Deadly Misconduct

by R. J. Amos

  I felt I was paying a penance of some sort. I wanted to run back to The Lemon Tree and tell Jan, ‘I’m sorry, you’re right, there’s nothing to look into at all. I’ll just stop worrying about it.’ But that would be giving up on my integrity. I believed that Conneally’s death was strange, that maybe it was even murder, and I couldn’t just shove something like that under the mat. I wanted Jan and Nate to take me seriously, I wanted to be right about this.

  Which was bad, wasn’t it? The thing was, it would be better (in the big picture) if I was wrong about the whole situation, and that no-one had committed a murder. But I was sure I was right. I just needed to find some evidence.

  There was a newspaper on my table and I picked it up and flicked through it looking for anything that might be about Conneally’s death. On page four I saw the tiniest little paragraph:

  Death a Shock for Conference Goers

  Professor James Conneally, (61) from England passed away suddenly while attending a dinner at the International Biosciences Conference in Hobart on Thursday night. His death is believed to be of natural causes. ‘He will be sorely missed,’ stated Dr Ken Jones of The University of Tasmania ‘it will be a great loss to the biochemistry community.’ Professor Conneally was once an employee of The University of Tasmania but has since moved to Cambridge University where he investigated the causes and treatment of Motor Neurone Disease. A report is being prepared for the Coroner.

  Well, that was no help. It didn’t give me any information I didn’t already know. The journalist had not even been nosey enough to find out about the tension between Conneally and Brasindon. Was I the only one thinking it was strange how he died?

  Well, yes. Yes I was.

  What was wrong with me?

  The café had been filling up as I had been musing to myself and I looked up from the newspaper to find an impeccably dressed English woman asking to share my table. And being me, I couldn’t say no.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, like it was all I had ever wanted. Like sharing my quiet coffee table with a complete stranger was the first thing on my bucket list. But then I realised it was a good thing, because the tall, slim, ramrod straight lady in the peach and grey twin suit with the string of pearls, her greying hair tied up in a tight bun, and a red slash of lipstick defining her downturned mouth, was Mrs Brasindon. I knew her from the conference dinner – she had been sitting on the VIP table next to her husband. Sitting still and upright and not talking to anyone around her. She had fallen into my lap (so to speak; it might have made conversation a little more difficult if that were literally the case) and I took her presence to be a sign from the heavens and started investigating.

  I pointed out the newspaper article and introduced myself and made noises about how I was a delegate at the conference, and wasn’t it a dreadful thing to have happened.

  ‘I suppose it was,’ she responded, ‘but I can’t say I’m sorry that Conneally is dead.’

  ‘Oh ... um ... you didn’t like him much then?’ I was a bit taken aback by how cold she was.

  ‘Do I look like the kind of person who would ‘like’ someone like him? I don’t think so.’

  ‘I didn’t realise he was so awful, I’m sorry, I didn’t know him very well.’ I mean, I was willing to go and work for him, but one conversation about work options in the future doesn’t count as a meaningful relationship, does it?

  Mrs Brasindon’s order arrived – loose-leaf tea in a red china pot, and a jug of milk on the side. Maybe this place should have been called a tea-shop and not a coffee-shop – they obviously took more care with their tea.

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Brasindon, slightly mollified by the appearance of a proper teapot, ‘he didn’t show his real character to most people. People are very happy to look at the jolly exterior and ignore his avarice and poor work practices.’

  ‘I thought that, forgive me, but I thought that Professor Brasindon and Professor Conneally were long time friends ...’

  ‘They’ve been colleagues for a long time, but I would not say that they were friends. When I see how that Conneally hurt my husband, well, how could we be friends? I ask you.’ Then she tutted – she actually tutted. Properly English.

  ‘He was treated badly then?’

  ‘I probably shouldn’t say anything, but I can’t let everyone think he was an angel. You would think so, the way people are talking.’

  ‘They always do that after someone dies, don’t they? The person immediately gets put on a pedestal – the good is magnified and the bad is forgotten.’

  ‘I don’t have enough good to remember for that to happen. No, I prefer to think of people, alive or dead, for who they really are.’

  It took a bit of wangling and working but I finally got the story out of Mrs Brasindon. It would have been so much easier if I were a detective. I had to pretend that I cared, and for someone like this ice-block of a woman that wasn’t easy to do. But in the end she told me what she was so upset about.

  ‘Conneally decided that he and my husband should do a joint funding application. That they had worked in the same area for so long that they would have a better chance of getting the funding – some centre of excellence or institute for something – or – other – if they worked together.’

  ‘Did it work? Was it successful?’

  ‘What didn’t work was the ‘work together’ part. My husband did all the application work. He slaved for the funding, worked his fingers to the bone. Conneally did nothing. Nothing that I could see. But does that get taken into account when funding is approved? Not one bit. If the money was distributed according to who had done the most work, then my husband would be receiving all of it, but no, there was Conneally demanding half of the money, demanding “his share”. It makes me furious.’

  And there was the motive. More motive even than I had seen before. Money. It’s always about money. If Professor Brasindon was half as angry as his wife then I could see anything happening.

  ‘How does Professor Brasindon feel about all that? It sounds very unfair, I bet he was upset when he heard how it was all going to pan out.’ That’s me, putting on my best TV detective impression.

  ‘Oh no, not my husband. He is so generous, so kind natured.’

  ‘Oh, that’s ... good.’

  I didn’t know what to say, this picture of Brasindon was so different to the picture I had in my head. I tried to keep an open mind but to accept this picture, well, my mind might have to be so open that my brains fell out!

  ‘Yes, my husband only cares about the research. He is completely dedicated. In fact, he was very happy to have the funding approved and he told me that he didn’t mind where the research would be conducted, as long as it was being performed so that science would benefit.’

  ‘Wow. He sounds like a very good man.’

  Too good to be true, really. It was a bit like Lizzie Bennett meeting Mr Darcy’s housekeeper at Pemberley. Which picture of Professor Brasindon was correct? The jealous, enraged murderer, or the dedicated generous researcher?

  ‘He’s a caring, considerate man. He looks after me, looks after his students.’

  ‘He has good relationships with his students then?’

  ‘Yes, but just as a teacher – a good supervisor, nothing like that Conneally. His poor wife is probably much better off now.’

  I nodded encouragingly, like I had been for the whole conversation, and then the words filtered into my brain and I shook my head to clear it.

  ‘I’m sorry, what do you mean? Isn’t she worse off?’

  ‘Well, I don’t mean to be a gossip ...’

  No, of course not.

  ‘But the man treated her dreadfully. Have you seen how he flirts with all his students? I’m sure there was something going on between him and that girl Lisa – she’s always wearing those high skirts and low tops – just trying to get her degree by, well do I need to say? I’m sure you know how these tarty girls get their way. She’s just the type. And he’s the type to let it all happen. His
poor wife, having to put up with that. If I were in her place, well, let’s just say I’d be happier now that he’s dead.’

  I didn’t really know what to say to that. I decided that Professor and Mrs Brasindon were well suited they were both as unpleasant as each other. I didn’t like either of them. I was ready to exit this conversation, investigation or no investigation.

  And then things got worse.

  ‘Why are you talking to her?’

  I looked up and there was Professor Brasindon himself looking at me like I was a slug that his wife had pulled out of the garden. Obviously he recognised me. I really should have been more careful about opening my big mouth after his presentation. I should have at least made sure he wasn’t anywhere around.

  ‘Darling, this is Dr Alicia Conway ...’

  ‘I don’t care what her name is, I don’t understand why you are talking to her.’

  ‘Well, I was just explaining to her how that horrible Conneally has mistreated you with the funding application. And that we’re better off now that he’s gone.’

  ‘You know nothing. We were perfectly placed to work together on the project. Now he is gone the funding has fallen through and I will have to start the messy business of funding applications all over again. But why I’m explaining this to her,’ he nodded in my general direction, ‘I don’t know. It’s none of anyone’s business. We’re leaving. Now.’

  Mrs Brasindon took a last sip of her tea and calmly gathered her things. Then without so much as a glance at me she followed her husband out of the café.

  And I sat, feeling like I had been hit by a brick.

  I could see that I might have been a bit hasty in accusing Brasindon of murder and I was, to be honest, a little more worried about what Nate and Jan would be thinking of me. If Conneally had been murdered now I could see that there might be a second very reasonable motive. If I thought back through the week, taking Mrs Brasindon’s gossip into account, I could see that Conneally had taken special notice of Lisa – mentioning her several times in his talk, to the point where Trudy, Misaki and I had found it noteworthy and discussed it in the break after Conneally’s lecture.

  ‘I’m just wondering who the student “Lisa” is that he kept talking about?’ asked Trudy.

  ‘She’s that girl just over there – the one in the heels. Robbie introduced us before you turned up.’

  ‘Well, he thinks she’s the best thing since sliced bread. She’s definitely his pet student.’

  ‘I hear that they are closer than they should be just for work,’ said Misaki, ‘when there’s a group party or drinks after work those two are always there and they are always the last two left ...’

  ‘Surely that’s just gossip though, maybe the group is just jealous of her success,’ I said.

  ‘Where there’s smoke there’s fire,’ said Trudy, ‘I mean, look at the length of her skirt! Or is it a belt? And her earrings.’

  ‘Hmmm, maybe. We don’t all have to give up on fashion, just because we’re academics.’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Alicia? Are you saying we’re all dowdy here?’

  I looked at my friends – Trudy was wearing white capri pants, and an aqua long top over a white singlet. Her strawberry-blonde hair fell in loose curls down her back. Misaki’s cat shaped earrings fell just below her glossy black hair. She wore a pink shirt with white polkadots and black shorts and sandals. They both out-did me – I was in my normal jeans and t-shirt, my uniform for almost every situation, my mousey brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. I always felt tall and bland and awkward around them. Not that I was a giant or anything, but I wasn’t the petite and skinny class of person and there was no point in dressing like I was.

  ‘Well, obviously, I wasn’t talking about you at all – maybe about me. But you know the stereotypical female scientist that’s totally given up on worrying about her looks. Wears an ill-fitting plaid suit for news interviews and such. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen anyone like that for a while.’

  ‘Nice cover, Alicia,’ Trudy laughed, ‘so glad you could get yourself out of that hole.’

  ‘But we don’t need to wear such high heels. We can look good and still be able to walk,’ said Misaki, sticking to the subject, ‘I wonder what she wears in the lab.’

  ‘I think it’s amazing that we are even talking about this,’ I waved towards a group of guys grabbing themselves extra muffins, ‘look at Robbie in his daggy shorts and t-shirt. Doesn’t bother him a bit.’

  ‘Oh the trials of being a female scientist,’ said Trudy and we all agreed.

  So it was possible that something was going on between Lisa and Conneally. Misaki had thought so. And if Brasindon was telling the truth, Conneally’s death was more of an inconvenience for him than a triumph, there wasn’t as much motive there as I had thought. If you really thought about it, Brasindon and Conneally were separated by the entire length of the VIP table. It would have been very difficult for Brasindon to get anything on to Conneally’s plate without someone noticing. Conneally’s wife, however, was sitting right next to him as he flirted with all the students flocking around the table. It might have been all too much, and it would have been so easy for her to poison the food.

  If Nate looked into this at all, it was possible I had sent him in the wrong direction.This line of inquiry had reached a dead end. I needed to change my investigation and look into the possibility of an affair.

  I realised that I would need to get moving. If I was going to talk with anyone from the conference I had to track them down before they left the state and went back home. It was a good thing that it was a weekend – I hoped that people had taken the chance to look around a bit before leaving.

  So where were people likely to be on a Saturday? Well, there was only one place any self-respecting tourist would be on a sunny Saturday in Hobart – that would be the Salamanca Market. That was an easy answer to all of my problems. All I had to do was wander down to Salamanca Place and bump into people. And I might even pick up something nice while I was there – or at the very least, eat some olliebollen. Sometimes multi-tasking was just too much fun.

  I walked from the café down into the market, enjoying the view of the crowds milling around and the multi coloured umbrellas on the stalls contrasting with the lovely old sandstone buildings on one side and the fresh greenery on the avenue of trees on the other. Then there was the view of the wharf, the old-fashioned tall ships with their masts sticking up higher than the wharf buildings. The smell of cooking from the food vans mingled with the smell of salt water. The sound of conversation mingled with the music from the various buskers, wafting, now louder, now softer on the breeze. Occasionally I could even hear the bagpipes warming up in the park before their weekly concert.

  There are some days when I am totally sure that I live in the most beautiful place in the world. Today was without doubt one of those days. The crisp, clean air almost sparkled in the sunlight and you could feel the warmth of summer on the way. I moved into the market and made my way to the olliebollen stall. These Dutch donuts, fruity dough balls deep-fried and coated in icing sugar, always reminded me of my childhood. They were the staple food of the Olliebollen Festival – my school fair. Back then they were a treat that we partook of once a year, and as I savoured the sweet doughy goodness, I figured they should definitely remain a ‘sometimes food’.

  I walked past the stalls of knitted goods, children’s handmade toys, pottery, and sweet smelling Huon pine woodwork. I enjoyed watching the people as much as checking out the goods. After all, I wasn’t actually there to buy anything.

  There was one stall where I had hoped to spend very little time. But as these things often happen, there was Robbie, right at the one place I wanted to avoid, and he was enthralled.

  ‘How can you stand this place?’ I asked by way of a greeting.

  ‘Oh hi. The spiders? Isn’t it brilliant. Look at that huge one there.’

  These stall holders made their money by catching spiders,
scorpions, and other bugs and encasing them in a glow-in-the-dark polymer. There were gearstick knobs containing scorpions, computer mice with larger arachnids encased within them, and then huge huntsman spiders and wolf spiders framed and ready to hang on your wall. Can you imagine having a plate-sized spider framed and hanging on your lounge room wall? Who would do that? Why would you want to? Around the outside of the tent were ropes hung with smaller arachnids encased in bracelets and necklaces ... It made my blood run cold.

  ‘No. Brilliant is not how I’d describe this place. Not my cup of tea.’

  ‘I’ve just bought two bracelets for my nieces back home. They’ll freak out. It’s going to be a fun Christmas this year. I would love to buy that big one there but I really don’t have room in my luggage. It’s a shame.’

  ‘Can’t see it. Honestly? It’s so gross, I feel sick just being here. Do you have your bracelets yet? Can we move on?’

  ‘They’re just wrapping them now. I could stay here all day, but I guess there’s more to see.’

  ‘Sure is. And all of it better than this stall, if you ask me.’

  We wandered through the market together. I was glad it was Robbie that I had run into. I wanted to check on him after Thursday night. Robbie usually kept his soul nicely tucked inside him under so many layers that a stranger might think he didn’t have a soul at all. But on Thursday I had been able to see the pain in his eyes, and it was a big worry. However, now it looked like Robbie’s soul was nicely tucked back away inside where it wouldn’t bother others, and probably wouldn’t bother him either. He didn’t seem to be suffering any grief or remorse from the death of Conneally at all. I’m not sure, thinking about it, whether that was a better state of affairs as far as Robbie’s total wellbeing went, but it was more normal.

  ‘How are you feeling after, you know, the last week?’ I asked.