5 - Murder on Campus

by Hazel Holt

  Linda’s scowl vanished and she smiled happily.

  ‘Oh, that’s Sam,’ she said. ‘And Gina Monticello is the other one.’

  There was no need to ask which was which.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll introduce you.’

  Samantha Broderick held out a slim hand, the wrist enclosed by a heavy gold bracelet, and said, ‘Hi, I’m really glad to meet you and really looking forward to our classes together.’

  The voice was a shock. It was loud and rather strident with an accent that I, unused to such nuances, couldn’t identify.

  ‘I love England and everything English,’ she went on enthusiastically. ‘I drink Earl Grey tea and love Tiptree’s strawberry jam (they have it at Bloomingdale’s, you know) and there’s that wonderful English soap—and I always make Hal (he’s my partner) buy English shoes and those great Burberry raincoats!’

  ‘And Dickens, too?’ I asked, smiling.

  ‘Oh, well, sure. Victorian society, that really was something. The levels of acceptance, and ambivalence of standards—when I think of the position of nineteenth-century women I could actually throw up!’

  All this with a dazzling smile and a warmth that seemed to bind one into a cosy intimacy, so that it seemed that we had been old friends for years. I could see that Hal (or any other man for that matter) wouldn’t stand a chance.

  ‘And this,’ said Linda, ‘is Gina.’

  It said a lot for Sam’s friendly naturalness as well as Gina’s good nature that the latter seemed not at all offended at being produced almost as an afterthought.

  ‘Hallo, Gina,’ I said. ‘I’m so pleased you’re doing some work on Fanny Trollope, she is a great favourite of mine. A wonderful woman and an extraordinary mother!’

  Gina gave a shy little smile.

  ‘I’ve always been interested in Victorian women travellers, missionaries and people like that.’ Her voice was very soft and quiet so that I had to strain to hear what she was saying.

  ‘As a mother,’ I said, ‘I’ve always been full of admiration about how she coped with that awful husband and those children in what must have been dreadful situations. Not to mention keeping the family going simply by her writing!’

  ‘Of course,’ Gina said, ‘the position of the writer, whether male or female, in the nineteenth century was so different, their influence—well into this century, actually was pretty great ...’

  I was delighted with both my students and told Linda so when we finally managed to extricate ourselves from the Hurons’ party and had settled down cosily in her kitchen.

  ‘They’re a strange contrast,’ she said putting an enormous pizza into the microwave. ‘This is only frozen, but I’ve put lots of extra mozzarella on it. No, you wouldn’t think they had anything in common—except English literature of course—but they’re good friends. And, surprisingly, it’s Gina who looks out for Sam and not the other way around.’

  ‘I do see what you mean about Loring,’ I said. ‘What a nauseating man—patronizing, slimy and conceited! And the good looks somehow make it worse. I mean, you expect someone who looks like that to be, well, equally special in character, so it’s almost like a blow in the face when he starts to speak! Does he really have that much power in the department?’

  ‘He had poor Rebecca Long thrown out last year—she was an assistant professor, didn’t have tenure.’

  ‘But how?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, a sort of whispering campaign,’ Linda replied. ‘Complaints to the Chair and to the Dean from some of the students. He has his followers, you know, all well organized. And at meetings he’d always manage to make her seem inefficient or unreasonable, as if she didn’t fit in. Little things and all done very carefully so that it wasn’t easy to say that he was behind it. But he was.’

  ‘Why did he want to get rid of her?’ I asked.

  Linda took the pizza out and divided it into two. ‘Come on, let’s eat.’

  She poured some wine and we sat down.

  ‘Loring hated Rebecca,’ she said, ‘because she gave a paper at a conference that argued against one of his books. It revealed his superficiality and lack of scholarship. Of course his acolytes couldn’t wait to tell him, and, when he got to hear of it, that was the end of Rebecca! He was out to get her from then on.’

  ‘Goodness, how awful! What happened to her?’

  ‘I don’t know. She went to Washington and I think she’s teaching high school, one of those awful inner city schools. Academic jobs are hard to come by just now, and Loring saw to it that word got around that she was “unreliable”.’

  I cut into my pizza and manoeuvred the long cheesy strands into my mouth.

  ‘That’s terrible,’ I said after a moment, ‘that he should have been able to do such a thing.’

  ‘The man is vile,’ Linda said, as if that explained everything. She suddenly got to her feet and took an envelope that had been tacked on to her bulletin board.

  ‘I forgot,’ she said, ‘this came for you. It’s an invitation to a concert at the Whittier Institute. I have one too.’

  ‘How lovely,’ I said, ‘I’m longing to see that place. It looks like Xanadu, all by itself out there.’

  ‘It is a gorgeous house and the collection is fabulous, you’ll love it. I’ll ask Theo Portman to give you a tour after the concert—he’s the curator and a good friend of Anna’s (she’ll be there too, by the way). You’ll like him a lot.’

  I wondered if Max Loring would be at the concert, since he worked at the Institute. I was curious to see if he was as unspeakable as his brother.

  Chapter Four

  Anna arrived quite early on the morning of the concert.

  ‘I have some stuff to check in the Research Center so it all fits in quite well,’ she said, unloading the usual collection of files, computer printouts and general impedimenta from her car.

  ‘Do you want breakfast?’ Linda asked.

  ‘What the hell, who wants to live for ever?’ Anna said. ‘Have you got any of those English muffins?’

  We sat cosily round the kitchen table eating muffins and waffles and drinking coffee.

  ‘There’s a sort of reception before the concert,’ Linda said. ‘Cocktails and stuff, which is why it’s an invitation-only affair—just Wilmot people, mostly ones you know.’

  ‘And Loring’s brother?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh him, sure,’ Anna said. ‘Most of the Research Center staff will be there. Oh, and Walter Cleveland—he’s always invited to things. He’s the head of the US division of Orlando, you know, the multi-national petrochemical firm. They’re based here in Allenbrook. They fund a lot of arts projects at the Institute and at Wilmot.’

  ‘Modern industrialists are the merchant princes of the present day, twentieth-century Medicis, you might say,’ I reflected. ‘Patrons of the arts ...’

  ‘I’ll bet Machiavelli could pick up a few tips from their vice-presidents,’ Linda said, ‘about power and such.’

  ‘What is this Walter Cleveland like?’ I asked.

  ‘High powered but nice—what you might call cultured, I suppose. He’s at the opera a lot and the ballet and he’s bought some very expensive art for the company pension fund. Many, many millions of dollars. Very knowledgeable, they say, though of course he does have advisers. Theo Portman thinks pretty highly of him.’

  ‘Well now,’ Linda said, ‘will you meet us in the commons room, Anna, and we’ll all come back here. Dress is formal at these things, so I’ll have to come back and put a skirt on.’

  ‘How formal?’ I asked in alarm, mentally reviewing my wardrobe.

  ‘Oh, just ties and jackets for the men and skirts for the women. I think Theo really likes to feel he’s having a sort of Victorian soirée, so we indulge him.’

  ‘Can I borrow an iron, please? My better dress is still a bit crumpled from the suitcase.’

  We assembled in Linda’s sitting-room, looking, I must say, rather good. Linda and Anna, tall and handsome, both elegant in silk su
its, Linda’s a rich plum red and Anna’s a pale coffee colour. And my little black dress, veteran of many Taviscombe social occasions, looked positively new on this side of the Atlantic.

  I scrabbled in my bag for my invitation.

  ‘For one awful moment I thought I’d lost it,’ I said, ‘and I don’t expect they’d let me in without it!’

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact,’ Linda said, checking her own card, ‘they are a bit fussy about security, as you can imagine.’

  ‘Hell!’ Anna exclaimed. ‘I can’t find mine! I know I had it here somewhere.’

  Linda groaned. ‘That purse of yours,’ she said. ‘It’s a miracle you can ever find anything in it, ever! Here, let me look.’

  ‘Don’t boss me, little sister,’ Anna said, keeping hold of the bag. ‘I know I had it right here, in the front compartment.’

  ‘That damned thing is so stuffed full you haven’t been able to fasten it in years,’ Linda said in exasperation. ‘Do you know,’ she turned to me, ‘at the last count, as well as the usual junk, I found six lipsticks, five congealed packs of fruit drops, three combs, a programme for the season before last at the Met and a New York to Allenbrook bus schedule for 1986! And that was just trawling the surface. God knows what lurks in the furthermost depths!’

  Anna abandoned her cursory search and flicked the flap over the straining bag. ‘I guess it must have fallen out. I must just hope it’s Josh or Kurt at the door. They’ll let me in.’

  A tall, heavily built man, a gun strapped to his side, beamed cheerfully at Anna as we entered the wide classical portico of the Whittier mansion.

  ‘Josh,’ she said, ‘I’ve lost my invitation, can I come in?’

  He wagged an admonitory finger at her.

  ‘Well, you know the rules, Dr Kowolski. Nobody comes in here without one of those big white invitation cards, like your sister has, and your friend,’ he said, taking our cards from us. He gave a great wide, grin and turned his head away from her. ‘But since I didn’t see you go in, then I don’t need no card, do I?’

  ‘Thanks, Josh, you’re a friend.’

  We went through a spacious hallway, full of oriental lacquer chests and cabinets, into a large room with an ornate plasterwork ceiling.

  ‘Italian,’ Anna said, following my upward gaze. ‘Henry Whittier brought craftsmen over from Italy to do all the plasterwork and mosaics when the house was built in 1887.’

  The walls were crowded with magnificent pictures, here a Titian, there a Canaletto. I moved across the room to look at a superb Veronese.

  ‘It is splendid, isn’t it?’ a voice at my elbow said. ‘They have a couple of Veronese Allegories at the Frick, but I like to think that ours is even finer.’

  I turned to find a tall, dark man with a small pointed beard. He held out his hand.

  ‘Theo Portman,’ he said. ‘I’m the curator and a friend of your friend, Anna.’

  ‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘It was so kind of you to invite me this evening. This place is fantastic—well, it must be if this room is anything to go by!’

  ‘If you can spare the time after the concert,’ he said, ‘I’d love to show you around.’

  Linda and Anna led me through several rooms and out into a sort of atrium, with pillars and a fine marble pavement. All round the walls stood great urns full of plants, mostly ferns and palms; the lush greenery looked cool and inviting on a hot evening and, at one end, the gentle fall of water from the fountain into a pool covered with waterlilies added to the charm of the scene.

  ‘Oh, this is lovely!’ I exclaimed.

  There were about thirty people gathered in the atrium. A large portion of the staff of the English Department seemed to be there and I exchanged greetings with most of them, though avoiding Loring, who was holding court beside the fountain.

  ‘Where’s Loring’s brother?’ I asked Linda. ‘I’m dying to see him.’

  She looked around.

  ‘Not here yet. I expect he’s planning to Make an Entrance. Oh—there’s Walter Cleveland—I’ll introduce you.’

  She moved towards the door where a man was standing by himself, quietly surveying the company. He was tall and his beautifully tailored grey suit emphasized his broad shoulders and powerful frame. I don’t know why I was surprised that he was black.

  ‘Walter,’ Linda said, ‘this is my friend Sheila Malory, who’s come over from England to teach in our department for a semester.’

  We shook hands and I said how much I admired the Whittier Collection and its setting.

  ‘Well,’ he said, smiling, ‘it’s certainly nice of you to be so appreciative, when I know that you have so many remarkable collections and many more beautiful houses than this. I love England—I like to get over there whenever I can.’ He laughed, a splendidly warm sound. ‘Certainly for Glyndebourne and I never miss Wimbledon! Whereabouts do you live?’

  ‘Oh, a very small West Country town you wouldn’t have heard of.’

  ‘Is it near Bath? I like to get there for the Festival—now there’s a superb setting!’

  As we chatted I became more aware of the intellectual strength and shrewdness that lay beneath the veneer of charm and ease of manner. I imagined that in business he could be very ruthless, a real twentieth-century merchant prince with power, perhaps not quite over life and death, but very great none the less.

  ‘If you are interested in American nineteenth-century architecture,’ Walter Cleveland said with a smile, ‘you may be interested to see our company’s headquarters here in Allenbrook. Not, maybe, as fine as this’—he indicated our elegant surroundings with a wave of his hand—‘but not untypical of the period and the genre. If you would like to have lunch one day, I’d be pleased to show you round. We have quite a few paintings and other works of art you may like to see.’

  I thanked him and said that I’d be delighted, reflecting that my friends in Taviscombe would be surprised at the apparent novelty value of an English visitor in high-powered business circles in America.

  After we had all consumed several glasses of champagne (the funding of the Whittier Institute was apparently pretty sound) and eaten a quantity of what Michael calls bits of minced-up fish on toast, we all moved on into an elegant oval salon, its walls lined with French cabinets heavy with ormolu, and hung with paintings by Watteau and Fragonard.

  The music, however, was German—Beethoven quartets—and the performance (like everything else connected with the Institute, it seemed) of a very high quality.

  The concert lasted just over an hour and afterwards, as we were all standing about in groups chatting, Theo Portman came up and said, ‘Would you like to make the grand tour now?’

  I turned to Linda and Anna and said: ‘Is that all right with you? Are you coming too?’

  ‘Sure,’ Linda said. ‘I can never see all this’—she waved her arms in an embracing gesture—‘too often. How about you, Anna? Oh I forgot, you’ve got to get back to New York.’

  ‘Tonight!’ I exclaimed. ‘It’ll be dreadfully late!’

  Anna laughed. ‘I’m used to driving at night, it doesn’t worry me. I wanted to be here this evening, but I’ve got a boring but important committee meeting tomorrow first thing and I’d better not risk the morning rush hour!’

  We followed Theo Portman out into the hall and he led us through room after room of fine pictures, commenting as he went.

  ‘Henry Whittier was already a considerable collector when he built this house, so he had the architect design many of the rooms downstairs to display the pictures to their best advantage. We’ve changed very little in the way of arrangement since his death.’

  ‘When did he die?’ I asked.

  ‘In 1921, but his wife, who was much younger, lived until the 1950s and it was she who really set up this whole Institute—all the research side, especially. Isn’t that a gorgeous Turner?’ He broke off to gesture towards the far wall. ‘Stand over here and you’ll find it’s the best angle ... I don’t believe the Tate has a better exa
mple of his work.’ Theo’s tremendous pride in the collection and enthusiasm for it were justified and endearing.

  ‘I’m particularly fond of these,’ he said as we stood in a long, beautifully lit room, filled with light and colour from an incredible collection of French Impressionist paintings. ‘Mr Whittier bought them as contemporary art when he was in Paris. I love to think of that. He bought them not as collector’s pieces, but simply because he liked them!’

  ‘That’s nice,’ I agreed.

  ‘Would you like to see upstairs? It’s a fine house in its own right. Not old by British standards, of course, but very typical of the large mansions being built by the great industrialists of the day.’

  I love looking over houses, large or small, and this was a really remarkable one. Upstairs, most of the twenty or so bedrooms were now divided up into offices and study rooms for the Research Center, but Theo Portman’s office still had its original splendour.

  ‘It was Mrs Whittier’s boudoir,’ he said, ‘and a bit feminine—though not quite as frilly and fussy as Mrs Theodore Roosevelt’s boudoir at Oyster Bay, Long Island. Have you seen that house yet? You really should. But I kept the Louis XV furniture and that Greuze and that particularly fine Nattier—oh and the Van Dyck, of course.’

  Hanging behind his desk was a portrait of a seventeenth-century gentleman who bore an extraordinary resemblance to Theo Portman himself, small pointed beard and all.

  Linda and I exclaimed delightedly and he smiled with pleasure.

  ‘My little joke,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t resist it.’

  ‘It must have needed an enormous staff,’ I said, ‘to keep all this up.’