Nearing the entrance at Tom Tower, he observed that not much had changed since his college days: a girl with a smeary face hobbled out in men’s sweatpants, a large Kaiser Chiefs T-shirt, and perilously high heels, a gauzy black dress slung over her head to shield her eyes from the sun.
The college’s imposing sandstone walls evoked a fortress. Jacob felt like a marauding barbarian, come to breach the ivory tower and put its inhabitants to the torch, more so as they approached the gate, patrolled by a gin blossom in a bowler hat and a dark coat. His name tag identified him as J. Smiley, Porter, Christ Church.
“Hello, Jimmy,” Norton said. “All right?”
“Hallo, Pippi. My lucky day. What brings you by?”
“Touch o’ local color for my American friend,” she said.
Smiley stiffened as Jacob described what he was after.
“Regular visiting hours start at one,” the porter said.
“Be nice, Jimmy,” Norton said.
The porter sighed.
“There’s a good lad,” she said.
He waved at her in annoyance and picked up an extension.
“Like magic,” Jacob said.
She shrugged. “A little leg goes a long way.”
The dark tunnel of the gate framed emerald lawns, a leaping fountain daring the onlooker to dash forward in defiance of the signs: KEEP OFF THE GRASS.
“They like their privacy,” Jacob said.
“In-group, out-group.”
“And you, doing your part to repair the rift.”
“Heal the world,” Norton said.
Jimmy Smiley hung up. “Mr. Mitchell’s on his way.”
“Cheers,” Norton said.
Deputy Head Porter Graeham Mitchell bore Jacob’s spiel with a tolerant smile. “Is this an official police enquiry, Inspector?”
“Not as such.”
“Then I’m afraid I can recommend no course other than to return at one o’clock. There is a guided tour which most people find highly informative.”
Jacob said, “I was hoping to speak with people who would’ve been around then.”
“You are welcome to register your request, in writing, with the steward.”
“Any chance you might remember him?” Norton said. “What was it again, Detective?”
“Reggie Heap,” Jacob said. He displayed the photo. “His father, Edwyn Heap.”
“My sincerest apologies,” Mitchell said, “but I cannot recall anyone by that name.”
“If you could take a look at—”
“I regret that I cannot be of further assistance, sir.”
“What about this one,” Jacob said, starting to unroll the drawing of Head.
“I hope you’ll excuse me? The sermon will have begun. Best of luck to you both.” Mitchell marched off, his shoes tapping on the cobblestones.
Norton turned to Smiley. “Thanks anyway, Jim.”
The porter, writing in the logbook, tore off a corner of a page and handed it to her. Norton put it in her pocket. “Ta,” she said.
The porter touched his hat, clasped his hands behind his back, and resumed his pacing.
Jacob waited until they had gone ten yards to ask, “What was that about?”
Norton showed him the scrap of paper. On it Smiley had scrawled Friar & Maiden 20:00.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Charles MacIldowney’s address belonged to a converted row house opposite the river.
The shingle warned that the architect was available Tuesday through Friday, by appointment only; a handwritten note, taped and fluttering in the breeze, instructed deliverymen to ring next door, at number 15.
They did, and an elegant, aquiline man answered. He was around Edwyn Heap’s age, but tan and trim in chinos and a blue twill button-down.
He said, “Please bring it—oh, sorry. I was expecting someone else.”
Norton badged him. “Charles MacIldowney?”
“Yes?”
“May we come in, sir?”
“Is something wrong?”
“Not at all, sir. A few questions.”
“It’s not the best time.”
Jacob said, “We’ll be brief.”
MacIldowney started at Jacob’s accent. He ran his fingers through his coiffure, once and then again. “Yes, all right, please.”
A blizzard of pastels softened the living area’s industrial character, tubular steel and vaulted ceilings and exposed ducting. MacIldowney apologized for the mess, shifted straw baskets and packages of tissue paper to allow them to sit.
“We’re hosting our annual garden party this afternoon. I thought you were the florist.”
A voice from above said, “Charles? Is that them? Are they here?”
“Not yet.”
“Who are you talking to?”
“Nobody.”
A man two decades MacIldowney’s junior appeared barefoot at the top of the floating staircase. “It doesn’t look like nobody to me.”
He came down. “I’m Des,” he said.
Norton introduced them, and Jacob explained the purpose of their visit. Both men reacted to news of the murder with genuine shock.
“I’m sorry to break it to you like this. Were you close?”
“Close?” MacIldowney said. “Not—I mean, I don’t think so. I never knew Reggie to be close with—I suppose—well, he was—”
“An odd duck,” Des said.
“Without question, but—to be honest, I don’t know what I’m saying. This is awful, just . . . awful.”
A silence.
“Can I offer anyone some tea?” Des said.
“I’d love that,” Jacob said.
“No, thanks,” Norton said.
Des clapped his hands and strode off to the kitchen, separated by twenty feet of bleached flooring and a stainless-steel peninsula.
“Would you prefer privacy?” MacIldowney asked. “We can go to my office.”
“It’s all right,” Jacob said. “You both knew him?”
Des, filling a speed kettle, nodded.
“He worked for us on occasion,” MacIldowney said. “Though I haven’t seen him in some time.”
“At least a year, I reckon,” Des said.
“His father said you were his tutor at one point,” Jacob said.
“You spoke to his father?”
Jacob nodded.
“Is he—I mean, does he know . . .”
“He knows.”
“Well—yes. Obviously he would. I apologize. It’s all rather—I’ve never known anyone—it’s a dreadful . . . yes. I was Reggie’s tutor. Years ago.”
“What was he like in those days?” Jacob asked.
“Painfully shy. He hardly spoke to anyone. I have—well, it’s going to sound callous, out of context, but—I have a distinct memory of thinking he resembled a turtle.” MacIldowney paused. “Is that horrible? I’m sorry. He had this coat he wore every day, regardless of the weather. I don’t think I ever saw him out of it, I reckon it could’ve stood up on its own. It was this hideous murky color, and he would sort of shrink back into the collar, like so . . . It gave one the impression that he was short, although I don’t believe he was, or no more than average.”
“Edwyn Heap told me he was supposed to study law, but you convinced him to change.”
“Well, that’s—thank you,” MacIldowney said, accepting a cup from Des, who set down a tray with more cups, sugar, and a plate of digestives.
“Thanks,” Jacob said, adding three lumps in an effort to pacify his stomach. His full English breakfast had morphed into a bellowing South American revolutionary. “He—Edwyn—he seemed pretty angry about it.”
“I’m sorry for him, I am, but that’s simply untrue. Reggie had decided to change courses well before I met him. The
university doesn’t have a program devoted to practical architecture, per se. I came for my doctorate, after which I lectured in history of design for a brief period. I might’ve attempted to bolster his confidence, but I never told him to do anything. He was quite . . . needy, I suppose, is the right word. He would bring these massive batches of drawings up to me and thrust them in my face. The moment I showed the slightest approval he cottoned on to me and began asking for help transferring into Ruskin.”
“The drawing school,” Des said.
MacIldowney nodded. “Apparently he had applied there once already and they’d turned him down. He wanted me to throw my weight around.”
“Did you?”
“I had none to throw. But when I tried to explain that to him, he got extremely cross.”
“And then?”
“I left to open my practice, and he drifted out of my life. I didn’t see him for fifteen years or so.”
“He turned up on our doorstep, begging for a job,” Des said.
“He wasn’t begging, Desmond.”
“You must’ve been surprised,” Norton said.
“Oh, I was astonished,” MacIldowney said. “I only just caught myself before shutting the door in his face. I didn’t recognize him—it’d been so long, and he’d lost the coat. Nor did he say hello, introduce himself, ask how I’d been. He said, ‘I need a job,’ as though I would hand him the keys straightaway.”
“Fifteen years is a long time to be out of touch and think that,” Jacob said.
“Yes, well,” MacIldowney said, blowing on his tea, “I gathered from the way he talked that he was hard up.”
“Did he say what he’d done in the meantime?”
“He had a portfolio with him, so I suppose he must have taken some courses or worked elsewhere.”
“His father described him as an office boy.”
“That’s rather uncharitable. He was quite a capable draftsman, especially with pen and ink. I never would have hired him otherwise.”
“We can’t run a business based on pity,” Des said, “though Charles makes every effort to do so.”
“Nowadays everyone uses computers,” MacIldowney said. “We’re no different. But I often prefer to work by hand, as I was taught, and it gratified me to meet a like mind.”
“He was an odd duck,” Des said.
“I’m not going to dispute that he had . . . tendencies.”
“The house connects to the office via the second floor,” Des said. “I used to come down to the kitchen for a drink of water at midnight and hear him in there, listening to the radio while he worked.”
“He got his assignments done on time,” MacIldowney said.
“You can’t deny it’s out of order, Charles.”
“Did he get along with people?” Jacob asked.
“Well, that was the crux of it,” MacIldowney said. “I always thought that his reason for keeping late hours was to avoid interacting with the rest of the staff, which he couldn’t have done at a larger firm. Aside from Des and me, we employ two architects and an office manager. Reggie would turn up to lend a hand for a few months, around Christmastime. Under any other circumstances I would have insisted on a more stable arrangement, but it so happened he fit the bill precisely. It helped to have someone picking up the slack for the rest of us.”
Des said, “Tell the truth, darling. You felt bad for him.”
“I suppose I did. I couldn’t help it. I looked at him and saw the same confused little boy.”
“He wasn’t a boy when you knew him,” Norton said.
“Yes, but he had a certain quality to him,” MacIldowney said.
“You liked him,” Jacob said.
“I didn’t like him or dislike him,” MacIldowney said. “I thought, ‘Well, this is what fate has ordained.’ He showed up in my life again and it seemed wrong to disregard that.”
“What about when he wasn’t with you? What kind of company did he keep?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Relationships?”
“He was guarded about his personal affairs. I recall something about traveling for continuing education.”
“Did he say where?”
MacIldowney shook his head.
“That didn’t strike you as strange?” Jacob asked. “He works a few months max, but he’s pursuing continuing education?”
“Odd duck,” Des said.
“None of us is without his foibles,” MacIldowney said. “And no, it’s not strange. It can take eons to become certified, and if you’re attempting to do it part-time, all the longer.”
“You let him stay,” Des said.
“Here?” Norton said.
MacIldowney hesitated. “He had no place else to go.”
“It was like having a giant lizard in the house,” Des said.
“Stop it,” MacIldowney said.
Jacob said, “How long was he here?”
“Not long, perhaps—”
“Ten weeks,” Des said.
“It wasn’t that long.”
“I assure you it was. I counted every day.”
“Did he leave clothes?” Jacob asked.
“He lived out of a suitcase,” MacIldowney said. “It was temporary.”
“Allegedly,” Des said.
MacIldowney shook his head. “I asked you to stop, please.”
The architect’s voice had begun to hitch, the burgeoning intuition that he had picked the wrong horse. Jacob unrolled the drawings. “Any idea who this is?”
Des shook his head. MacIldowney studied the page at greater length, but appeared equally at a loss.
“Is he—that’s not the person who, who harmed him?”
“I don’t know. I found it in a bunch of Reggie’s old drawings. It’s dated around the time you knew him. I thought possibly a friend.”
“I don’t remember him having very many friends,” MacIldowney said.
“He wasn’t what you’d call a social butterfly,” Des said.
“Come to think of it,” MacIldowney said, “there was this one fellow, about the only person I remember ever seeing him in the company of. What was his . . .” He picked up the drawing. “I—no. I mean . . . I don’t think it’s the same person.”
He frowned. “No. But—well, no, I don’t think it is, though.” He paused. “This fellow, Reggie’s friend—he was American. What was he called? Perry? Bernie? Something like that.”
“Not the person in the drawing.”
“I’m fairly certain it’s not. What was his name.” MacIldowney began raking his scalp.
Des put a hand on MacIldowney’s back. “It’s all right, Charles. It’s been thirty years.”
Jacob said, “Do you remember where in America he was from?”
MacIldowney shook his head.
“But you remember that he was American.”
“Well, I saw them around together—it’s a small town, you know—and I have this idea that I bumped into them in a . . . restaurant, or—no. It was at the library.”
“Which library?”
“The Bod, I reckon. I suppose I must have exchanged pleasantries with them. I wish to God I could remember his name. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Is it important?”
“Not necessarily,” Jacob said.
At his side, Norton nodded faintly, appreciative of the courtesy.
“I’ll tell you what I do remember: this other chap was quite good-looking. He and Reggie made a rather curious pair.”
“Reggie wasn’t one for the ladies,” Norton said.
“No, but—I mean, he might have had a friend, I suppose. As I said, I saw very little of him after that first year.”
Jacob said, “Let me ask you something else. Was Reggie ever in any sort of trouble?”
“
Trouble?”
“Legally,” Norton said.
“Not that I know of,” MacIldowney said.
“Has he done something wrong?” Des asked.
Norton and Jacob looked at him.
Des shrugged. “I don’t otherwise reckon you’d be telling us he’s murdered and showing us pictures and asking questions about him being in trouble with the law.”
A silence.
“Before he was killed, he tried to rape a woman,” Jacob said.
He watched then as MacIldowney’s composure began to flake away; the architect tilted his head back as if to keep bits of it from getting into his eyes. “My God,” he said.
“You sound surprised,” Norton said.
“Well, wouldn’t you be?”
“It depends,” Norton said. “Some people, when you find out they’ve done something horrid, it’s no surprise at all.”
“I never knew him to be involved with anything like . . . that.”
“Do I get an opinion?” Des asked.
“Sure,” Norton said.
“I wouldn’t think it impossible.”
MacIldowney made a sharply irritated noise. “It’s one thing to resent him because he was a bad houseguest. Quite another to accuse him of rape.”
“I didn’t accuse him of anything. I said it wouldn’t be beyond imagining.”
The doorbell rang.
“That’ll be the florist,” Des said. “Excuse me.”
MacIldowney said, “He really did that?”
“Afraid so,” said Jacob.
There was a silence.
At the door, Des was saying, “We asked for orchids. Those are calla lilies.”
“If you remember anything else,” Jacob said, writing down his number, “you’ll be sure to contact me.”
MacIldowney nodded. “Certainly.”
“Or if you think of someone who might know. I can send you a copy of the drawings. Maybe it’ll come back to you.”
“They are not remotely similar,” Des said.
MacIldowney said, “You don’t suppose there’s anything I could have done differently?”
Jacob shook his head. “Not a thing. Don’t waste time worrying about it.”
“Charles. My love. Do you mind.”
MacIldowney rose. He looked frailer than when he had greeted them. He smiled queasily.
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