Death and the Visiting Fellow

by Tim Heald

  A sudden sob punctuated this section of the Principal’s speech, causing everyone to turn to Lorraine Montagu who was obviously the culprit and was now holding a handkerchief to her mouth and pretending that she was not distressed but just had a nasty cough. Maybe she had, thought Cornwall, engaging brain as dispassionately as he could. It would be consistent with the puffy eyes. Maybe she was allergic to something. Dame Edith’s oratory perhaps. He wouldn’t blame her.

  ‘It’s a great pleasure that our temporary loss of Professor Carpenter has been alleviated by our gain – also temporary alas – of his friend and colleague, Doctor Tudor Cornwall, Reader in Criminal Studies at the University of Wessex, England. In fact I’m delighted to be able to tell you that even though he has hardly got over his jet-lag our Visiting Fellow has generously and inventively concocted an entry of his own to compete with the college’s best. Bravo, Doctor Cornwall, and may the best mull win.’

  Cornwall acknowledged this with a smile and a gentle inclination of his head. Everyone except the green axeman, who frowned aggressively, and Lorraine Montagu who still had her handkerchief held to her mouth, smiled back.

  ‘And so. Sammy has explained the rules,’ said the Dame. ‘Let us now imbibe, ingest, expectorate if you must, cogitate, deliberate and finally determine which recipe it shall be that is St Petroc’s mulled wine of the year.’ And she raised her still empty pewter goblet in a sort of general gesture of goodwill which indicated that they were no longer under starter’s orders but were well and truly off.

  There was now a sort of corporate lunge towards the various tureens which were giving off a collective aroma of fuggy, figgy wine overlaid with a general reek of clove, cinnamon, orange peel and, for all Cornwall knew, bats’ wings, newts’ livers and, in deference to Dame Edith’s speciality, some exotic bits and pieces of echidna. Quills perhaps. How unfortunate, if picturesque, to die because of a miniature porcupine needle stuck in one’s throat.

  Suddenly this was a terrible thought to have had.

  One of the company shrieked.

  The sound was agonized, threatened, strangulated.

  Lorraine Montagu had dropped her pewter goblet, splashing warm red wine all over crisp cream blouse. Her hands were tearing at her throat as if she needed to unscrew her head to pull out the monster which was throttling her, starving her of breath, stifling the life out of her, as they watched impotently, enthralled, disbelieving and aghast.

  For a second they stood transfixed, their silence sliced through by the agonized woman’s cries of anguish. Then there was a hubbub of confused concern. ‘Water!’ shouted someone; ‘Ice!’ screamed another. ‘Loosen her collar!’

  ‘Lie her down!’ ‘Turn her over!’ ‘For Christ’s sake, do something!’

  Cornwall, whose experience in such matters was almost entirely academic, was quicker than most, catching her in his arms as she fell, hands still scrabbling at her neck, face puce, eyes starting with pain and fear. But he was too late to do anything but support her weight and offer a comfort which was cold indeed. Before anyone could minister ice, water, or even a last rite, Lorraine Montagu gave a final scream that faded away into the glühwein atmosphere like the Last Post on a foggy night on the Somme, twitched convulsively and then went horribly, definitively and unequivocally, limp.

  Tudor, very gently, cradled her, laid her down to rest, and looked up at the horrified wine tasters.

  For a few moments no one spoke. The careless bonhomie of the occasion was shattered, each individual too shocked to say anything and quite unable to find words to match the horror of the happening.

  Then, inevitably, the Dame took what, for want of a better word, one might have described as ‘charge’.

  ‘Sammy,’ she said with a flatness, even the suspicion of a quaver, quite at odds with her earlier bombast, ‘Phone for Dr Simkiss!’

  ‘It’s a bit late for Dr Simkiss,’ said Tudor Cornwall. ‘Phone for him by all means but once you’ve done that, Sammy, I think you’d better call the police.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Doctor Simkiss and the police performed their tasks with customary efficiency.

  Simkiss was the college doctor, sour in manner and cadaverous in appearance. His duties consisted merely of confirming that the wretched woman was dead. As to the cause of death he was not to be drawn beyond the obvious conclusion that she seemed to have suffered some form of asphyxia. Cornwall’s private observation was that Dr Simkiss hadn’t a clue. He was reminded of the crisp Randolph Churchill aphorism concerning his father Sir Winston, in extreme old age. Sir Winston’s doctor, almost as decrepit as Churchill himself, was Lord Moran. Randolph regarded Moran as wholly incompetent and issued an instruction to his father’s staff which said, ‘If my father is taken ill, phone Lord Moran and get him to send for a doctor.’

  Watching Dr Simkiss feel forlornly for poor Lorraine’s non-existent pulse Tudor felt like telling him to send for a proper doctor. He would certainly not be consulting Dr Simkiss if he fell ill. On the other hand there was nothing Simkiss could do beyond remarking with a melancholy air, ‘There’ll have to be a postmortem examination.’

  The police performance was more encouraging. Tudor was pleased though surprised to discover that one of the investigating officers was Karen White, the young police constable who had been assigned to the disappearance of Ashley Carpenter. Tudor did not hold her scepticism against her although he would have been dismayed if she was the only police person on the case. This time, however, she was not alone. Her companion was a fresh-faced man who, Tudor, guessed, was older than he looked which to his increasingly jaded eye was about twenty-eight going on twelve.

  ‘I’m really pleased to meet you, Dr Cornwall,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t believe it when Karen told me you were visiting St Petroc’s. I’m a fan. I guess I must have read most everything you’ve ever written. That essay of yours on the Bodkin Adams case in last month’s Australian Crime Quarterly was a masterpiece.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cornwall. He hadn’t realized the piece had been reprinted in Australia and couldn’t recollect receiving a fee. He must have a word with his agent.

  ‘The parallels with Shipman are fascinating. I wish we still had crime reporters like Percy Hoskins. They don’t seem to make them like him any more.’

  ‘No,’ Cornwall agreed, though it was not the sort of verdict usually delivered by one so young. ‘I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Greg,’ said the not-so-young man. ‘Greg Sanders. Chief Inspector, Hobart CID. I couldn’t believe my luck when the call came in just now. I’d no idea I’d be getting to meet you so soon.’

  ‘Well,’ Cornwall was unsurprised by the apparent callousness though he found its expression somewhat startling. ‘I could have wished that we were meeting under slightly more propitious circumstances.’

  ‘Oh.’ Greg grinned ruefully and shook his head. ‘I see what you mean. Yeah. I’m sorry. Listen, I’m going to have to take statements but maybe you and I could meet up for a beer or a drop of red when you have a spare moment.’

  Tudor wished, yet again, that he didn’t so often find himself sounding like the archetypal pompous Pom. Only a certain sort of Englishman would use a phrase like ‘slightly more propitious circumstances’ and he wasn’t, he kept telling himself, at all that sort of starchy, prune-up-the-bum sort of English person. Far from it. He prided himself on his informality, his contempt for convention, lack of respect for pettifogging bureaucracy.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, trying to strike the right note, ‘but don’t let me interfere with your job.’

  Greg flushed and Tudor realized that he had sounded supercilious. Dammit, he thought. Ease up!

  The police job at this point consisted of taking statements. In fact, Cornwall realized, there was no obligation for them to do so and correspondingly the witnesses had no duty to assist them. On the face of it there was no need for a police presence. If poor Lorraine had choked to death on a fish-bone or, as he had fanci
fully conjectured – to his present mortification – an echidna quill, it would never have occurred to anyone that the police should become involved. Sudden death need not concern the police unless there was a crime involved. Oh, all right, he agreed with himself, road accidents. But road accidents always carried the chance of dangerous or careless driving, or drugs, or drink. Choking to death for reason or reasons unknown had no criminal connotations unless the victim was throttled by another party or was poisoned. Had Lorraine Montagu been poisoned? She had seemed unwell on arrival. Correction, she had seemed upset. That very public sob of hers could not have been an early warning of her fatal spasm. Or could it? If she had not died from natural causes, poison would have to be considered. If it was poison then the killer would have had to cause her to ingest some substance which only she would swallow. That ruled out the mulled wines because the rules of the competition were, of course, that everyone should have a taste of everything. There was no way any poisoner could have introduced something lethal into Lorraine’s sample without putting it in everyone else’s drink. Unless Sammy had practised some inventive sleight of hand. Tudor remembered the sympathetic almost conspiratorial smile Sammy had given the college Secretary when she arrived late. That could not have been the smile of a murderer for his victim, surely? Effective bluff but not plausible.

  These various thoughts and conjectures hurried through Cornwall’s brain in a matter of nano-seconds. They were, perhaps necessarily, inconclusive, but he realized, with a shock, that he was not seriously considering that Lorraine Montagu had died from natural causes. His suspicion was instinctive. No more than a hunch. But his hunches frequently proved correct. Too often for comfort, certainly too often to be ignored. ‘The role of intuition in the detection of crime’ was one of his most contentious lectures. Conventional wisdom, especially that of police procedural, ruled that there was no such thing as intuition in the armoury of the modern detective. Everything was scientific. DNA ruled. The catching of criminals and the detecting of crime were nowadays regarded as exact sciences. Cornwall recognized the place of science in criminal investigation but despite that he regarded detection as an art with all the inexplicable mysteries that such a definition involved.

  Sammy had placed a sheet over the corpse with almost indecent haste and soon after the arrival of the police, the body was stretchered away by men in white coats, destined for the morgue and then for forensic pathology. Cornwall remained squeamish about pathology, did not even enjoy reading about it, especially when its gory details were rendered into fictional entertainment. He could not bring himself to read the work of his namesake Patricia, brilliant though he admitted it to be.

  Detective Chief Inspector Sanders and Police Constable White were taking statements next door in the college’s Mining Library. This was a room devoted entirely to books on mining in Tasmania and elsewhere based on the Kitto Bequest, a collection of books and papers left to St Petroc’s by Sir Ebenezer Kitto, the Cornish-born engineer and philanthropist who had first discovered the rich veins of copper behind the Wurlitzer Mountain on which the state’s once prosperous economy had originally been based. It was reputed to be the best such collection outside the Camborne School of Mines.

  DCI Sanders asked them all to stay where they were, to leave everything as it was and not to discuss what had happened. None of this was difficult. Cornwall certainly didn’t feel like conversation, much less mulled wine, and was content to sit in glummish contemplation, a mood which was obviously infectious. Gradually each person was called for interview and did not return. Eventually only he was left until finally, at about 9 p.m., he too was summoned.

  ‘I’d buy you that drink now,’ said Sanders, ‘but we have rules about alcohol on duty. Certainly rules about alcohol in uniform.’ He himself was in blue jeans, an open-neck check shirt and a bomber jacket. WPC White, however, was in regulation policewoman’s kit much like that worn by the British organization on which the Tasmanian police force was based.

  Cornwall nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said.

  T was a student here myself,’ said Sanders. ‘Long before Dame Edith, let alone the other Fellows. The Principal in my day was Ebenezer Kitto’s grandson, Bevil.’

  ‘Ah.’ There seemed no very obvious response.

  ‘I studied Classics,’ Sanders continued, ‘I used to write Latin verses for Bevil Kitto’s tutorials. He was an Ovid freak.’

  ‘Unusual background for a copper.’

  ‘People say I’m an unusual cop. But Hobart’s an unusual town; Tasmania’s an unusual state; and St Petroc’s is definitely an unusual college. So I guess in a way I’m depressingly conventional.’ He paused. ‘Doctor Cornwall, may I ask you a question?’

  ‘That’s what I’m here for.’

  ‘Doctor Cornwall, can you tell me why you’re here?’

  ‘I think that’s an Everest sort of a question.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘You know. When Mallory was asked why he wanted to climb Mount Everest. Or maybe it was Irving. I forget. They both died. When whichever one it was, was asked why he had this ambition to climb the world’s tallest mountain he said it was because it was there. “Why do you want to climb Mount Everest?” “Because it’s there.” Why am I Visiting Fellow at St Petroc’s college in the University of Tasmania? Because the opportunity presented itself. Like Everest for the climber. I could have said “yes” or I could have said “no”. On balance, I’m a person who normally says “yes”. I enjoy challenge. I like the unknown.’

  ‘But we’re not exactly in the mainstream here. You have an international reputation. You could have been a Visiting Fellow anywhere you wanted. Harvard. Yale. Adelaide.’

  ‘You’re too kind, but you under-rate yourself. I agree that Tasmania’s a small state and it’s a long way from where I live. But Professor Carpenter has a considerable reputation himself. He’s built up a lively department. And there’s a lot of interesting raw material from the convict past to the criminal present.’

  Chief Inspector Sanders gave a wry smile. ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘Our criminal record’s impressive. Always has been. Isn’t that correct, Karen?’

  The police constable, sitting at a table to his left, pencil poised over a standard-issue loose-leaf notebook, smiled and nodded. She gave the impression of being slightly overawed by her senior.

  ‘Professor Carpenter,’ said Sanders. ‘I’ve heard him lecture but I wouldn’t say I know him. You, on the other hand, are an old and close friend.’

  ‘Old,’ agreed Tudor, ‘and once close. But it’s difficult to maintain a very close relationship when you’re based at opposite ends of the earth. We’ve remained in touch though.’

  ‘He in Tasmania, you in Wessex.’

  ‘Yes. But we meet up at international conferences. They’re crucial to academic life these days. We see each other at least twice a year. At Harvard once. Adelaide even.’

  Sanders smiled. ‘Touché,’ he said. ‘And it was Professor Carpenter who asked you to spend a semester here as Visiting Fellow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  And why was that exactly?’

  Cornwall found himself becoming irritated but curbed his inclination to snap. The man was only doing his job, albeit in a strangely circuitous manner. Cornwall knew he should find this round-about approach attractive and realized that the only reason he was annoyed was that he was the one who seemed to be under the magnifying glass. Usually it was the other way round.

  ‘That’s another Everest question,’ he said.

  ‘He asked you because you were there?’ Sanders smiled innocently.

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes. I mean St Petroc’s has a Visiting Fellow programme. Ashley thought I might have something to contribute. He knows I don’t have any family ties or commitments, so that provided I could square it with my Vice-Chancellor and colleagues I’d have no problem taking a sort of sabbatical. And it would give the two of us a chance to compare notes and to catch up.’

  And now that y
ou’ve arrived he’s not here to welcome you?’

  ‘No.’

  And that strikes you as curious?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Me too.’ Sanders looked at the fingernails on his right hand as if they were about to yield up some remarkable secret, then flashed another boyish grin.

  ‘But none of your new colleagues seem concerned by his absence?’

  ‘Not a lot, no.’

  ‘I find that curious too,’ said Sanders. ‘How about you, Dr Cornwall?’

  ‘Well, yes. Me too. But I’m not sure what any of this has to do with Lorraine Montagu’s death.’

  ‘Nor am I,’ said the Chief Inspector, ‘but like you I’m curious. I’d like to talk more. Maybe when we have the results of the postmortem.’

  He frowned, cleared his throat and changed gear. His new voice indicated that he had moved out of official mode and into something more conversational and off-the-record, though Cornwall sensed that this was one policeman who was never wholly off-duty.

  ‘Tell me more about the Bodkin Adams case,’ he said. ‘I’m fascinated to know what makes some doctors kill.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tudor was tired by the time he returned to his quarters but Basil was frisky and, he assumed, in need of a pee.

  ‘Oh all right, Bazza,’ he said, ‘walkies.’ And Basil jumped up at him appreciatively, wagging his tail and whimpering with apparent pleasure.

  ‘You’re a fickle fellow, aren’t you?’ This was Ashley’s dog, he had to remind himself, and dogs were supposed to be loyal and, as far as humans were concerned, more or less monogamous. ‘I am his master’s dog at Kew. Pray tell me sir, whose dog are you?’ he recited, at the excited animal which cocked his head and looked at him with the nearest approach to a quizzical manner that a dog could muster. Why would Ashley abandon him? Or had Basil escaped? And if he had escaped, then what or who from?