‘Of course. Now what about Justin? You were closest to him, did you know if he was embroiled in any kind of antagonism with someone? Some wild incident? A grudge that wouldn’t go away?’
‘If you’d ever met Justin you wouldn’t have to ask that. But no . . . he hadn’t annoyed anyone. He wasn’t the type; he was quiet and loved his subject. Not that we were hermits. We went out to parties, and he played a few games for the college, but not at any level which counted. But we were going to make up for all that time apart after . . .’ She tugged a handkerchief out of her sleeve and pressed it against her face. Tears leaked out of tightly closed eyes.
‘I believe that’s sufficient information for now,’ Neill Heller Caesar said, fixing the detective with a pointed gaze.
Gareth Alan Pitchford nodded his acceptance, clearly glad of the excuse to end the questioning. Neill Heller Caesar put his arm round Bethany’s trembling shoulders, and helped guide her from the interview room.
‘Not much to go on,’ the detective muttered gloomily once she was outside. ‘I’d welcome any suggestions.’ He looked straight at Francis, who was staring at the closed door.
‘Have patience. We simply don’t have enough information yet. Though I admit to being mystified as to any possible motive there could be for ending this young man’s life in such a terrifying way. We do so desperately need to uncover what it was that Justin encountered which led to this.’
‘I have a good team,’ the detective said, suddenly bullish. ‘You can depend on our investigation to uncover the truth.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ Francis said with a conciliatory smile. ‘I think my colleague and I have seen enough for tonight. Why don’t we reconvene tomorrow – or, rather, later this morning, to review the case so far. The remaining interviews should be over by then, and forensic ought have finished with Justin’s room.’
‘As you wish,’ the detective said.
Francis said nothing further until we were safely strapped up in his car and driving away from the station. ‘So, my boy, first impressions? I often find them strangely accurate. Human instinct is a powerful tool.’
‘The obvious one is Alexander,’ I said. ‘Which in itself would tend to exclude him. It’s too obvious. Other than that, I’m not sure. None of them has any apparent motive.’
‘An interesting comment in itself.’
‘How so?’
‘You – or your subconscious – hasn’t included anyone else on your suspect list.’
‘It must be someone he knows,’ I said, a shade defensively. ‘If not his immediate coterie, then someone else who was close. We can start to expand the list tomorrow.’
‘I’m sure we will,’ Francis said.
It seemed to me that his mind was away on some other great project or problem. He sounded so disinterested.
*
MURDER. It was the banner scored big and bold across all the street corner newspaper placards, most often garnished with adjectives such as foul, brutal, and insane. The vendors shouted the word in endless repetition, their scarves hanging loosely from their necks as if to give their throats the freedom necessary for such intemperate volume. They waved their lurid journals in the air like some flag of disaster to catch the attention of the hapless pedestrians.
Francis scowled at them all as we drove back to the police station just before lunchtime. The road seemed busier than usual, with horse-drawn carriages and carts jostling for space with cars. Since the law banning combustion engines, electric vehicles were growing larger with each new model; the newest ones were easily recognizable, with six wheels supporting long bonnets that contained ranks of heavy batteries.
‘Those newspapers are utter beasts,’ he muttered. ‘Did you hear, we’ve had to move Justin’s parents from their home so they might grieve in peace? Some reporter tried to pretend he was a relative so he could get inside for an interview. Must be a Short. What is the world degenerating into?’
When we arrived at the station it was besieged with reporters. Flashbulbs hissed and fizzled at everyone who hurried in or out of the building. Somehow Francis’s angry dignity managed to clear a path through the rabble. Not that we escaped unphotographed, or unquestioned. The impertinence of some was disgraceful, shouting questions and comments at me as if I were some circus animal fit only to be provoked. I wished we could have taken our own photographs in turn, collecting their names to have them hauled before their senior editors for censure.
It was only after I got inside that I realized our family must have interests in several of the news agencies involved. Commerce had become the driving force here, overriding simple manners and decency.
We were shown directly to Gareth Alan Pitchford’s office. He had the venetian blinds drawn, restricting the sunlight and, more importantly, the reporters’ view inside. Neill Heller Caesar was already there. He wore the same smart suit and shirt that he’d had on for the interviews. I wondered if he’d been here the whole time, and if we’d made a tactical error by allowing him such freedom. I judged Francis was making the same calculation.
The detective bade us sit, and had one of his secretaries bring round a tray with fresh coffee.
‘You saw the press pack outside,’ he said glumly. ‘I’ve had to assign officers to escort Justin’s friends.’
‘I think we had better have a word,’ Francis said to Neill Heller Caesar. ‘The editors can be relied upon to exert some restraint.’
Neill Heller Caesar’s smile lacked optimism. ‘Let us hope so.’
‘What progress?’ I enquired of the detective.
His mood sank further. ‘A long list of negatives, I’m afraid. I believe it’s called the elimination process. Unfortunately, we’re eliminating down to just about nothing. My team is currently piecing together the movements of all the students at Dunbar preceding the murder, but it’s not a promising avenue of approach. There always seem to have been several people in the corridor outside Mr Raleigh’s room. If anyone had come out, they would have been seen. The murderer most likely did use the window as an exit. Forensic is going over the wisteria creeper outside, but they don’t believe it to be very promising.’
‘What about footprints in the snow directly underneath the window?’
‘The students have been larking about in the quad for days. They even had a small football game during that afternoon, until the lodgekeepers broke it up. The whole area has been well trampled down.’
‘What about someone going in to the room?’ Francis asked. ‘Did the students see that?’
‘Even more peculiar,’ the detective admitted. ‘We have no witness of anyone other than Mr Raleigh going in.’
‘He was definitely seen going in, then?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes. He chatted to a few people in the college on his way up to his room. As far as we can determine, he went inside at about ten past ten. That was the last anyone saw him alive.’
‘Did he say anything significant to any of those people he talked to? Was he expecting a guest?’
‘No. It was just a few simple greetings to his college mates, nothing more. Presumably the murderer was waiting for him.’
‘Justin would have kept those windows closed yesterday,’ I said. ‘It was freezing all day. And if the latch was down, they’d be very difficult to open from the outside, especially by anyone clinging to the creeper. I’m sure a professional criminal could have done it, but not many others.’
‘I concur,’ Francis said. ‘It all points to someone he knew. And knew well enough to open a window for them to get in.’
‘That’s a very wild assumption,’ Neill Heller Caesar said. ‘Someone could simply have gone to his room hours earlier and waited for him. There would have been several opportunities during the day when there was nobody in that corridor outside. I for one refuse to believe it was in use for every second of every minute during the entire afternoon and evening.’
‘The method of entry isn’t too relevant at this time,’ the detective said. ‘We
still have absolutely no motive for the crime.’
I resisted giving Francis a glance. I have to say I considered the method of entry to be extremely relevant. A professional break-in opened up all sorts of avenues. As did Justin opening the window for a friend.
‘Very well,’ Francis said levelly. ‘What is your next step?’
‘Validating the alibis of his closest friends. Once I’m satisfied that they are all telling the truth, then we’ll get them back in for more extensive interviews. They knew him best, and one of them may know something without realising it. We need to review Mr Raleigh’s past week, then month. Six months if that’s what it takes. The motive will be there somewhere. Once we have that, we have the murderer. How they got in and out ceases to be an issue.’
‘I thought all the alibis were secure, apart from Maloney’s,’ Neill Heller Caesar said.
‘Maloney’s can probably be confirmed by his professor,’ the detective said. ‘One of my senior detectives is going out to the chemistry laboratory right away. Which leaves Antony Caesar Pitt with the alibi most difficult to confirm. I’m going to the Westhay Club myself to see if it can be corroborated.’
‘I’d like to come with you,’ I said.
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll go to the chemistry laboratory, if you don’t mind,’ Neill Heller Caesar said.
Touché, I thought. We swapped the briefest of grins.
*
Unless you knew exactly where to go, you’d never be able to locate the Westhay. Norfolk Street was an older part of Oxford, with buildings no more than three or four storeys. Its streetlights were still gas, rather than the sharp electric bulbs prevalent through most of the city. The shops and businesses catered for the lower end of the market, while most of the houses had been split into multiple apartments, shared by students from minor families, and young manual workers. I could see that it would be redeveloped within fifty years. The area’s relative lack of wealth combined with the ever-rising urban density pressure made that outcome inevitable.
The Westhay’s entrance was a wooden door set between a bicycle shop and a bakery. A small plaque on the wall was the only indication it existed.
Gareth Alan Pitchford knocked loudly and persistently until a man pulled back a number of bolts and thrust an unshaven face round the side. It turned out he was the manager. His belligerence was washed away by the detective’s badge, and we were reluctantly allowed inside.
The club itself was upstairs, a single large room with bare floorboards, its size denoting a grander purpose in days long gone. A line of high windows had their shutters thrown back, allowing broad beams of low winter sunlight to shine in through the grimy, cracked glass. Furniture consisted of sturdy wooden chairs and tables, devoid of embellishments like cushioning. The bar ran the length of one wall, with beer bottles stacked six deep on the mirrored shelving behind. A plethora of gaudy labels advertised brands which I’d never heard of before. In front of the bar, an old woman with a tight bun of iron-grey hair was sweeping the floor without visible enthusiasm. She gave us the most fleeting of glances when we came in, not even slowing her strokes.
The detective and the manager began a loud argument about the card game of the previous evening, whether it ever existed and who was taking part. Gareth Alan Pitchford was pressing hard for names, issuing threats of the city licensing board, and immediate arrest for the suspected withholding of information, in order to gain a degree of compliance.
I looked at the cleaning woman again, recalling one of my lectures at the investigatory course: a line about discovering all you need to know about people from what you find in their rubbish. She brushed the pile of dust she’d accrued into a tin pan, and walked out through a door at the back of the bar. I followed her, just in time to see her tip the pan into a large corrugated metal bin. She banged the lid down on top.
‘Is that where all the litter goes?’ I asked.
She gave me a surprised nod.
‘When was it emptied last?’
‘Two days ago,’ she grunted, clearly thinking I was mad.
I opened my attaché case, and pulled on some gloves. Fortunately the bin was only a quarter full. I rummaged round through the filthy debris it contained. It took me a while sifting through, but in among the cellophane wrappers, crumpled paper, mashed cigarette ends, shards of broken glass, soggy beer mats, and other repellent items, I found a well-chewed cigar butt. I sniffed tentatively at it. Not that I’m an expert, but to me it smelled very similar to the one which Antony Caesar Pitt had lit in the interview room. I dabbed at it with a forefinger. The mangled brown leaves were still damp.
I dropped the cigar into one of my plastic bags, and stripped my gloves off. When I returned to the club’s main room, Gareth Alan Pitchford was writing names into his notebook; whilst the manager wore the countenance of a badly frightened man.
‘We have them,’ the detective said in satisfaction. He snapped his notebook shut.
*
I took a train down to Southampton the following day. A car was waiting for me at the station. The drive out to the Raleigh family institute took about forty minutes.
Southampton is our city, in the same way Rome belongs to the Caesars, or London to the Percys. It might not sprawl on such grand scales, or boast a nucleus of Second Era architecture, but it’s well-ordered and impressive in its own right. With our family wealth coming from a long tradition of seafaring and merchanteering, we have built it into the second-largest commercial port in England. I could see large ships nuzzled up against the docks, their stacks churning out streamers of coal smoke as the cranes moved ponderously beside them, loading and unloading cargo. More ships were anchored offshore, awaiting cargo or refit. It had only been two years since I was last in Southampton, yet the number of big ocean-going passenger ships had visibly declined since then. Fewer settlers were being ferried over to the Americas, and even those members of families with established lands were being discouraged. I’d heard talk at the highest family councils that the overseas branches of the families were contemplating motions for greater autonomy. Their populations were rising faster than Europe’s, a basis to their claim for different considerations. I found it hard to believe they’d want to abandon their roots. But that was the kind of negotiation gestating behind the future’s horizon, one that would doubtless draw me in if I ever attained the levels I sought.
The Raleigh institute was situated several miles beyond the city boundaries, hugging the floor of a wide rolling valley. It’s the family’s oldest estate in England, established right at the start of the Second Era. We were among the first families out on the edge of the Empire’s hinterlands to practise the Sport of Emperors. The enormous prosperity and influence we have today can all be attributed to that early accommodation.
The institute valley is grassy parkland scattered with trees, extending right up over the top of the valley walls. At its heart are more than two dozen beautiful ancient stately manor houses encircling a long lake, their formal gardens merging together in a quilt of subtle greens. Even in March they retained a considerable elegance, their designers laying out tree and shrub varieties in order that swathes of colour straddled the land whatever the time of year.
Some of the manors have wings dating back over nine hundred years, though the intervening time has seen them accrue new structures at a bewildering rate until some have become almost like small villages huddled under a single multifaceted roof. Legend has it that when the last of the original manors was completed, at least twelve generations of Raleighs lived together in the valley. Some of the buildings are still lived in today – indeed, I grew up in one – but most have been converted to cater for the demands of the modern age, with administration and commerce becoming the newest and greediest residents. Stables and barns contain compartmentalized offices populated by secretaries, clerks, and managers. Libraries have undergone a transformation from literacy to numeracy, their leather-bound tomes of philosophy and history replaced by led
gers and records. Studies and drawing rooms have become conference rooms, while more than one chapel has become a council debating chamber. Awkley Manor itself, built in the early fourteen hundreds, has been converted into a single giant medical clinic, where the finest equipment which science and money can procure tends to the senior elders.
The car took me to the carved marble portico of Hewish Manor, which now hosted the family’s industrial science research faculty. I walked up the worn stone steps, halting at the top to take a look round. The lawns ahead of me swept down to the lake, where they were fringed with tall reeds. Weeping willows stood sentry along the shore, their denuded branches a lace-work of brown cracks across the white sky. As always a flock of swans glided over the black waters of the lake. The gardeners had planted a new avenue of oaks to the north of the building, running it from the lake right the way up the valley. It was the first new greenway for over a century. There were some fifty of them in the valley all told, from vigorous century-old palisades, to lines of intermittent aged trees, their corpulent trunks broken and rotting. They intersected each other in a great meandering pattern of random geometry, as if marking the roads of some imaginary city. When I was a child, my cousins and I ran and rode along those arboreal highways all summer long, playing our fantastical games and lingering over huge picnics.
My soft sigh was inevitable. More than anywhere, this was home to me, and not just because of a leisurely childhood. This place rooted us Raleighs.
The forensic department was downstairs in what used to be one of the wine vaults. The arching brick walls and ceiling had been cleaned and painted a uniform white, with utility tube lights running the length of every section. White-coated technicians sat quietly at long benches, working away on tests involving an inordinate amount of chemistry lab glassware.
Rebecca Raleigh Stothard, the family’s chief forensic scientist, came out of her office to greet me. Well into her second century, and a handsome woman, her chestnut hair was only just starting to lighten towards grey. She’d delivered an extensive series of lectures during my investigatory course, and my attendance had been absolute, not entirely due to what she was saying.
Manhattan in Reverse Page 4