by Richard King
She paused again, either because she had nothing more to say or because she didn’t want to say anything more, and stared at us.
I considered it rude to stare back so I looked around her office. It was smaller than Hilliard’s, her academic status being much lower. There was just room for the three of us. Gaston was sitting facing her and I was to her left at the corner of her desk. If a fourth person wanted to join our conversation he would have had to stand outside in the hall with the door open. Her desk was centred against the back wall and pushed forward so that there was just enough room for her chair. She could only back up so far before she hit the wall. The desk itself was standard-issue grey metal. There was a mass of papers spread over it along with a pencil cup, a telephone and a bottle of Naya water. To her right, our left, was a window that started about halfway up the wall. The window ledge served as a table; there were more papers and books stacked on it and in the corner, where the window ledge met the wall, a printer and laptop computer. Hers, I assumed and I almost blurted out something about the computer but I held my tongue as I figured that Gaston would ask about it at the appropriate time. Other than the window and the door all available wall space was taken up by bookshelves, and they were crowded with books and papers. Miller-More’s office was almost as messy as the murder scene — and she was still alive. I wondered what kind of household she and Hilliard would have had if they had married. She was as compulsively messy as he was compulsively neat. On the floor next to her desk on her left — our right — and directly in front of me was an old leather briefcase. It was open at the top and I tried to get a peek inside but all I saw was more papers.
If she meant the silence to be intimidating it didn’t work. Gaston seemed lost in thought during the break in the conversation. Finally he said, “We don’t meant to intrude, but there are questions we have to ask if we are to catch the murderer.”
Jane took a drink from her water bottle, regarded us neutrally and said, “Please ask your questions.” I gathered from her tone that she wanted to add, “and then get out of here and leave me alone,” but didn’t. Maybe I misjudged her but she seemed to have gotten over her earlier emotional reaction to Hilliard’s death. Whatever she was feeling when we first started talking to her was well under control now.
“You said you and Professor Hilliard were considering marriage at one time?”
“That’s right. But it didn’t work out. And then I met Fred —”
“Fred is Fred More, the dean?” I interjected so that Gaston would know who the players were.
Jane nodded and continued “… and we got married two years ago. It was two years in July.”
“But you remained on good terms with Professor Hilliard?” Gaston continued.
“Yes, of course. Hal and I were almost better friends than lovers even when we were together. He was a hard man to get close to emotionally but he was a wonderful friend and colleague.” She took a deep breath. “There was no animosity over our break-up. I guess we wanted different things out of life.”
“So you saw him frequently?”
“Oh, yes. At least three times a week. We would talk here in the department or we would have coffee together. Once in a rare while we would have lunch or dinner.”
“So you only saw him on campus, never at his apartment?”
“I don’t think I’ve been to his place since we stopped seeing each other, if you know what I mean. I didn’t think it would be right somehow.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Friday, certainly. We had coffee and discussed a book on French capitalism we had both read. He was writing a review of it for the French Historical Quarterly. I saw him briefly on Monday, just to say hello but not more than that.”
“You didn’t see him on Monday, the day he …” Gaston let the sentence hang to see how Professor Miller-More reacted.
“… died,” she finished the sentence for him.
She shook her head, then again stopped and stared, waiting for Gaston to continue. Most people are intimidated by silence and will say almost anything to keep a conversation going. I knew that Gaston liked to use silences to get suspects and witnesses to talk. The tactic didn’t work with Miller-More; she didn’t mind the pauses in conversation at all.
“That’s strange,” Gaston said. “Several people saw you walking out of the secretary’s office early on Monday morning. I was also told that you had lunch together the Friday before he was murdered.”
“Not together. We were at the faculty club at about the same time but I wasn’t with Hal. I was having lunch with my husband. It’s possible that I saw him in the morning when I went to the reception area to get a cup of coffee. That’s where the departmental coffee pot is kept, near to the offices of the tenured professors.”
“I see,” Gaston commented, but I wasn’t sure what it was that he saw. “I just have a few more questions. We have not been able to locate Professor Hilliard’s computer, his laptop. It may have been stolen. I was told it was small — about the size of that one.” He indicated the computer on the table under the window.
Miller-More turned her head to look at the computer and said, “Yes, his is almost identical to mine, but his was white.” Hers was black.
“So you know what it looked like?”
“Yes, of course. We live and die by our computers these days. Everything is on them. Our research notes, articles, even books and dissertations. And of course we all communicate by e-mail.”
“You mean you communicate with someone in the next office by e-mail?” Gaston was incredulous. Apparently he could not understand the virtues of technology. He would probably just go to the next office and talk to the person.
“Well, yes, sometimes, but not only the next office; all scholars from everywhere communicate with each other on the Internet. I correspond with historians all over the world; so did Hal.”
“Interesting. But you are telling me that you don’t know where Professor Hilliard’s computer would be, correct?”
“That’s right. I haven’t seen it.”
Gaston stood up and so did I. “Thank you very much for your time. I’m sure none of this has been pleasant for you. Can you tell me how to reach your husband? I have a few questions for him as well.”
“Fred? Why?” She looked doubtful. “I don’t think Fred will be able to help you. He and Hal didn’t have much contact, really, and his office isn’t in this building.”
“I understand that your husband is a dean. He may be able to help us with some of the practical aspects of Professor Hilliard’s life here. An overview, so to speak.”
“Well, if you say so. I’ll call him.”
She picked up her phone and dialled a four-digit number. “Hi darling, it’s me. I’m with a police detective. He’s investigating Harold’s death and he wants to talk to you, about departmental politics, I think, or … I don’t know what, really. I’ll get his number and you can call him back later. See you at home.”
While she was speaking into the phone I took another look around the room. I had a better view of things standing than I did sitting at the corner of her desk. Like Hilliard she had a lot of books crammed into her office. Unlike Hilliard, she didn’t seem to keep her collection in any particular order. A fat volume on the table against the wall. looked familiar.
She hung up and looked sheepishly at us and said, “Voice mail.” We needed no further explanation. Gaston took out a business card and gave it to her, after writing his cellphone number on the back.
“Do you have the complete Cambridge History of England” I had wandered over to have a look, and immediately my eye had lighted on a single volume of that interesting series. I picked up the book and showed it to her.
Jane Miller-More turned and held out her hand for it, almost peremptorily, as if I had no right to touch it. I gave it to her and she folded her arms over it, holding it to her chest as if it was precious. “No, I don’t, “she replied.
“That’s a coi
ncidence. There is a volume in that series missing from Professor Hilliard’s office.”
Jane relaxed and smiled very slightly. “Who are you? The book police?”
“This is no laughing matter, madame,” Gaston informed her. “Anything and everything associated with the victim is important until the murderer is apprehended.”
“Yes. Of course. Well, you’ve found the missing book. This is Hal’s, or I should it was Hal’s. It’s mine now, because I spilled coffee on it. He wouldn’t take it back so I had to buy him a new one. He was fastidious about his books. He barely cracked the bindings when he read them. In fact I ordered it at your store,” she said looking at me.
“Oh,” I said noncommittally. I didn’t want to let on that we already knew that she had ordered the book from Dickens & Company.
“Isn’t it a little out of your field?” Gaston asked. “I thought your speciality was French history?”
“It is. I’ve been assigned to teach the freshman survey course next year, you know, history from the primeval slime to the present time, and I need to brush up on all the areas which are not my speciality. That includes sixteenth-century England.”
“That would include Henry VIII, wouldn’t it?” Gaston asked. He was slipping into his book-loving persona.
“It sure would. The students always love that period. They’re used to movies and mini-series and they’ll really enjoy Henry and his wives and his Lord Chancellor, sort of a sixteenth-century Dallas.”
“Ah yes, conscience versus expediency. Things haven’t changed much, have they?” I could see that Gaston was ready to sit down and have a discussion about British history.
Jane Miller-More looked at her watch. Gaston might have been warming up to a good chat about the past but she obviously had things to do.
We thanked Professor Miller-More again, expressed sympathy for her loss and left her office. I almost added that I hoped that she would be spared future sorrow but I wasn’t sure that was appropriate.
Between her office and the front entrance of the Elwitt Building there was an alcove with two chairs in it and a narrow window. I stopped and sat down in one of the chairs and asked, “Did you come too the same conclusion I did?”
“And that conclusion would be …?” Gaston inquired, taking the vacant chair.
“That she killed Hilliard.”
“Are you certain?” he asked, teasing me.
“Well, look at the evidence. Hilliard is bashed on the head. He realizes he’s dying and in the second or so he has left of consciousness he grabs the special order form knowing that the book named on it will be found in the murderer’s office. It’s like pointing a finger right at her,” I explained.
“Well, it’s certainly suggestive, but inconclusive. We need a lot more evidence to convict someone of murder. But you’re right, it does point a finger at her. But, as you know, I’ve learned not to form to conclusions until I’ve interviewed all the suspects and all the witnesses and gathered as much evidence as I can. We haven’t done that yet. And I still think the secretary is holding out on us. She seems a lot more suspicious than Professor Miller-More. We may have reason to suspect the professor but we know that the Ford woman is lying to us about something. Believe me, witnesses who lie make me a lot more suspicious than those who spill coffee on books.”
Hah! I thought. You just like the professor because she’s read as many books as you. I also knew that Gaston was the expert and, of course, I respected his judgement.
“Let’s take one step at a time,” he said, getting up, and as we walked down the hall to the entrance area Gaston’s pocket began to ring. There was a time when I would have considered a ringing pocket to be odd, but not now. So many people carry cell phones around that once-quiet places such as restaurants and bookstores are now a cacophony of ringing pockets, brief cases and purses. Gaston answered his phone and listened, restoring the hallway of the Elwitt building to its academic quiet.
I could only hear his end of the conversation in French but after an interminable string of oui-non-ouinon-c’est possible he told someone to have someone else available at the deceased’s apartment at ten the following morning.
“We’ve found the cleaning woman, Betty Smith,” he said to me, folding his cellphone and repocketing it. “I want to interview her tomorrow morning at the Professor’s apartment. An idea just occurred to me. Let’s have a final word with Madame Ford.”
We turned and walked back to the history department.
We found Ms. Ford at her desk.
“What do you want now?” she asked in exasperation.
“A final request before we leave. Because you were on the scene of the murder, you are extremely important to the investigation. I’m sorry to impose on you further,” Gaston was being elaborately courteous and anyone but Arlene would have been glad to help such a gracious person. She, however, continued to look frosty. “But would it be possible for you to meet us at Professor Hilliard’s apartment tomorrow morning? I hope that would not be inconvenient.”
“Of course it’s inconvenient. I have a job. I can’t just go waltzing off whenever I feel like it, can I?”
“I understand. But I still have some questions for you and have to do a last survey of the apartment before we release it to the deceased’s family and it will be easier for me if I can meet with you as I finish up there. I can speak to your boss and explain that I am causing you to be absent from work due to a police investigation and that we appreciate your co-operation.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll take care of it myself. When do I have to be there again?”
“Ten-thirty would be fine. Do you have the address?”
“Of course I have it. I gave it to you, remember?”
“Yes, of course,” Gaston said. “I’d like to see Professor Michaels on my way out. Please tell me where his office is.” She gave us directions and we followed them to Michaels’s office. Luckily he was in. His office was, if anything, even smaller than Miller-More’s. If what I had heard was correct Michaels would soon be moving, but out rather than up.
He didn’t appear to be very happy about our visit. But you can’t say no to a cop so he invited us in. “Arlene mentioned that you might be coming back to haunt us. I have a class in half an hour but I’m all yours until then. But I don’t think I can tell you any more than I told you the other day.”
“There is one more thing,” Gaston said. “I’ve come to understand that Hilliard wrote an unfavourable review of a book you wrote and that this could hurt your career.”
“Who the hell told you that?” Michaels exclaimed, almost shouting.
“I ask the questions,” Gaston informed him. “It doesn’t matter who. Is it true or not?”
“I don’t know. I’ve heard rumours to that effect but I haven’t seen the review. You have to understand something. Most of my colleagues hate me. They think I’m too ambitious and not respectful enough so they take every opportunity they can to chip away at me, especially the older ones.”
“So you’re saying that there was no negative review — that it’s just that your colleagues don’t like you? Is that correct?” asked Gaston.
“What I’m saying,” Michaels spoke slowly, barely able to restrain his anger, “is that I don’t know if Hilliard wrote a negative review or not. It wouldn’t matter anyway because I can show dozens of good reviews to counter his bad review — assuming it exists. He’d end up looking foolish, not me.”
“But surely a bad review coming from you own department is bad for your career.”
“I’m telling you that there is no reason to assume that even if he wrote such a thing, and there is no guarantee that it would be published. Maybe he wrote a critique and showed it around the department but couldn’t find a journal to publish it. You’ve got to understand universities. People rarely attack you directly. Everybody tries to pretend that they’re your friend. But then they damn you with faint praise. Things like ‘let’s help poor so-and-so with his writing or his
research or his teaching or whatever.’ It looks like they’re being supportive but what they’re really saying is that you are incompetent. And that’s how they treat me. But it’s not going to work. My reputation outside this department is too good for them to destroy.”
“I see,” said Gaston noncommittally.
“I hope you do,” said Michaels. “Now if you’ll excuse me.” He stood up and we preceded him out of his office.
“I may want to see you again,” Gaston called after Michaels, who was already stamping off to his class. To me he said, “What was your impression of his colleagues? Were they damning him with faint praise as he suggests?” We talked as we walked to the door of the building.
“Not Sally Howard. She seemed genuinely surprised by what Schwartz and Edwards said. But those two did seem kind of patronizing. Appearing to want to help when they really didn’t.”
“Hmm,” Gaston agreed. “This place seems to be quite a nest of vipers, no?” and with that we left the building.
We paused at the Roddick Gates, the Sherbrooke Street entrance to the McGill campus, before going our separate ways.
“What’s your plan for tomorrow morning?” I asked.
“You’ll see tomorrow. Meet me at the professor’s apartment at nine-thirty.”
I had no idea what was going to happen except that it involved the cleaning woman and Arlene Ford. I wondered if I was going to witness the unmasking of a murderess. My voyeuristic side was excited by the prospect. I did not like Arlene Ford and I was looking forward to seeing her get what she deserved.
chapter fourteen
I walked into the store to find a happy buzz of activity. I love it when the store is full of customers and staff talking about and selling books. In charge of all the activity was, of course, Jennifer. She too loved the energy of a busy bookstore and she was glowing.