Death and the Visiting Fellow

by Tim Heald

  Her handshake was firm and her gaze steady.

  ‘Sherry?’ she enquired. ‘I think you’ll be amused by its presumption. It’s Tasmanian. A splendid little winery up in the hills near Padstow. Wallaby Creek. Charming family called Mendoza who came out from Seville in the eighteen nineties. The grandfather made guitars for Segovia. Full without being fruity and just a hint of hazelnut. Or I have loganberry juice if you’d prefer something non-alcoholic.’

  Tudor smiled.

  ‘Thank you. A glass of Wallaby Creek would be very nice.’

  It was too. He sipped as he was bidden and sat as he was told in an elderly leather chair out of which most of the stuffing appeared to have been knocked. The chair was large and clubbish and it was only when he had sat down that he realized that it already contained a large ginger cat. The cat, not quite squashed, raised its head and bared its teeth reproachfully, if a little light-heartedly.

  ‘Don’t mind Fergus,’ said Dame Edith. ‘He’s perfectly friendly unless roused.’

  Tudor smiled. He was not crazy about cats but they seemed to like him. Sure enough, Fergus stretched, arched his back, and moved, with supreme confidence, on to Tudor’s lap, where he lay purring. Tudor used his spare hand to stroke the cat’s head without enthusiasm.

  ‘You should be flattered,’ said the Dame. ‘He doesn’t usually like strangers.’

  Tudor said nothing.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the Dame, after a lengthy and slightly awkward pause, ‘that your friend, Professor Carpenter, wasn’t here to greet you.’

  ‘Likewise,’ he said.

  Tm very fond of Ashley,’ she said.

  He saw no reason to doubt her.

  ‘So am I,’ he said. ‘We go back a long way.’

  ‘So I understand.’ She sipped her sherry and looked at him speculatively. A difficult debate appeared to be taking place inside her head. Eventually it seemed that a vote was taken and the matter resolved.

  Tm afraid there may be a problem with Ashley,’ she said.

  Tudor said nothing but looked quizzical. The cat purred. On the mantelpiece a handsome, though tarnished, carriage clock whirred briefly and struck the quarter. Outside an ill-tuned car changed gear with much grating. Student car, student driver, thought the Visiting Fellow. In their day he and Ashley had ridden bicycles. Only a very few of the rich and privileged had owned cars. He remembered an obnoxious army lieutenant on full military pay who drove a scarlet MGB.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ said the Dame, ‘and absolutely nothing has been proved. So I hope I can rely on your discretion.’

  He nodded.

  ‘We have a thief in the college,’ she said. ‘It’s not uncommon in communities such as this. But it’s tiresome. For a number of reasons I prefer to solve such problems without recourse to outside help. Quite apart from anything else it sends the right signal to our students. They have to learn self-sufficiency. Besides, with a resident expert such as Professor Carpenter, it seems really rather superfluous to ring in the local constabulary. Why hire a mini-cab when there’s a Rolls-Royce in your garage?’

  Tudor smiled.

  ‘I’d say Ashley was more of a Ferrari than a Rolls.’

  Dame Edith glanced at him sharply.

  ‘Many a true word...’ she said. ‘We had our suspicions almost from the first. It was nothing dramatic. Petty cash mainly. No matter how much you lecture people on the need for security they persist in leaving their rooms unlocked and they will leave banknotes lying around, wallets on desks, credit cards with PIN numbers written in diaries. Sheer carelessness, but they’re children. They don’t understand. They always think it can’t happen to them. In this case the culprit is obviously a young woman I’ve had my eye on for some time.’

  ‘How did you come to suspect this particular girl?’

  Dame Edith sighed. ‘I blame myself,’ she said. ‘She was a borderline case from an academic point of view, but she was severely disadvantaged socially. A lot of alcohol at home, poverty, possibly sexual abuse. I felt sorry for her. And she’d worked hard against the odds. I felt she should have a chance. We gave her a scholarship but our funds are limited and there was only so much we could do.’

  She sighed and sipped, then continued.

  ‘She did some waitressing to help out financially. Then I heard she was working in a bar with a very unsavoury reputation. I confronted her with it and she denied even knowing the place. I think, to be honest, that she became frightened. Then, suddenly, the thefts started. We’d had nothing of the kind for at least two years.’

  ‘What made you think it was this particular girl?’

  The Dame smiled. ‘Motive first,’ she said, ‘though I have to concede she wasn’t the only student with money worries. Character second. I don’t mean that she was a wicked girl, but she was... is... weak, easily tempted. Opportunity third. She wasn’t very sophisticated about it. Most of the people who reported things missing were in the same building as her.’

  ‘All circumstantial stuff?’ asked Tudor rhetorically.

  She nodded.

  ‘But,’ he continued, ‘you had your suspicions even though you knew they were based on intuition?’

  ‘That’s another reason I wasn’t keen to call in the police. I had a hunch, well, it was more than a hunch to be honest, but I had no proof.’ She grimaced. ‘And if it was Elizabeth I really didn’t want to think in terms of a prosecution. A criminal record would be a disaster for her. She’s on a knife edge in any case.’

  ‘So you asked Ashley to investigate?’

  ‘It seemed sensible,’ she said. ‘He did some clever things with fingerprint powder and a hidden camera. Don’t ask me. I’m a zoologist not a policewoman. Within a couple of days he had conclusive proof. But unfortunately he made a mistake.’

  The Visiting Fellow frowned. Ashley made a mistake?’

  Tudor Cornwall was surprised. His old friend was not a mistake-maker.

  ‘Oh no,’ she laughed, causing Fergus to raise his head. ‘Nothing to do with his forensic procedures. He was professionally as immaculate as we’d both expect. No, he made a different sort of error. He confronted the girl directly and without a witness. He asked her to his room after dinner.’ She shook her head. ‘Silly boy!’ she said. ‘Silly, silly boy!’

  There was a knock on the door and the Principal said, ‘Come in.’ The door opened and an Indian in a maroon blazer and matching turban entered behind a trolley loaded with sandwiches, fruit, a jug of water, plates, cutlery and glasses.

  ‘Thank you, Sammy,’ said Dame Edith. ‘And, Sammy, this is Dr Cornwall from England. He’s our Visiting Fellow this semester.’

  The Sikh bowed seriously at Tudor who smiled back, before looking enquiringly at his boss and being told that he had done all that was required and they would serve themselves. When he had closed the door behind him, the Dame said, ‘He’s got a proper name but he complained that we all pronounced it wrong and it’s so long since we tried that none of us can remember what it was. He’s been “Sammy” for as long as I’ve known him. He came as a gardener but he’s been college butler for the last five years. He knows everything about everything at St Petroc’s. And then some more.’

  ‘Did he know about your college thief?’

  ‘I should imagine so. I wouldn’t dream of asking him though. He’d think it frightfully bad form.’

  She rose to inspect the sandwiches. ‘Smoked trevally, local beef with horseradish and Whale Island Blue cheese,’ she said. ‘The college bakes its own bread. Do help yourself.

  ‘So the inevitable happened. Elizabeth refused to admit anything and then came to me the following morning to complain that she’d been sexually harassed by Professor Carpenter.’

  Tudor almost choked on his smoked fish. He had never tasted trevally before and just as he was in the act of swallowing his first mouthful he was confronted with this ludicrous suggestion.

  ‘For heaven’s sake,’ he said. ‘When it comes to sex, the one thing
Ashley does not need to do is to start groping students.’

  ‘I know that,’ she said, chomping on bread and cheese, ‘and you know that. Others may not. It’s the girl’s word against his. But there’s worse. She’s not stupid. She was back twenty-four hours later with the president of the junior common room and signed depositions from three other girls, all alleging that they had been sexually molested, propositioned, harassed or interfered with by your friend... and mine, Professor Ashley Carpenter.’

  ‘So when was all this?’

  ‘The day before yesterday.’

  They ate in silence. Tudor was not happy. He thought briefly of telling the Dame about the e-mail message he had picked up earlier in the morning, but he discarded the idea as soon as he contemplated it. It was important to play his cards close, not reveal his hand, wait for others to show theirs. He had no idea who held the trumps. His only possible ace card was the knowledge that Ashley was alive and well and sending e-mails. But even that was supposition not certain fact. Anyone could have sent an e-mail in Ashley’s name. It wasn’t like snail-mail. You didn’t have handwriting to identify. You didn’t even need to know Ashley’s ID or password. Tudor was only semiliterate when it came to computers. He used his laptop just as he used his car. He could drive it well enough to get from A to B. If it went wrong he rang the AA or took it in to the garage. He supposed that he could send Ashley a message and ask some clever question to which only Ashley would know the answer. But even though that might prove that Ashley was alive, it wouldn’t prove anything else. The professor could have been kidnapped. He might be being held against his will, sending e-mail answers with a knife at his throat or a pistol at his head.

  ‘This smoked fish is delicious,’ he said. ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘Plan?’ The Dame seemed not to understand his question.

  ‘What do you intend doing?’ he asked.

  ‘Doing?’

  Tudor found this second repetition irritating.

  ‘Well, with respect, you’re potentially on the brink of a serious and potentially embarrassing situation. Petty theft is one thing; you could probably hush that up without too much of a problem. Sexual harassment is something else again. It’s all the vogue. It could lead to a huge amount of unwelcome publicity for Ashley, St Petroc’s, you, even for Tasmania. People write books about this kind of thing.’

  ‘Quite,’ said the Dame, picking up another sandwich. ‘That’s why I’m relying on you.’ She smiled, almost wolfishly. ‘In fact, I think you’re my only hope. Ashley’s told me lots about you and I’ve read quite a lot of your stuff on organized crime in pre-industrial society. And your Robin Hood book of course.’

  Tudor groaned inwardly. Robin Hood – The Crook The People Crowned was his first and still most popular book. He hated being reminded of it.

  ‘Well,’ he said, and embarked on a suitably self-deprecating life history. He didn’t enjoy it but he didn’t really see any alternative. He could have killed his old friend Ashley.

  Always assuming he wasn’t dead already.

  Chapter Four

  After lunch, Tudor took a walk. He needed to clear his sinuses. The combination of cat and Tasmanian sherry coming so soon after the stale, recycled, germ-ridden air of his flight from Europe had played havoc with his tubes. He craved fresh air. Also, like a jockey before a race, he liked to walk the turf before competition was joined in earnest.

  It was shortly after two by the time he came down from his eyrie and stepped out into the garden quad. It was a pity about the buildings, he thought. The 60s had a lot to answer for when it came to architecture. St Petroc’s had the utilitarian cardboard-box feel of a thousand and one utilitarian cheap brick, concrete and plate glass blocks in Tasmania’s mother country. On the other hand, someone had laid out a pleasant garden and spring was springing. The ‘old’ building itself was overlaid with a profuse pale purple wisteria. Trees blossomed. They looked like cherries, though horticulture was not Dr Cornwall’s forte.

  As he emerged from the building which was not only the heart of the college but also the only edifice of anything approaching distinction, he noticed an attractive blonde in baggy white shorts, a skimpy blue top and a New York Yankees baseball cap. She was sitting alone at a wooden picnic table staring at an open foolscap folder and sucking on the end of a pencil. As Tudor came out she glanced up and flashed him a broad smile.

  ‘Hi!’ she said. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Er... hello,’ he said. It was not exactly a ‘come hither’ smile. Under cross examination he could not honestly say that it was more than just friendly. It was not the girl’s fault that she was attractive. Her T-shirt was very tight and she was not wearing a bra. Tudor found her nipples disconcerting. She was lightly tanned, had even white teeth and dimples. Tudor had an uneasy feeling that she had been waiting for him.

  ‘You must be the new Visiting Fellow,’ she said.

  ‘Well, yes, actually, but how do you know?’

  ‘Well,’ she said, laughing, ‘you’re a strange face, you’re coming out of the old building, and you’re a Pom. So you just have to be the Visiting Fellow. Anyway, hi, I’m Elizabeth Burney.’

  She held out a hand and he shook it, alarm bells ringing. The look she gave him clearly conveyed some kind of complicity though, once more, he would have had trouble convincing an unprejudiced third party that it went in any way beyond simple friendliness.

  Also you look lost,’ she said. ‘Would you like me to show you round?’

  Tudor considered. He was uneasy but he was tempted. After all, why not? He wanted to find his sea legs, and the girl obviously had local knowledge.

  That would be very kind,’ he said.

  She stood. Good legs, too, Tudor noticed, then realized that she was young enough to be his daughter.

  ‘It takes twenty minutes to walk downtown,’ she said. ‘You like to see downtown?’

  He was intending to walk there anyway. He had intended to do so on his own and unattended. He was happy with his own company and tended to learn more when solitary. On the other hand, it would seem churlish to turn her down.

  ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘I’m supposed to be the college thief.’ She smiled again. ‘Not true, of course. But it’s a long story. Maybe if I get to know you better I’ll tell you about it.’

  Tudor had heard that Tasmanians were famous for being open, frank and forthright, but this was ridiculous. He wasn’t at all sure how to respond. The English part of his character told him to retreat behind his English veneer of sang froid and stiff-upper-lippery. His natural middle-aged caution urged restraint, but something else told him not to be so bloody pompous, he was in Tasmania now so stop being so impossibly buttoned up. Let it all hang out. And, no, it had absolutely nothing whatever to do with sex. He was far too grown up for that sort of thing. Besides the girl was far too young. Also her appeal was too obvious, too ‘in-your-face’. No, no, the polite thing was to accept gracefully: he might learn something. After all, Dame Edith had asked him to help her out. How better than to interview this prime suspect.

  ‘Downtown,’ he said, fatuously. ‘That would be very nice. Thank you.’

  ‘Great,’ she said. ‘I’ll just put my Gallipoli notes back in my room and I’ll be with you. Thirty seconds.’

  She was as good as her word and a minute or so later the two of them were striding purposefully in the direction of downtown Hobart.

  ‘Is this your first time in Tasmania?’ she wanted to know, though she barely waited for the answer before volunteering the information that she had always wanted to visit the UK and see where her ancestors came from. The original Tasmanian Burney had been convicted of some form of petty theft and transported there for the term of his natural life. He had stolen a sheep, she thought, or possibly a lump of coal. Doctor Cornwall was tempted to ask if larceny ran in the family, but he thought better of it. Not, judging by her performance so far, that the girl would have minded. But you could never be sure and it was not
Tudor’s style to take that sort of risk.

  He wondered also whether it would be politic to raise the matter of his friend Ashley and the girl’s charge of sexual harassment. However, that too seemed better left for the moment. Cowardice, politeness, common sense? He thought it was a little bit of all three but he was forced to acknowledge that he was prejudiced.

  Outside the college they turned left down a leafy avenue of large sandstone mansions. Gardens were bright with lilac and laburnum; drives were blocked by Volvos and BMWs. Through kitchen windows, colonial pine dressers could be seen, cluttered with blue and white china and tall glass jars containing preserved fruits and vegetables. This was Cuisinart country where Conde Nast magazines shared coffee tables with the Wall Street Journal and the Investor’s Chronicle. Every city in the developed world had districts such as this, just as they had no-go slum ghettos. The inner suburbs of the rich all had their cultural peculiarities, but whether it was Dublin or Durban, Moscow or Melbourne, Newcastle or New Orleans their similarities were greater than their differences. Their inhabitants would have been entirely at ease at each other’s dinner parties, tennis clubs, bistros, delis, car boot sales and weekly worship. The dads watched CNN, the kids wore Nike or Adidas trainers and mums cooperated on the same school run. Which brought one back, inexorably, to the Volvo and the BMW.

  At the end of this stockbrokerish Arcadia, there was a main road where the houses either cowered behind high walls, or had been taken over by professional businesses of the sort that advertised themselves with brass plates: orthodontists, chiropractors, real estate developers, attorneys-at-law, colonic irrigators. All had interminable letters after their names – FRSCol.Irrig. (Saskatchewan) and suchlike, though nothing quite as sad as the BA Hons (Oxon Failed) which Dr Cornwall had read about but never seen.

  Some houses, wooden-slatted with rusty wrought-iron balconies, looked as if they were in private hands but on the whole they were ill-kempt and looked as if they provided cheap, rented accommodation. There was little evidence of house-pride. Occasionally a shop occurred and these were consistent with the arterial quality of the highway. Instead of the bijou, upmarket, expensive, one-off emporia of the salubrious oases to either side of the highway, these were chain convenience stores, drive-through off-licences, snack bars offering meat pies, pasties and deep-fried chicken drumsticks.