"And Lighting Up on this particular night was when?"
"21:51 hours."
Sergeant Fear's head came up from his notebook. "So precise?" he asked.
"It's the time at which the sun sets to ninety-four degrees below the zenith, if you want the official definition," Sebastian informed him. "But God help you if you ignore Lighting Up or Down. Not a good idea, in any event. You're liable to row straight into the bank on a dark night."
"And so you finished your practice and arrived at the boathouse…?"
"Just before. Say nine-fifty. May I go now?"
"How do you keep track of the time so precisely as you're sculling? You'd have to stop to look at your watch, wouldn't you?"
Sebastian shook his head.
"The curfew warning still chimes at nine forty-five, although it's mainly a holdover from the very old days. There's a warning chime, as I say, followed in fifteen minutes by the final chime-curfew."
"Tell us what happened. You finished your practice, returned to the boathouse, and…"
"And I was carrying the boat and equipment from the river when I saw her, sort of crumpled there. Well, you know. I went over, took one look, dropped everything, and ran for help."
"You didn't have a mobile phone with you?"
"Funnily enough, I did have it in my pocket, but I don't usually. I mean, I'm out there working, not taking calls, and if the worst should happen I wouldn't want to see the mobile end up in the water. That's why I didn't think of it, I suppose-I don't normally have it with me on these occasions. I just ran for help, which was less than two or three minutes away, in any event."
"Did you see anyone about? At any time?"
He shook his head. "No."
St. Just sighed. Not much help there. "We'll need a signed statement from you to this effect, of course," he told Sebastian. "Now, you say you didn't know Lexy too well, but the same must not be true of your stepfather, her ex-husband?"
"How would I know what was true of him?" said Sebastian, staring down peevishly at the Persian carpet. "I barely saw him as I was growing up. I was sent away to school, and he was not really interested in 'bonding,' to use that hideous expression, when I was at home. No more was I. Frankly, I was grateful that he didn't come over all fatherly, trying to teach me how to fish or shoot or whatnot."
"He didn't try to be your friend, or anything."
"God, no-not really. That would have been worse, wouldn't it, by far?"
A fate worse than death. St. Just supposed he could see the boy's point of view.
"And your relationship with your mother?"
"What about it?" asked Sebastian, still addressing the carpet. St. Just noticed his hands as they rested on the arms of the chair-gripped the arms, rather. They were a rower's hands, large and capable, to match his rower's physique. Strong shoulders, arms, and legs.
He also had the hard narrow waist of a rower; St. Just could see the muscles of the boy's flat stomach clearly outlined against the thin material of his shirt. St. Just remembered from his own rowing days that it was the best exercise of all, as it worked every muscle in the body. Sebastian, he thought, could practically have choked Lexy one-handed without breaking a sweat.
"Did your mother's marriage to Sir James affect your relationship with her in any way?"
It didn't seem to occur to Sebastian to wonder what this had to do with Lexy's murder. St. Just didn't really know himself, but was trying to get a better sense of this young man.
"Not really. I was at school, as I've told you."
"Was their marriage a success, did you think?"
Sebastian looked genuinely baffled at this question. It surprised him so that he dragged his gaze away from the carpet at last and looked quizzically at St. Just.
"I've really no idea at all. I think so."
St. Just thought, after some reflection, that was probably true. The doings of these two oldies was probably too far outside the boy's realm of interest. St. Just may as well ask Sebastian for his views on the comings and goings of the Hapsburgs.
"But, you must have formed some opinion of James, at least insofar as his appropriateness as a mate for your mother?"
Sergeant Fear also wondered at the direction of St. Just's questions. Did it matter what the boy thought of the parents? He shrugged and continued to jot down notes in case it did.
"I've told you. I rarely saw him or my mother. He's a nice enough chap, I suppose. I got along with him well enough. He was clever, as I said, never to try to play the heavy-handed father bit. You know, come over as all in charge or giving unwanted advice or interfering or anything. Well, he did once try to give me advice on women and that was quite an awful moment, but we shouldered through even that somehow. He talked about how they had to be wooed and courted, for God's sake, like he was reading from some eighteenth-century guide for the gentry. I just let him get it off his chest and then I thanked him kindly. I think he realized it was a failed experiment and it was never repeated."
"So, your love of rowing-not something you got from James, then?"
This was greeted with a snort of derision. "God, no," he said again. "If it doesn't have hooves and a saddle, James is not terribly interested anymore."
Sergeant Fear began to interject a question.
"When you were out in the rowboat, did-"
Sebastian turned to him and said, through gritted teeth, "It is not a rowboat. It is called a scull." A sudden alertness came over the boy as he was turning back around. He cocked his head and said to St. Just, "If that's all, I have to go." He pulled a mobile from a pocket of his jacket and began fiddling with the keys. For this we grew opposable thumbs, thought St. Just, watching him.
"Put that away," he said mildly. "We're not done here."
With elaborate reluctance, Sebastian obeyed. St. Just could almost see the scales in the boy's mind, weighing the pros of getting out and away quickly with the cons of making an enemy of the police. Still, he apparently couldn't resist muttering, "The law has nothing to do with me. Laws were invented by old white men."
St. Just, who had heard many a criminal espouse much the same philosophy, said nothing, refusing to be drawn into this sophomoric debate.
They talked awhile longer with Sebastian but elicited little of note: The young man again insisted that he scarcely knew Lexy. St. Just suddenly wondering where the scull that lay next to Lexy's body had come from, Sebastian reluctantly admitted he always left the boathouse unlocked while he sculled, but locked away the equipment on his return.
"Except this time, of course. I just ran for help."
"Surely that's inviting theft," said St. Just. "To leave the place open while you're on the water."
Sebastian, admitting as much, said it was "too much hassle and besides, I'm not gone all that long." St. Just gathered that as the property wasn't his, Sebastian wasn't overly concerned what happened to it.
As Sebastian was leaving, he stopped and turned back into the room, his tall frame dwarfed by the ancient panel door.
"When will I be able to get back into the boathouse?" he asked. "I'm in training, as I told you. That's why I'm staying over this summer."
"Oh, not the chance to catch up with the parents that's the big draw then?"
Sebastian rolled his eyes and screwed up his face in the time-honored tradition of youthful contempt for the company of elders.
"No," he said flatly.
"A murder investigation takes precedence," St. Just said mildly.
Sebastian had the grace to look abashed. "Of course. Sorry. That came out the wrong way."
Once the door closed behind him, Fear asked, "Why all the questions about James?"
"I'm just trying to get a feel for the dynamics of the family formed when James threw over Lexy for India. There's usually some sort of feeling, you know. Lots and lots of emotion to go 'round, especially among the offspring who are affected by the new arrangements. And yet Sebastian seems to be handling it all with some maturity-or indifference. Assumi
ng he's telling the truth."
"Do you like him for this murder?"
St. Just shrugged.
"It's difficult to say. With that athlete's build, he's more than physically capable. And he is still at an age to waver on the fence between maturity and immaturity. A sudden passion, a flare of hatred, and he might strike out, maybe without the intent to kill… maybe with just the intent to quieten her… maybe she was taunting him somehow… Yes, I can see any and all of that happening with someone like Sebastian. The why is the puzzle."
"Isn't it always."
"He doesn't have an alibi, did you notice?" asked St. Just.
"I did, Sir. He's vouching for himself, him with his fitness routine and his sculling schedule. Lights up or down or whatever it is. There was nothing to prevent him coming back early, at any time, really, and killing her. Certainly, as you say, he has the hands for it."
"Let's have his stepfather in here next."
GOLDEN LADS AND GIRLS: PART II
Sir James was a man dark haired and dark eyed, a complete contrast to his stepson's fairness. He wore glasses with thick, black frames that might have been selected from a manufacturer's "Serious Writer" catalog. He looked shaken, but composed. St. Just had a feeling Sir James would look composed if the college suddenly came under mortar attack. He had the air of a man not only raised up to deal with that sort of thing, but one who might live for the chance to display a little derring-do. A chance to throw on some armor, save England, and rescue his lady fair.
St. Just put these fanciful chivalric ideas aside, invited Sir James to take the chair just vacated by Sebastian, and said, "We've just spoken with your stepson."
"I know. Poor kid. I saw him just now, looking completely gored. This must be a nightmare for him."
"I think you'll find youth is a great restorative in and of itself. He's shaken and trying to hide it, but by tomorrow it may all be a fading memory."
"I'll have a word with my wife. Perhaps we should get him away from here."
"Not anytime very soon, Sir. We'll need everyone to stay around until we're satisfied they have no more to tell us about these tragic events."
"Oh, I see. Yes, quite. Of course. Anything… anything at all… "
"I've heard from other sources a bit about the… somewhat unusual arrangements of this weekend. The fact that Lexy Laurant was your ex-wife. I'd like to hear the circumstances from you."
"I thought you might. But it was years ago, you know, and I can absolutely assure you it could have nothing to do with this… this appalling tragedy."
"You and Lexy were married how long?"
"Three years. We met at the college. Married in haste, as they say."
"I see. And you and your present wife have been together how long?"
"It will soon be seventeen years."
"You also met her while you were here at St. Mike's?"
"Yes. I was here as a visiting scholar. I was here for some time working on a book, you see."
"That all seems clear. Now, as to this weekend get-together: Was this in any way pre-arranged?"
"Did I know Lexy would be here, do you mean?"
"Yes."
"Not until it was too late to prevent her coming. Not that I could have prevented it," he added quickly. "Lexy could be rather headstrong." Seeming to fear that last sentence might be misconstrued, he rushed on, "But only in some ways. Basically, she had a gentle nature." He shook his head reminiscently. "That's what makes this all the more inexplicable to me, that she should… should die like this."
"In what ways was she not headstrong, Sir?"
James just looked at him. This was indeed a poser.
"Never mind, Sir. So you didn't know she would be here, until, presumably, you received the list of attendees from the college." He held out the copy of the list in his own hands.
"That is correct. Well, to be precise, I didn't know until I saw her here. She was quite capable of changing her mind."
"Still, since the invitation went out to all the old members connected with a certain time frame, you knew she would receive an invitation, along with your wife?"
"If I'd thought about it, yes."
"And did you, Sir? Think about it?"
"Fleetingly, perhaps. I must tell you, Lexy was always heard to say, and loudly, that she detested this place, so my thinking about it would consist of cataloguing all the reasons she would almost certainly not be here."
"But, as it turns out, you were wrong."
He smiled bleakly; the skin under his eyes was smudged with dark shadows. "Yes."
"And your wife's reaction to finding out that Lexy was going to be here?"
"She wasn't exactly pleased, of course. What woman would be? But India is a sensible soul. She soon decided she would simply rise to the occasion. Meaning, ignore it. She could afford to."
"No jealousy, then?"
"Good lord, no. India-Lady Bassett-is too level-headed for that, I tell you. Plus, she has no reason whatsoever to doubt me, no reason for jealousy-over Lexy or anyone else, for that matter."
St. Just allowed a long pause. When James did not elaborate further on his complete devotion to his present wife, St. Just went on:
"You had no residual feeling for Lexy, then."
The man heaved an enormous sigh, as if he'd been expecting-and dreading?-this very question.
"I was fond of her, of course. I suppose one always retains a vestige of fondness for someone who reminds one of one's youth. We were young together, and happy, and in love-for a time. One can't pretend those years never existed. But I had 'moved on,' as the parlance goes. I'm afraid I thought seldom of Lexy these days, if at all. Awful thing to say now, I know, but it is the truth."
"Now, this evening, when you heard of her death, what did you do?"
"I simply could not believe it. I thought Seb must be mistaken."
"But you went to investigate."
"It was rather a reflex action. But really, the situation couldn't be ignored while we stood about sipping our port, could it? Although I did gather others were inclined to do just that. Some things about Cambridge never change, you know. Anyway, just to calm Seb I went to have a look. I thought it likely he'd stumbled across a tramp sleeping it off… it was bloody dark out, you know. The moon was hidden behind clouds, and the Bursar has never been one to 'waste' money on electricity." He broke off. "This is just ghastly. There was… a certain amount of talk when I left Lexy for India, you know. It wasn't universally received as joyous news… a lot of jealous old cats here, rather. This will just rake up all the old scandal. The media will have a field day. I can just see the headlines now: 'Killing at Cambridge College.'"
Sergeant Fear looked up. "'Murder at St. Michael's,'" he offered. This earned him a cautioning look from St. Just, tempted as he himself was to enter into the headline game. He and Sergeant Fear often had private bets on how far into bad taste the press might wander over a particular case. More often than not, the pair of them could not begin to anticipate the worst efforts put forth by the members of the media.
"Good God," said James. "I don't suppose you can prevent that in any way?"
"It's doubtful, Sir. It's their job."
"Just imagine, doing that to earn a living."
"Now, Sir, your divorce from Lexy. I'm afraid I'll have to ask."
"It's not germane, I tell you. Ancient history." Off St. Just's look, he subsided. "Oh, very well. What?"
"It was an amicable parting, was it?"
Sir James observed the ceiling, as if the answer might be written there. "I'll be truthful. It was not amicable. I never believe people who say their divorce was, do you? By its definition, divorce means something has gone horribly wrong in a marriage and both sides can barely stand to be in the same room together. In our case… well, I suppose I behaved like a cad. I did behave like a cad-all right, I'll admit it. But I met India and that was it. It was really the most astonishing, life-changing thing. I was mesmerized. Bewitched by her, I suppose some
would say. If I could have helped myself, stopped myself, believe me I would have done so. But I don't think it ever occurred to me that that was an option."
"Do you still feel that way, Sir? No regrets?"
"Utterly and completely. I couldn't bear to be parted from India for a day. So, no-no regrets whatsoever, except that I know it all hurt Lexy. But I simply can't imagine my life without India."
India's motive was looking weaker by the minute, if Sir James was telling the truth. St. Just could sympathize with any man who felt bewitched, since James had well described his own reaction on meeting Portia, not too long ago. Good to know that kind of coup de foudre could lead to lasting love.
"I did wonder," James was saying, "when she turned up with that Argentine fellow."
"Geraldo Valentiano. Yes?"
"I just mean to say, I can't really see him wanting to harm Lexy, can you? I gathered the impression they didn't know each other that well, or for that long. You had to know Lexy to-"
"To what, Sir? Hate her?"
Back-pedaling madly, Sir James said, "She was highly strung, Inspector. Anyone can tell you that. Even so, it is impossible to imagine her doing anything that could provoke him to that extent. A lover's quarrel? Well, the hot-tempered Latino is rather a cliche, is it not? And quite undeserved, in my experience. Anyway, in this case, he doesn't strike me as showing much interest outside himself."
St. Just thought that a fair and accurate assessment of the Argentine's baseline character, but was less willing to give Geraldo a free pass in the hot-tempered department.
Sergeant Fear looked up from his notebook.
"What was Lexy's attitude towards him? Valentiano, I mean?"
James looked first to St. Just before answering:
"That's rather a good question. I'm not sure I can say. She seemed-my impression only, you understand-but she seemed to regard him as decorative more than anything else. Of course, that may be a bit of prejudice on my part: He was a damnably good-looking man. Always did get my back up, that type."
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