‘You know them? They’ve been caught before?’
‘I know the look. And they can spot a copper at fifty metres. If everyone’s lucky, they haven’t pinched anything yet today. But I wouldn’t wager my pension on it. Now, is there nothing among all these treasures that you must take home with you?’
‘There are at least a dozen things I want, but I should get back to St Stephen’s and see what Alan is doing.’
‘And mull over your problem.’
‘Yes. Elaine, do you think I ought to tell some college authority about what I saw? Alan’s more than half convinced I misinterpreted something quite dull and innocent.’
‘Which you may have done. But you’re not going to be easy in your mind until you’re quite sure.’
‘The longer I think about it the more confused I am. If it hadn’t been for that smell …’
‘Yes. Nothing else smells quite like blood, does it? Here, this is a shortcut.’ She led me into one of the shopping malls, where the foot traffic was a trifle less frantic and bicycles were not allowed. Benches for weary shoppers were dotted here and there, and she steered me towards one of them.
‘Let me tell you a story, Dorothy. I said yesterday that the multicultural aspects of Cambridge were both a blessing and a curse.’
‘Your language was a little more diplomatic than that.’
‘Andrews was listening. He keeps a close eye on me; doesn’t trust me. Political correctness is his god. You saw how he reacted. But it’s true, every word. One example surfaced during my first year on the force here in Cambridge. I had just risen from the PC ranks, a newly minted detective sergeant. That was a good many years ago, and women were not widely accepted in the police by some of their male colleagues, nor indeed by many members of the public.
‘That was one reason why I was assigned to a messy case no one else wanted. It involved an incident in a small West Indian community in one of our suburbs. The first police on the scene couldn’t communicate with the family. I do speak French, including some Creole dialects, and I’d had some experience with various cult religions, which the first squad thought might be involved, so they sent me.’
‘It was a murder?’
‘Attempted murder. The victim wasn’t dead yet, but the neighbours were convinced that he was being poisoned. I was to go in and investigate and report back to my superiors. They thought they knew who was responsible; they just wanted me to find enough evidence to bring him in.’
‘And it wasn’t that way?’
‘To tell the truth, I’m still not sure. Certainly a man lay near death. He was conscious, barely, and what he told me, or what I think he told me – his speech was halting and his dialect not one I knew well – was that no one had been near him, no one had given him anything to eat or drink that could have been tainted, and he’d taken no medicine. He had no visible injuries. He had no symptoms of any recognizable disease. He’d been examined by a doctor – a white, English doctor – who could find nothing wrong. But he was certainly dying.’
‘Just plain old age?’
‘He was thirty-one.’
‘What did the autopsy find?’
‘There was no autopsy. The man disappeared.’ She settled herself more comfortably on the bench. ‘There he was, lying on his bed, taking a breath so seldom that I was sure each one was his last. I told his family I would send an ambulance for him, that he needed to be treated in hospital. They were very much opposed to the idea. They hadn’t wanted me to interfere at all; it was a white neighbour who had called the police. I eventually insisted on the ambulance, made the call and went about my business. I told my chief that I could see no cause for the man’s illness and no reason to suppose that the man the neighbours were blaming had anything to do with it.’
‘And who was that?’
‘A mountain of a man who more or less ran the community. The white neighbours were terrified of him, because he looked so formidable and spoke no English. They were sure he was a witch doctor. But I could communicate with him, and I was convinced that he was genuinely grieving for the dying man, who was his cousin.
‘My superiors were not pleased that I hadn’t arrested the obvious villain, but I was quite sure he was innocent, and there was certainly no evidence we could have taken to court. So I endured my dressing-down and went to write a report.
‘The ambulance didn’t get there for over an hour; there had been a big smash-up on the M11. When it finally arrived, there was no sign of the dying man. They called me back at once, because what there was sign of was blood, abundantly.’
I sat up straighter. ‘They’d killed the man?’
‘If they did, the blood had nothing to do with it. Of course, the gory scene brought the coppers out in force, and it didn’t take too long to determine that the blood was from a chicken. It was daubed all over the house, on walls, windows, doors. And nobody was talking. They pretended not to understand any English, though most of them had a little. They pretended not to understand my French, though we’d communicated easily earlier. They wouldn’t say what had become of the dying man. My colleagues and I made an extremely thorough search, then and on later occasions, but we found no body and no trace of where he might have gone.’
‘This was how long ago?’
‘A matter of twenty years. The West Indian community is gone now. There were only a handful of them, and the neighbours made them so unwelcome they eventually went elsewhere. I miss them. I used to go around occasionally when they were having a party. The music was wonderful.’
‘But what do you think happened to the man who was dying?’
She was silent for a moment, then said, ‘How credulous are you?’
‘Not very. I like things to make sense.’
‘Yes. So do I. But what I believe I saw all those years ago was a man dying because he believed someone had laid a spell on him. Note I didn’t say because of the spell, but because he believed it.’
I nodded slowly. ‘I’ve heard of such things. I do know from doctors and nurses I’ve known that a patient can will himself to live until some important event has occurred, and can also die much sooner than expected because he simply stops wanting to live. I can believe, just, that a death could be induced by the power of suggestion, if the victim’s beliefs were strong enough. But what do you think happened to the man in the end?’
‘I have a theory, based on not a shred of evidence. I think the family took advantage of the ambulance delay to try a desperate counter-spell, involving the sacrifice of a chicken. I think that it either worked, so that the man could be taken somewhere to recover, or else it didn’t, in which case they must have spirited his body away to a hiding place until we, the interfering aliens, got out of their lives and they could proceed with their rituals. Shall we get back? It’s nearly time for lunch.’
FOUR
Alan was waiting in our room to take me in to lunch with him, and pretended to be amazed that I brought no shopping bags back with me. ‘What? No bankruptcy looming yet?’
‘Not quite yet. I spent most of the morning talking to Elaine Barker. She’s a very interesting woman, did you know?’
‘Actually, I have met her only in passing through the years. I was retired before she began to be known as an up-and-coming officer.’
‘I’ll bet she’s also known for making waves.’
‘I’ve heard rumours. Her chief constable doesn’t approve of her.’
‘No. She has too many opinions of her own. Alan, I’m so glad your job never made you stuffy and pompous. I couldn’t bear it if you’d turned into a Keith Andrews.’
‘Not much danger of that, with you around. You remind me of Lord Peter’s Bunter.’
‘Why on earth? I can’t tie a tie in a bow to save my life, I know almost nothing about wine, and I’m hopelessly ignorant about men’s clothes.’
‘Like Bunter, you “brace me with a continuous cold shower of silent criticism”.’
‘I do not! What a thing to say!’
/>
We bickered happily across the college grounds. I was glad that our path did not take us near the Hutchins Building.
Luncheon was served cafeteria-style, and was excellent, catering for every taste from meat-and-potatoes to vegan. I was still full of croissants and took only a salad, but they heaped the grilled chicken on it so generously that I ate too much despite my good intentions. We had no assigned seats for the informal meal, so I had a chance to chat with several people I hadn’t met. Elaine and her irritating boss were out of sight. I hoped he hadn’t taken offence at her skipping his lecture, but decided not to worry about it. Elaine could defend herself.
The next conference session was immediately after lunch, but Alan walked back to the room with me to brush his teeth. ‘What did you and Superintendent Barker talk about?’ he asked through a mouthful of toothpaste. He rinsed it out. ‘I’ll wager I can guess.’
‘And you’d be right. We didn’t come to any starting conclusions, though. I did ask her if she thought I should inform the college authorities, and come to think of it, I don’t believe she ever answered. We got off on other subjects.’
‘I’m going to skip the second session this afternoon. It’s about the latest technology, about which I know nothing and want to know less. Suppose we meet here around three, and then you and I can talk it over and make up our minds what to do about your uncomfortable discovery.’
I kissed him as he left the room. ‘That’s exactly what I’ve been wanting to do.’
I spent a long moment after he’d left looking at the very comfortable bed. A nap sounded like a lovely idea. But I’d slept late, and if I napped I’d have a hard time getting to sleep at night. And naps, while delightful, are a dreadful waste of time. I splashed some cold water on my face, put on a jaunty red tam with a bright gold tassel, and set out, with no very clear idea of where I was going or what I would do.
I ought, certainly, to take a good look at the Hutchins Building. Somehow knowing it was built with corn-plaster money made it seem much less frightening. Still, would Alan want me going in there by myself?
I was waffling, and I knew it. I’d been doing things Alan thought I shouldn’t for years, usually justifying my actions with some rationalization. This time I was just plain scared to go in there. I would never get that picture out of my mind – the starkly white, brilliantly lit laboratory with its nastily stained floor. And the smell.
Proust smelled madeleines, and the scent brought back his whole life. Or so I’m told. I’ve never been able to make my way through his book. But he was certainly right about odour being a powerful jog to the memory. Before I moved to England permanently, I’d be walking in my Indiana hometown on a damp, misty day, and smell diesel fumes, and instantly I was back in rainy London with a red bus going past.
I decided I was going to let Alan cut up any raw meat in our kitchen from now on. And I was not going in that building alone.
Fate took me in hand just then, and I’ve never been sure if it was a benevolent fate or the other sort. I approached the porters’ lodge and the college gates, but couldn’t get past for the crowd of people gathered there.
‘Are we all here, then?’ asked a strident voice in the middle of the group. ‘All right, then, we’re off. Now, remember that students are working here, and there is also a conference in session, so you’ll need to be as quiet as possible. And please try to keep up. We want you to get a good picture of St Stephen’s, but we can’t have you wandering off by yourself.’
A tour of the college. What an opportunity! I had no idea what group was being shown the sights, but they seemed only loosely organized. No one would notice if I tagged along, would they?
I snatched off my hat and stuffed it into my purse. People notice hats, since so few women wear them these days. Me and the Queen, mostly. Without it, I’d be much less conspicuous. I smiled at the couple at the back of the group and followed them.
We moved at the usual pace of such tours: that of an elderly, arthritic snail. The tour leader had a most annoying voice and a most annoying attitude. Her assumption seemed to be that we were children of subnormal intelligence, to whom everything had to be explained in excruciating detail. I suffered through explanations of the way the college system worked at the great universities, from which I gathered that the group members were foreigners. Americans or Canadians, from the accents I heard. We were told all about the Hutchins family and their generosity, though the source of their wealth was not mentioned. I snickered to myself.
We were shown the residential buildings, for students and for guests. We were shown the chapel, which disappointed me. It was a bland place done in panelling and ivory paint, with no stained glass and little decoration of any kind. The guide explained condescendingly that it was used for non-denominational services which had not, for many years, been compulsory for the students. Perhaps that explained why the atmosphere of peace and blessedness was, for me, notably absent. It was just a building.
Our next destination was the Hutchins Building. We were warned again of the need for quiet. We were told that the rooms in the building were kept locked and were reminded again that we must keep together. We must not, in particular, enter any of the laboratories or interfere in any way with any of the work being carried out. ‘Some of the experiments may be of critical importance to the pursuit of scientific knowledge,’ the guide pontificated. ‘Visitors are allowed only with the understanding that they will not be nuisances.’
I wondered briefly why visitors were allowed at all, and then scolded myself for my stupidity. Of course college officials wanted people to see the labs. This building was their showpiece, their prize pig. The handsome, beautifully equipped facilities would draw students, media attention, and perhaps donations.
And murderers? I buried that thought.
The guide led us into the building, not through the back entrance I had stumbled upon, but through the rather grand front door, from the portico with its classical columns and pediment. The resemblance to an ancient temple was not accidental. This was a temple, I realized, a temple to science, a deity almost certainly ranking higher in this college’s hierarchy than the God of the chapel. A bit ironic, that, in an institution named after St Stephen, the first of Jesus’ followers to be martyred for his faith.
I tried to keep my bearings as we were led from one part of the building to another, so I’d know the one lab when we got there, but I’ve always been geographically challenged and I was soon hopelessly lost. Our guide droned on in a stifled whisper more irritating, if possible, than her stentorian tones. Doors were opened. We were invited to peek in, but never to enter. A lecture was going on in one room. It had to do with physics, I thought from the incomprehensible scrawls on the whiteboard. Another lecture room was empty. Two or three labs were peopled with students hard at work, hovering over microscopes or Bunsen burners or other equipment I couldn’t identify. None of the rooms seemed to look exactly like the one I’d seen, but then none of them had a pool of blood on the floor.
It was the last room on the floor. I knew it the moment the door opened. No one was at work at any of the benches. The smell of blood was no longer present, but it entered my mind, if not my nostrils. I almost turned to run away, but I needed to hear what the guide said. Her voice was pitched a little louder, with no one here to disturb.
‘This laboratory is devoted to zoology, the exploration of the animal world. I stress that no harmful experimentation is performed upon live animals. We of St Stephen’s are devoted to principles of animal welfare. That is why most of our studies concentrate on matters at the microscopic level, research into the genome, certain aspects of the transmission of disease in mammals, a refinement of the system of blood typing …’
She lost me at the word ‘blood’. So that was what it was about. A blood sample had somehow been spilled, and the white-coated person had simply left to fetch a bucket and mop.
Right.
When the group moved on to the next stop, I quietly melt
ed away and went back to our bedroom. I remembered (for a wonder) to rescue the tam from my purse before it became terminally squashed, tossed it aside, and then lay down on the bed to think.
I wanted to believe the scenario I had conjured back in the lab. A harmless accident, nothing furtive about anyone’s actions, no lurking disaster, no one – human or animal – injured or killed.
And yet.
How much blood did it take to perform tests on the genome? Or the blood type, or anything else the guide had mentioned?
I’ve had blood tests. Everybody’s had blood tests. They find a vein and draw out a tube, or two or three, of blood, tape a cotton ball to the puncture, and send you on your way. At most they’ve extracted an ordinary lab test tube full of your blood, but it’s usually much less.
The puddle on the floor was a whole lot more than that.
Of course, if you’re donating blood, they collect a whole pint. Probably a half-litre in Europe? But they’re careful with it. They don’t go around spilling it on the floor.
I’ve given up trying to donate. I have tiny veins. They can’t get more than about a tablespoonful. I can lie there for an hour. Or two …
‘Wake up, darling.’
I shook myself and looked around, trying to remember where I was. What day it was.
Alan sat down on the bed and ruffled my hair. ‘Coffee?’
‘Mmm.’
Instant coffee isn’t my favourite brew, but it does contain the necessary ingredient. One cup and I was restored to my right mind.
‘I didn’t intend to fall asleep,’ I said sheepishly. ‘I was thinking about blood tests, and drawing blood, and somehow …’
‘You’ve been talking to someone about the research work at the Hutchins Building.’
‘Not exactly. I went on a tour.’ I explained. ‘How did you hear about it?’
‘I asked, of course. A policeman among policemen can ask all sorts of questions without raising an eyebrow, and we are presumed to be interested in anything touching forensic science.’
Blood Will Tell Page 3