godfrey smiled his easy, understanding smile.
‘I’ve no doubt you would see things in quite a different light, of course. But you must remember we all have our personal perspectives. As an historian I am always tempted to take the long term view, place matters in their historical context. My public career, enhanced and perhaps, I admit, somewhat twisted by the demands of the media upon my time, has emerged from the romantic mists that antiquity bestows upon what many regard as the mundane. Of course, this has brought me considerable financial rewards and allowed me to build up my own personal collection of interesting artefacts of historical value. But in short, I believe in the drama of history.’
Codswallop, Grout thought.
‘Even yesterday’s history,’ Godfrey continued in a thoughtful tone. ‘Which is, of course, really why you wanted to talk with me. So, forgive me, enough inconsequential chatter. In what manner may I be able to help you?’
Grout was becoming somewhat irritated by the hint of condescension in Godfrey’s tone and the rather portentous phrasing he used. Bluntly, he said, ‘I want to hear about your Student Survey Group, and the work you’ve done at Chesters.’
‘Really?’ Godfrey seemed surprised. ‘I can’t see what my little student group would have to do with a murdered man up at Chesters.’
‘It’s just in the way of general enquiries,’ Grout grunted. ‘I need to fill in some background stuff.’
Godfrey twisted his mouth in a grimace of concerned consideration. ‘Of course, Detective Sergeant, I understand. Well, let’s see, I formed the group about four years ago. Since I took over as head of the Antiquities Department here, things have progressed rather well, even if I do say so myself. After I obtained my professorial chair and published my monograph on the Wall, the television work started and a number of research students were consequently attracted to the department. I suppose the media publicity drew them in, and perhaps the hope that they also might make the odd appearance on the box. Interesting, isn’t it? What people will do to attain their brief moments of fame. …’
‘The work you did at Chesters,’ Grout reminded the self-satisfied academic.
‘Ah yes, well, it seemed to me it would be worthwhile to introduce new students to the beauty and thrill of archaeology by letting them handle and deal with items that were stored at Chesters. It allowed them to develop instincts for the dating of artefacts, to make allowances for the feel of history under their clumsy hands, to inculcate in them an understanding of workmanship and time and the endeavours of men who once trod these hills but have now vanished into dust. …’ Godfrey’s glance fixed on Grout’s. He became aware of the frown on the detective sergeant’s brow. He shrugged. ‘The idea was simple and, I admit, not new. But it helped the students develop documentation, identify locations, look for signs of archaeological interest, and took them into the realms of historical records, parish registers which are now available online, classical accounts… In reality, I had a fairly Catholic view of the activity of the group. Anything that might add to our store of knowledge, and enhance the student understanding of history, it was all grist to our mill.’
‘I understand you had groups of students working at the museum at Chesters.’
‘Naturally. Among other sites of historical interest. I don’t imagine you’ll wish to interview any of them about it, however. They’ll have nothing to impart which I can’t cover. I keep a close eye on all that’s gone on in the museum. It’s a matter of responsibility, don’t you know?’ Abruptly, he rose and smiled. ‘But you never know, do you?’ He gestured towards the door. ‘Come. I’ll take you downstairs, introduce you to Dobson.’
Aaron Dobson turned out to be a somewhat pimply young man who was prematurely bald. He was probably no more than twenty-five years of age but his pate shone, shaven in an attempt to hide his baldness. Grout was reminded of a pink billiard ball. Dobson was a rather nervous young man who kept stroking his eyebrows as though assuring himself they at least were still there. His glance was quick and agitated, his hands rarely still.
Godfrey introduced him as the current student leader of the group. Grout assumed it would have been on account of his intellectual abilities rather than his leadership qualities, for Dobson seemed to be in an almost constant state of terror in his struggle to face the world of his choosing.
Professor Godfrey suggested Grout might question Dobson alone since he had work to do. He left, after stating he would be happy to speak further with Grout later, in the privacy of his office, if that was what Grout desired.
‘Yeah, that’s right, we’ve been working up at Chesters on and off for a couple of years now,’ Dobson stated after the professor had left. ‘It’s not had a high priority in the department, I mean, the museum is the kind of resource we can use from time to time, particularly with the new research students who come into the department each year.’ He glanced nervously around the room, as though wishing Professor Godfrey had not left him alone. ‘It can get pretty boring from time to time,’ he admitted.
Grout wondered whether he would have said that if Godfrey had been present.
‘So, while working in the museum storeroom did you develop notes … or a record of the items down there?’ Grout asked. ‘The curator seemed a bit vague about it, he didn’t really seem to know what was stored there.’
Dobson gave his left eyebrow a little tug. ‘We do, yeah, because of the young students we have working there. You got to keep tabs on things, don’t you? There’s a handout for instance, we made it up for the Ministry of Works, though it didn’t include everything. Our own records are more detailed, and some of the items we list we’re not sure about, dating, provenance, that sort of thing. You see, the problem is—’
‘What I’m really interested in,’ Grout interrupted, daunted by the imminent flow of irrelevant information Dobson was likely to produce, ‘is just a list of the storeroom contents.’
Dobson blinked. His fingers wandered up to his eyebrow again, but he restrained himself. ‘The stuff in the basement, yeah. We kept some records. But apart from our general list I don’t think there’s much we can do to help.’
‘You haven’t a complete list?’ Grout asked in surprise. ‘Neither you nor the curator—’
Dobson shuffled uncertainly, cast a glance at the ceiling as though seeking assistance. ‘Well, it’s been kind of low priority, you understand. Some of the stuff has been identified, written up, because if we have a student who’s specializing in a research programme the chances are he or she will have done some close rooting around and will want to record what they’ve found. The storeroom contents, well, we’ve all been involved in that but the general view is that there’s not much down there which is of significant interest. If it was, it wouldn’t be down there. It’d be upstairs, wouldn’t it?’
Grout sighed. He had the feeling he was wading around in a field of thick mud, getting nowhere. Nevertheless, he had to admit Dobson was probably right. So the question remained: why was the museum broken into, by Rigby or by his killer? If nothing appeared to have been taken from the upper rooms, why had anyone bothered to break in if there was nothing worthwhile stealing in the storeroom?
‘On the other hand, now I think about it,’ Dobson murmured, creasing his brow thoughtfully, ‘it could be I’m not exactly right.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Grout asked, puzzled.
‘Well, like I said, we’ve been working at Chesters for a few years and the team’s changed over that time, as students have come in, moved off, taken up other projects, so when I spoke I was thinking about the present team, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Grout repeated, not understanding what Dobson was talking about.
‘I said a moment ago, we each had sort of special interests, the ones who worked at Chesters. There was Phil Proud, for instance, a while ago. His special interest was thir
teenth century. Not just Britain. European stuff as well.’
‘Phil Proud.’
‘That’s the man. He was on the team a year or so ago before he moved on. I seem to recall that when he was rooting around in the basement he did some cataloguing. And more than that, he seemed to spend more time there than we would have expected.’
‘Are you suggesting he might have made a more detailed analysis of the stuff down there than you or the curator might have done?’
‘Something like that,’ Dobson replied, somewhat defensively.
‘Where can I find him?’ Grout asked.
‘No idea. He’s no longer at the university. He sort of got thrown out.’ Dobson grimaced, then corrected himself. ‘Not thrown out exactly. He was awarded his MA and off he went, although there was an expectation he would have been staying on to do his Ph.D and then perhaps be taken on in the department as a researcher. That was the chat among the students anyway. He was a bright lad. But there was some sort of kerfuffle, I don’t know, bit of trouble about his thesis, he lost it or something, but it was Professor Godfrey who pulled the rabbit out of the hat.’
‘How do you mean?’ Grout asked, even more puzzled.
‘The prof fought Proud’s corner. He pushed his case. The prof’s a good guy, you know? He argued with the Senate and got them to award the degree even though something had happened to the thesis. But the prof can tell you all about that. Maybe he can even tell you where Proud ended up. Sorry I can’t be of more help, man.’
There was something about Dobson’s manner of speaking which made Grout feel the man had not outgrown his youth. Perhaps he was fated to remain in the time warp that was the university department of Archaeology.
Professor Godfrey lounged back in his chair, flicked a spot of lint from his cuff and smiled at Grout as he waved him to a seat beside the mullioned window in his small office.
‘Yes, I thought there wouldn’t be a great deal of assistance you would be able to get from the department staff. You must realize, Sergeant, that all our staff exist in their own little worlds. They are academics, or budding academics, and they are obsessed with their fields of specialism. Little interests them beyond that, other than the usual things like beer and girls. The single ones, anyway. Though I suspect the few married ones among them also have those external … well, maybe I shouldn’t go there. No, their lives are largely dictated by the range of their work: exhibits at a museum, learned writings, ancient documents, crouching over laptops in search of esoteric items of information online … they don’t find much to interest them in an out of the way storeroom.’
Grout sat down on the chair facing the professor, after first removing several books and placing them on the floor beside the chair. Sunlight lanced through the rather dirty window and he was aware of the distant sound of traffic funnelling up from the Haymarket. He remained silent for a little while.
‘So is there anything else we can help you with?’ Professor Godfrey queried.
‘Dobson mentioned a former student of yours, by the name of Phil Proud.’
Grout could not be entirely certain, but he felt he detected a certain change in Godfrey’s hitherto easy manner. His glance flickered around the room as he seemed to hesitate, collecting his thoughts, marshalling his thought processes. He rose to his feet, turned to look out of the window, peering through the grime to the streets below. ‘Philip Proud.’ There was a certain hesitancy in his tone.
‘Dobson reckoned Proud spent more time in the Chesters storeroom than was usual among your students. Does that mean Proud might have developed a list of the holdings, a catalogue of some sort?’
Godfrey shrugged, turned back from the window, settling himself once more in his chair. He shuffled some papers on his desk in front of him, almost absent-mindedly. ‘That may well be so, though it’s something that hasn’t previously come to my attention. In fact, I’m somewhat surprised to hear of it. Chesters was a Roman fort, the antiquities were discovered there, they were almost all artefacts from the Roman period, some valuable, some run of the mill, so to speak. But Proud’s interests were related to a different area of study, he was interested in a study of the thirteenth century in Europe, that disastrous epoch when so much collapsed, values were questioned, religion and superstition and raw ambitions raged out of control in civilized societies … if you could call them civilized.’ He paused, smiled deprecatingly. ‘Sorry, I’m beginning to sound like a television script, aren’t I? Rooting around Chesters would have been a waste of time for young Proud. Maybe that’s why he ended up the way he did.’
Grout seemed to detect an irritated disapproval in the professor’s tone.
‘Weren’t you his supervisor?’
Godfrey spread his hands in an ineffectual gesture. ‘Of course, but one can’t always keep close track … and in many ways it’s important that students seek their own byways to reach the goals they aspire to. Perhaps I should have directed him more closely? Maybe that’s true. But one has only so much time, and there are one’s own interests to consider …’
Like television appearances, Grout thought.
Godfrey took a deep, considered breath. ‘But let me be clear. Proud was a good student. And perhaps I set my standards too high. He was good, but in the long run I suppose I have to admit that I found his work … somewhat disappointing.’
‘Why was that?’
‘I hesitate to explain. It’s a long story.’
‘Give me a summary.’
Godfrey grimaced, took a deep breath. ‘If you wish. Philip Proud came to the university to read for his first degree. History. He took a First and when he asked if I would take him on as a research student while he read for his Masters, by thesis, I agreed. He seemed good material. The field he wished to undertake research into, well, it wasn’t my specialist area, but there are always colleagues one can refer to, and he seemed bright, so I agreed.’
‘What particular field was he interested in?’
‘Mediaeval Italy. Firenze and the Borgias. Blood-letting and murder. Power struggles and the explosion of mediaeval art. All very exciting and romantic. I was impressed by his enthusiasm. Of course, it’s not my field so there was not a lot I could do to direct his studies, but I did what I could to help.’
‘Even when he got into some kind of trouble with his thesis?’
Godfrey raised an eyebrow, and stared at Grout. Then he nodded. ‘How would you know…? Ah, of course. Dobson would have mentioned that.’ The professor gave a reluctant shrug. ‘It was not exactly trouble. More, it was some kind of falling off with his work ethic in the first instance. He worked well enough at the beginning, indeed, for most of the year, but then somehow he seemed to slack off. He missed a few of his tutorials with me, was absent for a period from the campus. I cornered him at one point, asked him what was going on, tried to discover if there was a problem I could help deal with. I got the impression it was probably a personal matter … the usual thing. I came to the conclusion there was a girl in the background.’ Godfrey smiled ruefully. ‘Not an uncommon experience, of course. We’ve all been there, isn’t that so?’ When Grout made no reply, Godfrey went on, ‘So there wasn’t much I could do. Other than to offer some fatherly advice. And to be honest, even though he was, well, not slacking, but being less committed, what I saw of his written work was still well up to the standard I would have expected, and called for. In fact his raw thesis was good. It needed polishing, of course, and some of his references required further elucidation and support, but I considered that on the whole it was a sound piece of research and well worth publication. Not that it was ever published, unfortunately.’
‘Why was that?’
Godfrey was silent for a little while. His fingers teased at one of the documents on the desk in front of him. ‘It seems he lost his thesis.’
‘Lost it?’
‘It got lost, or destroyed, burned … I can’t quite recall the details but the point was he couldn’t present the final version to the Senat
e. By carelessness, or whatever it was, he was throwing away his chance of obtaining his degree, and he seemed to wish to offer no reasonable explanation for it at all.’
‘So he gave no explanation as to how the thesis was lost?’
‘Not really. Or I should say, not convincingly. Lost, mislaid, destroyed … I always had a suspicion that he was telling me only half the story, stepping away from the truth. He came up with some vague litany of events, how he’d left his rooms unlocked, how other students may have raided it as some sort of prank in a drunken foray, they trashed his place and in the process his thesis went missing. He alluded vaguely to certain other students with whom he was not popular but there was nothing concrete to go on, it seems the printed materials he held had been burned, and—’
‘Did he not have a copy on his computer?’
Godfrey eyed him, eyebrows raised. ‘Ah, well, it seems that his laptop, which contained the details of his research, the master copy of his thesis and all his references, also got trashed. Or disappeared. As I say, I can’t quite recall the details.’
‘But you suggest you thought he wasn’t telling you the whole story. Did you have any thoughts about what really might have happened?’
Godfrey wrinkled his brow, smoothed one hand carefully along the side of his head. ‘One doesn’t wish to enquire too deeply into personal matters. But I came to the conclusion it was all tied up with the … attachment he had developed. The girl he was dating, or living with, I don’t know, it wasn’t for me to pry, my guess was that they had had a violent quarrel, something had gone wrong, she trashed his manuscript and maybe made off with, or threw his laptop in the Tyne, I don’t know… . Perhaps he hadn’t been giving her the attention she thought she deserved. Perhaps there was something more serious. Maybe she wasn’t a well-balanced young woman. Who knows? I didn’t consider it was my business to investigate too closely.’