Blood Will Tell

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘Some quite innocent substance. Like what?’

  ‘Wine?’

  I shook my head. ‘Wine is translucent and dark red. Burgundy-coloured, in fact. This stuff was thick and the bright red of arterial blood. Anyway, what would anyone be doing with wine in a laboratory?’

  ‘Drinking it? But I take your point. Some chemical, then, used in whatever work they’re doing in there. I’m not an expert in such things, but there are people here who are. I can ask.’

  ‘Alan, it smelled like blood!’

  He frowned. ‘But that would mean that it was very fresh, Dorothy. Are you quite sure about that?’

  ‘Quite sure. I wish now I had taken a closer look, but I got scared when I heard that person coming back, or thought I heard him. I didn’t want him to catch me in there.’

  ‘That was sensible. But think, Dorothy! If that was blood, where was the wounded person or animal? Were there any further splatters or tracks to indicate something had been dragged or carried away?’

  ‘No sign of dragging, or not that I saw. I could have missed that, I suppose, in the shock of the moment. But the puddle was smooth, with maybe two or three small splashes around the edges.’

  ‘Hmm. I was going to posit a nosebleed, but that would create lots of splashes.’

  ‘And no one’s nose bleeds that copiously. I’m not good at estimating amounts, but that pool had to be almost a foot wide at the widest part.’

  Alan gave it up. ‘I’ll make some enquiries tomorrow. Meanwhile, do you want to shower first, or shall I?’

  On our way across the college grounds to our dinner, I asked Alan, ‘Are there any Cambridge police here?’

  ‘Of course, my dear. Several, in fact, from both Cambridgeshire and the City of Cambridge. Why?’

  ‘I thought I’d like to meet them. Just in case,’ I added hurriedly. ‘Do we have assigned seats for dinner, or may we sit where we like?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, but there’s sherry before we sit down. I can introduce you then. But Dorothy—’

  ‘I know. I’ll be discreet. I just want them to know who I am, so if I need to talk to them about anything …’

  He grinned at me. ‘You’re incorrigible, you know. You can no more keep away from a puzzle than a cat from cream. Even if it turns out to be something quite ordinary.’

  ‘I have a lot in common with cats, and with the elephant’s child. But this isn’t going to be anything ordinary. I saw what I saw, Alan.’

  It took a visible effort, but he nobly refrained from saying, ‘Yes, dear.’

  I was pleased to note that there were several people I knew in the anteroom where the conferees were gathered for pre-prandial libations – senior police officers I had met when Alan headed a training course, years ago. I waved to them, but stuck close to Alan as he led me in the direction of a small group of people I didn’t know at all.

  ‘Dorothy, I’d like you to meet Superintendent Barker and DCI Smith of the Cambridge City police, and Chief Constable Andrews. My wife, Dorothy Martin.’

  I’m used to some slight reaction when I’m introduced, as my last name is not the same as my husband’s – he’s Alan Nesbitt. Ultra-conservatives will frown slightly; liberals will smile and be a little extra-friendly. I wasn’t prepared for the broad grin from Superintendent Barker.

  ‘Oh, we’ve all heard of the celebrated Dorothy Martin,’ she said. ‘The American super-sleuth, the Miss Marple of the twenty-first century. Delighted to meet you!’

  She shook my hand heartily. She was an attractive woman of fifty or so, stocky, her hair showing streaks of grey here and there. She wore no make-up, and no one could have called her beautiful, but hers was a face one would not easily forget. Her air of supreme competence had probably put her feet on the first rungs of the climb to her high rank, but I was willing to bet that her unexpected sense of humour had helped with the last few steps. The humourless have little insight into the way other people’s minds work, and that’s surely a necessity when dealing with the devious criminal mind.

  The other two officers, men who looked exactly what they were, murmured the correct things. DCI Smith brought us all sherry, and we chatted for a few minutes about the state of crime in and around Cambridge.

  ‘It ought to be such a peaceful place,’ I commented. ‘An ancient seat of learning, a place of culture and beauty …’

  ‘And a modern city with a rather large proportion of foreign nationals,’ said Ms Barker. ‘That makes for a welcome diversity of cultural experiences, but it can also be a source of trouble. Other cultures have different mores, not always compatible with English ideas. And of course there are always language problems. Not among the students so much – they often speak far more correct English than I do – but there are so many others, often in the service sector, and they can be a challenge.’

  The chief constable was frowning. ‘I don’t want you to give … er … this lady the wrong impression, Elaine. There is a tendency to blame foreigners for the rise in crime, but we must always be aware—’

  ‘Of the necessity to be impartial. Not to mention politically correct. I believe Mrs Martin is quite intelligent enough to understand that I was analyzing a problem, not assigning responsibility.’ She put the slightest stress on my name, to underline Andrews’s awkwardness, and the dazzling smile she aimed his way was as effective as a glare in stopping his little sermon.

  Rippling chimes called us in to dinner, and just in time, too. The coolness in the atmosphere would have made further conversation a bit chancy. But I had found my go-to person in the local constabulary. Elaine Barker and I were on the same wavelength. She’d help me if – when – help became necessary.

  We were seated at the head table, as befitted Alan’s VIP status, but far enough away from the chief constable that we didn’t have to make conversation with him. We were, thank goodness, subjected to no speeches with our excellent meal, but the master of St Stephen’s rose to welcome us with a few brief and witty remarks. I was pleased to recognize in him another kindred spirit, free of pomposity and posturing, and possessed of a formidable intellect. A second string to my bow.

  We did not speak of the afternoon’s ‘incident’, as Alan would have called it. I was inclined to ‘calamity’ as the appropriate word, myself. But whatever one called it, it was not a subject for idle conversation among people I didn’t know. Alan was, I thought, still half convinced that it had been far less ominous than I believed. And as I knew perfectly well what I’d seen – and smelled – I also knew that someone nearby, maybe even someone at this conference, at this very table, had something to hide.

  The less I said about it at this juncture the more likely I might be able to find out who that someone was.

  ‘What are your plans for tomorrow, love?’ Alan yawned, shed his bathrobe and pulled back his duvet. We had twin beds, not our preferred arrangement, but they looked comfortable, which was the main thing, after all.

  ‘When’s breakfast?’

  ‘Seven thirty, I’m afraid. We’re off to an early start.’

  ‘Yipe! Not on my vacation, thank you very much. I’ll make myself some tea and then find something in the town later.’

  ‘And after that?’

  It would be overstating it to say that he sounded apprehensive, but there was a certain uneasiness in his tone.

  ‘I thought I’d wander around the college and get myself oriented. I don’t want to get lost again. And no, my very dearest husband, I am not going to dive into a den of murderers and get myself stabbed in the back.’

  ‘Your metaphors need sorting.’

  I ignored that. ‘And then, since you won’t be around to cast a jaundiced eye, I intend to go shopping.’ I sat on the edge of my bed and kicked off my slippers.

  He leaned across to kiss me. ‘Let me know when you’ve dragged me into bankruptcy. Night, darling.’

  I turned out the light and went to sleep, visions not of sugarplums but of bloody floors dancing in my head.

 
; I didn’t even hear Alan leave the room the next day. It was after nine when I finally rolled out and chased away the sleepies with a cup of strong tea. Then I headed straight for the porters’ lodge in search of a better map.

  The porter kindly gave me two. The college map was a generation or two newer than the one I’d seen before, and the markings were much clearer. He also handed me a map of Cambridge. It was one of those pictorial things meant as much for decoration as information, but it did show me how to get to the Market Square and the principal colleges, and also indicated two shopping arcades new since my last visit to the city.

  ‘Mind how you go, love,’ he said in a fatherly way. (He was a good ten years younger than I.) ‘These cyclists are maniacs, riding up on the pavements like as not, and the pavements that narrow you can get turfed off into the street before you know where you are. At least it’s a fine day for you. The pavements get slippy when it’s wet.’

  I thanked him and promised to be careful, and set out to find the building that I was already thinking of as the ‘scene of the crime’.

  This time there were students around – lots of them. The practice of wearing academic gowns has long since been abandoned by Oxbridge, but students here, as all over the world, are instantly recognizable by their generally scruffy appearance and their ubiquitous backpacks. St Stephen’s was evidently co-educational; the sexes seemed about equally divided. At least, so far as one could differentiate them. I was reminded of the old question about turtles. Presumably other turtles could tell which were girls and which were boys, but it was difficult for the rest of us.

  I approached one young person whose long ponytail, smooth chin, and granny glasses led me to guess it was female. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to find this building.’ I pointed to the map. ‘I think it’s where the science lectures are held.’

  The person bent over the map, then straightened and pointed. ‘Over there,’ it said in a warm bass-baritone. ‘Just by the plane tree.’ He pointed to a large tree with maple-like leaves and a mottled grey trunk.

  ‘Oh, so that’s a plane tree. I’ve always wondered what one was. Back home, I’d call it a sycamore.’

  ‘You’re American, are you?’

  I admitted it with a nod and a smile.

  ‘You’re quite right, you know. Same genus. Ours are hybrids of yours and the Spanish variety.’

  ‘You’re a botanist?’

  ‘Budding.’ He looked at me over his glasses to see if I got it.

  I groaned my appreciation. ‘So is that one of the buildings you frequent?’

  ‘For the lectures on occasion. But this is only my first year, and I’m not doing much lab work yet. That’s most of what they do there.’ His mobile pinged and he glanced at it. ‘Sorry, but I’m late for a tutorial.’

  ‘Off with you, then. And thank you very much.’

  Now I knew for certain how to find my way back to the building any time I wanted. The question was did I want, just now?

  I stood irresolute. I could go in and talk to someone. But about what? And suppose the person I happened across was the white-lab-coated phantom of the day before?

  No, I needed to know more before I ventured back into that building. Firmly telling myself it was not cowardice that informed my decision, I turned my back on the plane tree and saw that I was facing the chapel.

  I like churches, especially the lovely old ones in England. It isn’t only that I’m a churchgoer. It’s also that I like the feeling I find in spaces where men and women have worshipped for centuries. A spirit of peace and quietude dwells there, even – or perhaps particularly – when the place is still and empty.

  I walked over to the chapel and opened the door. And nearly ran smack into someone coming out.

  Mutual apologies ensued, and then we recognized each other. ‘Ms Barker! Or should I say Superintendent Barker?’

  ‘I’d prefer Elaine, if you’ll allow me to call you Dorothy. We’re two of a kind, I think. I’ve heard so much about you, I feel I’ve known you for years. Would you like a coffee? I was just going in search of one.’

  ‘I’m panting for coffee. And a bun or croissant or something. I skipped breakfast. But shouldn’t you be in one of the sessions?’

  ‘I’m playing truant. It’s Andrews holding forth, and I don’t care for him any more than he does for me.’

  I laughed. ‘Understood. Where shall we go?’

  We made our way towards the market, which is one of the highlights of Cambridge. On this beautiful spring day, it was crowded and noisy and exactly what a market should be. Resisting temptation for the moment, we passed the stalls with T-shirts and watches and cheeses and fish and imported strawberries and plush toys and mobile phones, and walked over towards King’s College. On a side street there was a coffee shop exuding irresistible aromas.

  I firmly ignored my dietary scruples and ordered a large almond croissant and a small chocolate one, and coffee. Elaine stuck to coffee, but made it a large café au lait.

  When our orders came, she looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘All right. What are you up to?’

  THREE

  I had just taken a large bite of crumbly croissant. My quick intake of breath brought on a coughing fit, which was quite real, but also gave me some time to think. I swallowed finally, gulped some coffee to wash down the rest of the crumbs, and said, ‘What do you mean, up to?’

  ‘You know quite well. I saw what happened yesterday. You came into the room looking like a rag doll left out in the rain. You spoke to your husband, who quickly assembled a cohort and left the room. He was some time coming back, and when he did, what he told you left you unsatisfied. I repeat: what are you up to?’

  I drank some more coffee. ‘I should have known. I could see, last night, that you’re an intelligent woman with an understanding of what makes people tick. No wonder you’re a senior policeman. Policewoman?’

  ‘Police officer. And you’re being evasive.’

  ‘Yes, well. You see, Alan doesn’t believe me. And I don’t suppose you will either. But I’ll tell you.’

  She said nothing after I’d finished. She emptied her cup and gestured to the waitress for another. I had another coffee as well.

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘You believe me?’

  ‘Provisionally. I’ve lived in Cambridge a long time. Unbelievable things happen here as a matter of routine. And your story is too bizarre for you to have made it up.’

  I breathed a long sigh. ‘I do have some powers of invention. I can come up with a sound lie when there’s good reason to do so. But no, I don’t think I could have invented this. I didn’t, anyway. As for what I’m going to do …’ I took a long pull at my coffee. ‘I don’t really quite know. For a start, I suppose I should poke around in that building, but I chickened out this morning. I was just going to, but I changed my mind and went to the chapel instead. And I’m glad I did, or I might not have had the chance to talk to you.’

  ‘Oh, I’d have made the chance. Not only did I want an opportunity to know you, but I could see that something had happened at the college, and I try to keep my finger on the pulse of Cambridge. It’s more than just my job.’

  An American might have said, ‘It’s my life.’ In her more restrained English fashion, Elaine Barker was saying much the same thing.

  ‘So you – that is, the Cambridge City police – have responsibility for policing the colleges?’

  ‘Yes and no. University security services cover routine complaints, usually petty theft. They maintain and monitor the CCTV cameras in the colleges. There’s actually very little crime on university property, compared with the rest of Cambridge. But in the event of anything serious, they call us in.’

  ‘Wait! You’re saying there are TV cameras all over the place?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that. There isn’t the budget to have them in, for example, every lecture room, every corridor, every assembly hall. They are in the locations most l
ikely to be attractive to thieves or sex offenders. And before you ask, no, that probably does not include all the laboratories in the Hutchins Building.’

  ‘That’s what the science building is called?’

  Elaine nodded. ‘Then there’s the Hutchins Garden, the Hutchins Theatre, the Hutchins Library … Need I go on?’

  ‘Who was said Hutchins?’

  ‘Stephen Hutchins, wealthy manufacturer. He made a great deal of money at his factory in Cambridgeshire towards the end of the nineteenth century, and donated piles of it to this college, perhaps because his name was Stephen.’

  ‘Did he manufacture something the college bought in quantity?’

  ‘Not directly, but I’m sure the students and professors bought them. After all, everyone gets bunions. And corns and ingrown toenails. His firm produced products to alleviate various foot problems. The source of the munificence is usually glossed over in college literature.’

  I laughed. ‘I’ll bet. What did he get out of it, besides lots of favourable publicity?’

  ‘How cynical you are. It gained his son admission to the college. Where I believe he lasted for two terms.’

  ‘Just long enough for the last cheque to arrive. Ah, well.’

  There was a queue forming at the front of the shop. It was time we vacated our seats. We made our way through the crowd and walked back to the market. Elaine surveyed the busy scene.

  ‘Trying to decide which stall tempts you?’

  ‘That, and keeping an eye out for shoplifters and pickpockets. The market is a paradise for them. So crowded you’re not really surprised if someone jostles against you, when your attention is on the decision between Brie and Stilton. See that pair over there?’ She inclined her head.

  I looked in the direction she indicated, but saw no one who looked suspicious to me. ‘They all look alike – the young ones, anyway. Jeans and tees and backpacks.’

  ‘Rucksacks, we call them. And the two I just saw look like all the rest. Except they’re not students, and they’re not carrying books in their rucksacks. They saw me spot them, so they won’t try anything more today. They will have melted away by the time I could reach them.’