"Sir James-he took an awful chance."
"Not really. He planned things to the minute, and I think we'll find he did a bit of research on establishing time of death." He paused, thinking of Malenfant's grisly little lecture from France-breaking away from his game of boules or his cafe lounging or his mistress-on the temperature of the brain and how the eyes of a dead person are the first to "go." He had rattled off something about Rouleaux or boxcar formation in the eyes, as well as a mention of potassium levels.
"Suffice it to say," St. Just said aloud, "time of death cannot be determined precisely to the minute, although I daresay scientists are working on that. Sir James could easily have gotten away with pretending she was alive when she had in fact been dead about twenty minutes."
Outside, although well after nine-thirty, dusk was just showing at the edges of the day. It would be Lighting Up soon-a phrase he'd never hear again without thinking of Lexy Laurant, the woman who could light up a room. A shadow emerged from the trees just then, resolving into the forms of India and Geraldo. She was leaning against the wide trunk of an old shade tree, head flung back in accepted romantic heroine fashion, as Geraldo leaned in close, murmuring something-no doubt sweet nothings-his arms pinning her in place. She didn't seem to mind.
As if reading his thoughts, a talent Portia seemed to have developed rather quickly in their relationship, she said, "I wonder how India's going to cope? Stiff upper lip and all that, but that can carry one only so far. The scandal is what's going to kill someone like her."
He turned from the window and smiled, lifting his glass in a toast.
"Oh, I daresay she'll get over it." -- It was late afternoon on a cold Spring day-freezing cold, the sun a silver-white disc against a sky nearly stripped of clouds by a steady wind. The river was choppy enough for there to have been discussion of postponing the race, but in the end it was decided to carry on regardless. Crowds, the largest on record, lined the Thames for the University Boat Race from Putney to Mortlake.
Sebastian Burrows was in the Blue Boat. What he couldn't get over, what he couldn't quite believe himself, was that not only was he in the Blue Boat, he was the stroke. All the months of training had finally led to this. All the early-morning practices, where he had often passed couples in dinner jackets and long dresses just coming home from a night of partying. All the weekends spent freezing on the Fens, enduring the bleak monotony of training on the River Great Ouse. All the punishing sessions on the erg. Before the race was over, he knew his lungs would be searing, his brain scrambling for oxygen, his legs surging with lactate. It wasn't uncommon for rowers to pass out at the end of a race.
Augie Cramb, he knew, would be waiting on the bridge to see Cambridge "beat the bejesus out of Oxford," as Augie put it. Augie had probably been standing on the bridge all day to keep his place. His mother said she couldn't make it. But never mind that. That much Sebastian was used to.
He knew he was lucky. Far, far luckier than he deserved, and he was smart enough to be thankful. They hadn't sent him down, for one thing. That Inspector had fixed it, but only, he'd said, because Seb had turned himself in. Because he'd come back for Saffron's sake. The whole scheme with the alcohol he'd now put firmly in his past. The Inspector said it would stay that way if Seb kept out of trouble-otherwise St. Just would come down on him like the hounds of hell. Seb believed him. That expression about the iron hand in the velvet glove: That, he thought, was St. Just.
They were getting ready to start the race. The Light Blues were heavier than their rivals this year. The heavier boat was thought to have an edge, but that wasn't a given. They were good this year, thought Sebastian. Really, really good. They could do this. Barring an accident, barring a clash. If the wind would cooperate. He flexed his arms, resettled his hands on the oar. He stole a sideways look at Oxford. God, but those guys were tall. Then, remembering what the coach had said about positive thinking: Wimps! he telegraphed. Wankers!
The noise was deafening, the excited crowd already screaming in anticipation. Television helicopters roared overhead. A flotilla of assorted support vessels bobbed about, ready to add to the cacophony. All his senses were on high alert as he waited, trying to focus on nothing but the first stroke.
He looked at Saffron, sitting behind the cox-box. She looked back calmly, adjusting her microphone, waiting for the signal. Suddenly the wind pushed the boat about and her hand shot up to warn the umpire they weren't ready. The boat straightened, she lowered her hand.
Into the microphone she said, "Okay, we're straight. Oxford's hand is up… Now his hand is down. Boys, we're ready."
She gave Seb a slow wink. She'd broken off with him in Michaelmas Term and he'd spent most of Lent Term trying to win her back. She had changed, or perhaps he had, but the events surrounding the murder of Lexy Laurant seemed to have fundamentally altered Saffron. She was less girl, more woman now. And to possess her seemed to Sebastian the only thing in life worth achieving.
Sometimes, as just now, he thought maybe he was still in with a chance, but then he'd see her walking down Jesus Lane or King's Parade with some tall, handsome bloke or other. She was suddenly very popular, was Saffy. It was driving him crazy.
Don't think about that now.
He took a deep breath.
Concentrate on the first stroke.
He heard the umpire shout, "ATTENTION… GO!"
And they were off.
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Death at the Alma Mater sm-3 Page 23