There was a moment of silence as St. Just and the Master appeared internally to review the changes wrought by the passage of time, and by the influx of scholarship students. Fear, sitting in his corner like a spider with a notebook, recognized this as one of his superior's techniques: He was good at getting the nobs to let down their hair. Fear tested the point of his Biro against his notebook and waited.
St. Just said at last, "Things are not what they were in my day, I can tell you." Silently he added: Thank God. "Well, I'm sure you will appreciate that we'll need to talk with the Porters, especially whoever was on duty tonight. And I will need a list from you of everyone present in the college this night, including staff, of course. Those in the kitchen, the bedders, and so forth."
"The college servants. Yes, yes, of course. But you can't think-some of them have been here years, since I've been here. Anyway, there's a reduced staff, because of the time of year. We shut up entire areas of the college. It empties out except for the 'orphans' who can't afford to fly home. Even when we're at full capacity, there's often not enough to go around to operate as we'd like," the Master finished sadly.
St. Just said in a commiserating tone, "Not quite what it was in the day?"
"My, no. Not that St. Michael's ever had much of a day, really. But now, we're running this place on a veritable shoestring. You get half what you used to get out of the servants, too."
I'll bet.
"I do hate to trouble you," said St. Just, "but we'll need a room set aside, somewhere where we can conduct our interviews. I think that's much preferable to asking everyone to come to the station, don't you?"
The Master, who had turned several shades paler at the mention of the station, agreed wholeheartedly that holding the interviews at the college would be much the better course.
"I think it would be easiest if you use my study, at least until other arrangements can be made," he added. "You'll have complete privacy here. I hope you won't mind my asking, but how was she killed?"
St. Just told him.
"Oh, dear. Oh, my, oh my. My goodness me." He began wringing his hands again. It was a little like holding a conversation with the White Rabbit. "There's been nothing like this since-well, I shall have to check the archives. Possibly that gambling dispute in the early eighteen hundreds. That ended badly. One dead, but no one sent down for it, thank God. They were able to hush it up rather quickly. Anyway, I'll go and see what I can arrange for you."
"One question before you leave: Who else representing the college was at tonight's dinner?"
"Apart from myself, the Bursar, and the Dean: Portia De'Ath. Also Hermione Jax-she's a Fellow of the college, but she was also here as part of the alumni group."
"We'll need a word with all of them."
"All?" Again, the Master blanched. "The Reverend Otis, as well?"
"I gather he is the Dean? Yes. Is there any reason not to speak with him?"
The Master, as has been noted, regarded the Reverend as a moron at the height of his powers, but thought better of saying so.
"I'm sure it will be all right," he said weakly. This was all spinning far too far out of his control for the Master's liking. The Dean would warble on, saying God knew what, with no one to contain him.
Once the Master had rabbited off, St. Just said to Fear, "Any member of the college would have easy access. And of course there is no limit to the number of old members who might be running around with keys or duplicated keys to heaven knows what-the Master doesn't seem to have taken that into account. It makes it all the more trying, this sort of monk-medieval atmosphere. Not like a murder in a modern block of flats, for example, where one could at least hope for decent video camera surveillance." In fact, many of the colleges had reluctantly gone in for these modern protuberances attached to their stone walls, the unsightliness being the lesser of two evils-the other evil being robbed blind. But St. Mike's clung steadfastly to appearance and tradition, St. Just had noticed; although there were static cameras at the boathouse, which was a relatively modern building, he hadn't noticed them otherwise.
This murder, he thought, would undoubtedly change things. Or would it? This was Cambridge, after all.
NARCISSUS
St. Just was a fair man, and he struggled to meet all suspects, however suspect they might be, with an open mind and on an even footing. But he did not like Geraldo Valentiano on sight and that was a fact. The man reeked of wealth, in addition to an overpowering men's cologne. Wealth and entitlement and having far too much time on his hands to, oh, say, cruise about the world on his yacht. His idea of hard labor would be taking the helm of this yacht for a few thrilling moments before going below decks to order up more champagne.
He was extraordinarily handsome in his movie-star way, with more than a hint of the voluptuary in the full mouth, the languor in the large, long-lashed, slightly downturned eyes. Like Bambi fallen into a vat of cologne. Perhaps in his upper thirties. St. Just did not doubt he was attractive to women. The thought of this man under the same roof as Portia made his stomach clench with anxiety. There she was, innocently toiling away night and day on her thesis, oblivious to the danger. He trusted Portia absolutely, but he was also absolutely certain this man would not be able to stay away from her loveliness. St. Just could not bear the thought of Portia anywhere near this… this rogue.
With an effort, St. Just pulled himself together, plastering an amiable expression on his face.
"How did you come to know Lexy Laurant?" he asked him now, rather more bluntly than he intended. "And for how long did you know her?"
The man shot his cuffs, arranging the fall of his sleeves just so, before answering.
"We met in London, a few months ago. At Boujis."
Sergeant Fear looked up from his notebook. "Please spell that, Sir."
"B-O-O… " he began. "I don't remember. It's a nightclub."
"How old was she, by the way?"
"She said she was thirty-two, but you know how women lie about their ages."
"No matter, we'll of course have access to documentation regarding her age. Now: Did she have any enemies?"
"How should I know?"
The amiable expression was starting to hurt. "Tell us what happened tonight," St. Just said evenly.
"Again, how should I know? We all went to dinner, we came out, this kid came running into the SCR screaming bloody murder. Oh, sorry. He was yelling, I meant to say. It was only then I realized Lexy had not joined the gathering. Sir James ran out to see what was the matter. A few of the men followed him."
"Had anything been troubling her? Had anything happened out of the ordinary, either tonight or earlier?"
"Hmm?" A chip in his manicure had diverted Geraldo, occupying his full attention.
"I asked you," said St. Just with stilted patience, "if anything had been troubling Lexy."
"Oh. Well, there was this situation with her ex being at the reunion."
"How was she taking that?"
As anything that did not directly concern the man seemed to bore him stiff, he looked for a moment as if he might not answer. Having Lexy's affections sidetracked away from himself seemed to strike him as either an impossibility or, at worst, some minor social embarrassment, like losing one's date for the May Ball to a rival. Annoying, but nothing to worry about. She'd come crawling back-they always did. The man exuded a sexual self-confidence that would have been commendable in a Darwinian sense, had St. Just not found it so maddening.
"What caused the pair of you to come here this weekend?"
"It was Lexy's idea. I thought it might be fun, so I came down from London with her."
"And what did you do once you arrived in Cambridge?"
"After we unpacked? The usual. Had a late lunch, rented a punt, wandered about. Came back here, had sex, changed for dinner."
The casual mention of sex was jolting. It may have been intended to provoke, or it may have been simple braggadocio. St. Just suspected it was in the man's character to make the nature
of his conquests clear. He heard Sergeant Fear stir uneasily behind him.
"Did she talk about Sir James to you?"
"She may have done. I tuned most of it out. She liked to relive the moment when he ran off with India. Mostly, she was over it. I helped."
I just bet you did. St. Just wondered how much the man's ego might be shielding him. He might be telling the truth to the fullest extent of which he was capable. His belief that no woman would want anyone else, having met the divine Geraldo Valentiano, was no doubt solid and sincere. Whether it had anything to do with present reality was anyone's guess.
"How were you and she getting along?"
"Just fine." Noticing the weighted silence, he managed to tear his eyes away from examining his manicured nails to look at the policeman directly. "Really great."
"That's wonderful, Sir. No quarrels, no misunderstandings then?"
"I just told you, we were getting along fine."
"She could be a little… clingy, is my understanding."
"She was a very feminine woman. That didn't bother me. I am used to dealing with all kinds of women."
"How very splendid for you, I'm sure. Now, you say she was feminine. What else? What kind of woman was she?"
He shrugged. "Good looking. Desirable. Amusing at times."
Like any good possession. A good hunting dog, perhaps. "Yes, yes, quite. What I meant was her personality. Was she a kind person? A selfish one?"
Geraldo thought, which seemed to require a great deal of effort on his part. He probably found such unusual activity rather stressful. Finally he said, "She wouldn't compromise."
"Can you expand on that?"
"She always had to do things her way. Like coming here. I was growing tired of it."
"How tired?"
"Don't try that on me. I didn't mean it that way."
St. Just, who would have been within his rights to come down hard on the man, decided to leave it for now.
"What did you do when dinner had ended? Please be precise as you can."
"I went to the gents. Then I headed for the SCR."
"No detours?"
"None."
"Did you see Lexy on your way to the SCR?"
"No."
"You didn't escort her from the hall?"
"What on earth for? She could walk."
Off St. Just's thunderous look, he decided it wise to add:
"She was one of the first to leave. Jumped up and ran out. Probably crying again. You can't blame a man-I was growing tired… but not that tired. No way. I have an alibi: I was surrounded by people all evening. Except when I was in the gents, but that was no time at all. Oh… "
"Oh?" asked St. Just helpfully.
"I did step out for a breath of fresh air. Just for a moment."
"Where did you go?"
"I strolled over to the tennis courts, on the grounds to the far side of the college."
"Tennis, anyone?"
"What?"
"That's some distance from the buildings, and it was growing late. Why did you go there?"
"Why not?" Geraldo shot back truculently.
St. Just weighed the chances he'd do more than repeat this assertion as to his whereabouts, whether true or not.
"Did anyone see you?"
"No. No one needed to. I didn't kill her, it is impossible that you will find evidence that I did, and that is the end of that. If you wish to pursue this line, I shall have to summon my solicitor."
"Lexy was quite a wealthy woman, was she not?"
"So am I, a wealthy man. I am not interested in women for their money. I am not what you English would call a gigolo."
"That would be the French, Sir. We probably would call such a man a bounder. We often use the words cad or parasite, in point of fact."
St. Just stood back and watched disinterestedly as Geraldo's mulish face turned red beneath the perpetual tan.
"I'll have you on report for that," he said at last.
"Fine. Here's my card, Sir. It has the main number for the station, as well as my extension. But you will want to ask to be connected to the man who is ultimately in charge." Of course, the Chief Constable was a woman, but he doubted such an eventuality would occur to Geraldo Valentiano, and it would undoubtedly have him stepping off on the wrong foot if he did bother to call the station. The man was all bluster, of that St. Just was sure. Most bullies were.
He dismissed him, warning him not to leave the college grounds until further notice. He left, St. Just noticed, with some alacrity.
"You really think money might be a motive here, Sir?" asked Sergeant Fear when they were alone.
"She was wealthy, and according to Portia, a vulnerable type. The perfect pigeon for a man like that. Let's have a rundown on his financials and find out where he got the cash to live as he apparently does… or if he's living above his means now. And yes, the fact that she was wealthy might be a factor overall. Someone as famous as Lexy may also have been the object of envy."
Sergeant Fear nodded.
"We need to get someone talking with the college servants, but I would be amazed if they're involved. There was a little money found in her purse, so robbery isn't looking like a motive."
"Still, Sir. Money isn't the only motive, if it was someone from the staff. Some of them have been here years, according to the Master. And some people leave a long trail of memory. Like a snail."
St. Just smiled. "You're quite right, of course. An ancient grudge cannot be overlooked. Her wealth and beauty could have aroused all kinds of feelings, especially in someone who felt like one of the 'have nots.' The outsider looking in at all this privilege."
He swept out a hand to encompass the room's sumptuous if somewhat worn furnishings-the carved, stained oak; the fireplace surround of antique tiles depicting the nine Muses, the leather chairs and leather-bound books.
"And there is always the crime of passion, of sexual jealousy," he went on, "although I can see the Argentine jealous of no one but himself. No one else could hold his attention for long. That does not discount the possibility that Lexy impugned his manhood, somehow. Some slight, however silly, that he would feel would have to be avenged. Even so… " he trailed off. St. Just's inclination was to discount no one too soon, but the Argentine was so blithe, so carefree, so indifferent and unconcerned. Most people involved in a murder spared at least a moment's thought for the victim.
If Geraldo Valentiano did commit this crime, they were indeed dealing with a cold-blooded monster.
EXPERT WITNESS
St. Just said to his sergeant, "Let me take a look at that list the Master left with us-the list that was mailed to all the participants of this weekend." He ran an eye over two pages of typescript. "Just names and addresses, mostly London addresses, excluding the Americans." He read aloud: "There's a Karl and Constance Dunning, no doubt a married couple, of New York; an Augie Cramb of Texas; Gwennap Pengelly-now, how is it I know that name?"
"She's on the telly, Sir."
"Of course, that's right, the news announcer. God help us. All right. Then there's Sir James and Lady Bassett of London-may God continue to come to our aid. Hermione Jax, with an address just outside Cambridge, so she doesn't live in college despite the fact she's a Fellow. No doubt she took rooms here for the weekend to avoid having to drive after the revels of High Table. Very sensible. Next listed: Geraldo Valentiano, who maintains a London residence, a home in Argentina, and one in France. He has been careful to list them all. I suppose we are meant to be impressed."
Sergeant Fear, who had been taking notes, asked, "Is that the lot?"
"That's the lot as far as the visitors are concerned. Then of course there's the boy, Sebastian. I say…" thoughtfully he tapped the paper against the Master's desk. "Let's get Portia in here first. I want you to hear her impressions of everyone. It will help to have someone as observant as she give us the lay of the land before we start the interviews."
He had passed the stage with Portia where at the sight of her he c
ould do little more than make an inarticulate, guttural noise in the back of his throat, followed by what he was convinced were some of the most inane comments in the history of recorded or unrecorded speech. Still the sight of her lifted his heart, and it was a moment before he could speak.
"I've organized some tea to be sent in," she told them. "You look famished. I should avoid the biscuits if I were you, however. I think the Bursar's found a bakery that sells week-old goods."
St. Just got her settled in a chair and handed her the list. He knew Portia would be able to give him not just her impressions as to character, but a sense of whatever undertow may have been in motion throughout the weekend. She read through the list and then, looking up, began to speak.
"Constance Dunning, the New Yorker, is the most hideous, non-stop whinger you'll ever meet. She has already earned the sobriquet 'Constant Complainer' from the bedders, and she only arrived yesterday. Her husband bears it well, to quite a remarkable degree, in fact. He's rather a poppet. She's… well, you'll see. What their ties might be to Lexy, if any, I don't know."
She returned to the list.
"India-that's Lady Bassett to you-I'd say she has brains, and she's enormously attractive, if in rather an equine way. Good, English-rose skin with a high color. She always looks like she's just come in after a particularly vitalizing ride on a sunny day. Her son looks a great deal like her-Sebastian, I mean."
"The boy who found the body?"
She nodded. "Her husband, Sir James. Not Sebastian's natural father, by the way-stepfather, rather. I commented to someone how much Sebastian resembled India and that's when I was told-by the Reverend Otis, it was-that Sir James is Sebastian's parent only by marriage. Anyway, he's quite a famous author, did you know? I mean famous in terms of winning acclaim and literary awards, not famous as in best-selling, necessarily. Two entirely different things, of course. Yes, he and India are quite the team. He seems devoted. I'd say it's quite an intellectual bond, and it's a good match in that regard-as I say, she has brains, so does he. Plus he fancies her silly."
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