The Cambridge Theorem

by Tony Cape

  “No, not often. One’s turn only comes round once a year or so, and it really is little imposition. It’s quite rare that anything happens. The duty is for one week, and I always use the opportunity to catch up on my internal paperwork. I’m sure the college would waive the requirement for me at this stage, but I’ve never felt right about those that accept the privileges of a college fellowship without the responsibilities. Do you know what I mean?”

  “And you heard nothing that evening, sir? No incidents were reported to you?” Smailes had decided already to make no mention of Fenwick and his discovery of the body. They would leave that to the discretion of the college authorities, which was the same as saying his involve-ment would be covered up.

  “Nothing, as I said. It was a completely routine evening. I retired around midnight, I think. I didn’t learn of Simon’s death until later the following day, when I came back from the lab.”

  “And you didn’t call the lodge during the evening to check in, did you sir?”

  “Call in? No, there’s no need. The porter always contacts one if there’s anything to report. The only requirement is that one stay in one’s room for the whole evening and the whole night. To be able to take calls.”

  “Yes, quite,” said Smailes. He wanted to conclude this interview, and he wanted to see Nigel Hawken again. His uneasiness about Bowles’ death only grew the more he learned.

  “Have you lived in Cambridge long, sir?” asked Smailes.

  “Practically my entire adult life, with a few interruptions,” said G-L. “My family is from Surrey, and I did undergrad work at Oxford. At that time Cambridge was stronger in maths and the natural sciences, and I came over here in the late thirties for doctoral work, and stayed as a fellow. There were interruptions for the war, and then there was a spell in America, at Princeton in the fifties, but mostly I’m a Cambridge man,” he said equably.

  “Where did you see service in the war, sir?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Mr. Smailes,” Gorham-Leach replied, with a sad smile. Smailes did not feel thwarted by G-L’s reticence. He had learned far more than he had expected. Graciously, Sir Martin Gorham-Leach accompanied him to the door and shook hands. He gave a small shrug when Smailes thanked him for his cooperation.

  Paul Beecroft sounded disappointed but resigned as Derek Smailes recounted Alan Fenwick’s story on the telephone. He said there was no need for a written report, he would report to Hawken verbally at his first opportunity. Smailes told him that Bowles’ family had been informed, and had acquiesced in the Chief Super’s decision not to call Fenwick at the inquest or charge him with any crime. Beecroft said he did not doubt the porter would be suspended pending a formal decision of the college council. He thanked Smailes for handling the matter with discretion. Smailes asked to be put through to Hawken’s secretary.

  Tiffany Pollock came on the line with her breezy good humor, but Smailes kept his tone neutral. He asked if he could get in to see the senior tutor that afternoon.

  “I’m sorry, detective. He will be out all afternoon at the service for young Mr. Bowles, and then the gathering afterwards at the Cambridge Arms. I can fit you in some time next week…”

  Smailes suddenly remembered the service to which Alice Wentworth had invited him. He didn’t usually attend funeral ceremonies for persons involved in his investigations, it often was not welcomed by the family, but he decided then and there to make an exception. He told Tiffany not to bother, he would call back later. He hung up and dialled the crematorium. He had met the director there on two or three occasions, and was sure a private room would be available if he asked.

  The crematorium on the northern edge of Cambridge looked like an uneasy combination of a light industrial facility and a modern church. It did after all serve a twin function, Smailes reflected. The gray wisp of smoke from the disguised chimney told him a cremation was in progress as he pulled into the small car park. Three ancient hearses were parked in the curved driveway in front of the building.

  There were two huge vases of flowers standing on fake Greek pedestals on either side of the tiled foyer, whose walls were painted a discreet institutional green. At its far end were the stained glass panels of a small chapel, which, in presumed deference to the variety of religious belief, were of abstract design. He took his position respectfully next to one of the pedestals as the service in the chapel concluded, and stood quietly as the mourners slowly filed out to the strains of Abide With Me. His watch told him it was almost one-thirty, which allowed a decent interval before the next service, the one for Simon Bowles, was due to begin. Among the mourners he caught the eye of Andrew Mull, the lugubrious Scot who managed the place. The man came over and guided him gently by the elbow to the corner of the foyer. He opened a door and ushered the detective inside.

  “I think this will be to your purpose, officer,” he said in his professionally grave voice. “You may use it as long as you wish.”

  Smailes looked around. It probably was Mull’s own office, containing a desk, credenza, and several large filing cabinets. There were pictures of hunting scenes on the wall. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Mull. I’ll only use it for a few minutes,” he said. Mull bowed awkwardly and retreated back into the chapel. Smailes resumed his wait in the foyer. He was hoping Hawken would be early, that they could conclude this interview before the service actually began. Otherwise Smailes would have to wait through the entire event to speak with him afterwards, which he would rather avoid. He had no doubt Hawken would be angry to be confronted on unfamiliar turf, but there were contradictions Smailes needed resolved immediately. He wanted Hawken to be off guard, to know that he regarded his deceptions seriously. His anticipation of Hawken’s anger only strengthened his determination. He did not like being lied to.

  The first party through the double doors was Bowles’ family. Alice Wentworth was wearing a dark gray suit and pearls, and was holding by the elbow an older woman who was dressed in black with a hat and veil. This was Simon Bowles’ mother, he realized. She looked frail and disoriented, but her daughter still wore an expression of determination and displeasure, not grief. With them was a tall, sandy-haired man in a clerical collar, carrying a briefcase. Peter Wentworth, Smailes told himself, the vicar. Alice Wentworth noticed him almost immediately.

  “Mr. Smailes, how thoughtful of you to come. Have you brought Simon’s file? Mother, this is the man from Cambridge police who has been in charge of inquiries. You know, the one I told you about.”

  Mrs. Bowles held out her hand and Smailes gripped it briefly. “Yes. Thank you,” she said weakly.

  “No, I thought I would send the files back to you by post, if that’s all right,” said Smailes. He felt awkward, unsure whether to offer the conventional sympathies. Mull rescued him, stepping up quickly from the entrance to the chapel.

  “Is this the family of the deceased?” he asked. “Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth, and Mrs. Bowles? Please step this way.” Mull guided them toward the chapel, but Alice Wentworth paused long enough to invite Smailes to the reception following the service at the Cambridge Arms. Smailes said he would try and make it, knowing he wouldn’t.

  Hawken and Davies were next. Both walked briskly into the foyer, as if they were about to address a meeting. Smailes stood quietly, waiting for the men to notice him. Hawken nodded to him with a frown, but did not slacken his pace. Smailes stepped forward and placed his hand on the arm of Hawken’s overcoat. The senior tutor halted, glanced down at the detective’s hand and then looked up at him in disbelief.

  “Yes?” he asked, with difficulty.

  “May I have a word or two with you in private, sir, before the service begins? It really won’t take a moment.” Davies suddenly looked terrified. He had turned white as a sheet and looked round as if he were about to bolt for the exit. Then he regained himself, cleared his throat, and said stiffly, “Well, I’ll save you a pew, Nigel.” He turned quickly and entered the small chapel.

  As soon as the office door was closed
Hawken snarled, “What the hell is the meaning of this? This is a funeral service you are interrupting. I am here to represent the college officially. Why on earth couldn’t you wait?”

  “What’s the matter with Davies?” asked Smailes, ignoring him.

  “Nothing on earth’s the matter with him. Answer my question, man.”

  Hawken’s expression slackened as Smailes explained his meeting with Gorham-Leach, his discovery that Bowles had been investigating Soviet espionage at Cambridge at the time of his death, his understanding that Bowles had met with Hawken to discuss the issue not long before his death. He was careful not to attribute the source of his information. His Chief Super wanted a report by Tuesday morning. He was just trying to ascertain whether any of this new information was relevant to Bowles’ suicide. He tried to gauge from Hawken’s body language whether Beecroft had told him yet of the Fenwick connection. His guess was that he hadn’t.

  “I don’t see what possible relevance this can have. And this is neither the time nor the place…” Hawken began.

  “So you did meet with him, if I’m correct, sir,” said Smailes evenly.

  “I would not really call it a meeting,” said Hawken.

  “But you told me you only knew the young man by sight, sir, and had not spoken to him in years, I think. Why the deception?”

  Hawken’s color rose. “This impertinent young man had deduced from somewhere that I had worked in intelligence in my past, and had the cold nerve to ask me about it directly. He wanted to know my opinions about his research, of all things. I could not believe it.”

  “And what did you tell him, if I may ask?”

  “I sent him away with a flea in his ear, and told him such matters were none of his business.”

  “And apparently none of mine either, sir.”

  “Listen, Mr. Smailes, I’ll tell you a couple of things that I did not tell Mr. Bowles, which must not go further than this room, do you understand?”

  Smailes nodded.

  “I was posted at St. Margaret’s in sixty-four when we first broke Blunt. You do know who I mean, I assume?”

  Smailes nodded again.

  “It became clear that the penetration at Cambridge had been much worse than we thought.”

  “Who’s ‘we,’ sir?”

  “The security service. MI5 is the official title.”

  “For whom you still work, sir?”

  “Yes, if you must know. But I certainly was not about to tell our pimply little amateur detective that. Neither was I going to tell him that he could save his efforts. We have spent the better part of the last twenty years identifying every last communist sympathizer who was at Cambridge at that time, interrogating them, and removing them from sensitive positions if we had the least suspicion, the least suspicion, of their loyalties. Do you understand?”

  “Understand what sir?”

  “You really are an infuriating man, officer. The files are closed, Mr. Smailes, the files are closed. And I have stayed in place at this University ever since to ensure that there are no repetitions, no repetitions, you understand, of the thirties. The harm that was done to this country and its allies is irreparable…“

  “Not to mention the scandal.”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I think the scandal has been despicable, and terribly injurious to the security of this country. The KGB might as well have the whole of Fleet Street working for it. You can perhaps imagine how I reacted to a self-important neurotic fool like Simon Bowles asking me questions.”

  Hawken’s chest was heaving, and he put out his good hand against a filing cabinet to steady himself.

  “Perhaps you can imagine how I react when I am misled in my inquiries into an unusual death,” Smailes replied.

  “I knew Bowles might have told someone, one of his friends, of our meeting, and if you brought it up, I was resolved not to dissemble, if you must know. But I was not about to volunteer this information. The interests of the state supercede the interests of a provincial CID, in my opinion. What I have told you is known to very few individuals in this town. I trust I can rely on your confidentiality.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Since Blunt, we have kept a very close eye on the academic community, both the professors and the students, believe me, Mr. Smailes. I have my counterpart at Oxford. And our work has been successful. We have finally purged our society of a whole generation of traitors, and no one, no one with extreme left-wing sympathies will be able to penetrate the British Government ever again. Simon Bowles and his preposterous inquiries. I could not believe my ears.”

  “But you don’t believe his investigations had anything to do with his death?”

  “I certainly do not. The fellow was obviously unstable, damn it. What do you think?”

  “I happen to agree with you. I just like to get all the facts. And since you were holding some back, it just raised questions for me, that’s all. Did you know for instance that he went down to London the day before his death?”

  “No, I did not. Why would I know or care about his movements?”

  “Good point sir, why would you? I don’t think there’s anything else. You can rely on my discretion, believe me, sir.” He glanced at his watch. “The service is probably about to begin. Sorry to catch you off guard like this, but I don’t think you’ve missed anything.” Smailes gave a smile as Hawken stared at him icily and turned to the door. He remained in the room with his thoughts for several minutes before leaving Mull’s office.

  There were about thirty mourners in the small chapel. The simple wooden casket stood at the front of the room on a raised platform next to the pulpit. The platform extended backwards to a curtain behind which was the business end of the crematorium, Smailes surmised. At some juncture in the service, an unseen hand would press a button and the specially muffled motors would activate the conveyor that took its cargo to the furnace. Much less primitive than burial, let’s face it, he told himself.

  About half the mourners were students. He recognized Giles Allerton and Lauren Greenwald. The conservatively-dressed young man next to Allerton was probably his brother Hugh from Oxford. He did not see Alan Fenwick. Representing the college were Hawken and Davies, who sat stonily behind the more colorful ranks of the junior members. It seemed to Smailes that the tension between them was almost palpable. He wondered if Davies had also known more about Bowles’ activities than he had conceded. He certainly had seemed stunned to see the policeman again, and had only regained himself with difficulty. Should he speak with him again? Across the aisle were Alice Wentworth and her mother, and a few other relatives and friends from the older generation. He wondered whether the family harbored any suspicions that they had not confided in him. Peter Wentworth was holding forth from the pulpit, his ample voice filling the small room.

  “And accept unto thee thy son, Simon, we beseech thee. Pardon his sins, as we beseech thee also to pardon ours…”

  Smailes was not sure he could continue listening to Wentworth’s discourse. He had been telling the truth when he told Alice Wentworth that he had a faith of sorts, but it certainly wasn’t anything he could recognize in the pieties of the Church of England. He had always thought the notion of a divine being listening to the simultaneous entreaties of five billion souls was nonsense, as were notions of God as some sort of eternal housemaster, meting out punishment and reward. The Victorian manners of the church had always exasperated him, the dreadful hymns and the stiff admonitory language of the Bible. He had not taken a seat and was able to leave unobtrusively, he thought.

  “Nearly finished are they, guv?” asked the driver of one of the funeral cars as Smailes stepped out into the sharp cold of the afternoon. There were three of them, dressed in dark overcoats, leaning on the side of the limousine, smoking.

  “I dunno, the casket’s still sitting there, so I guess not,” said Smailes, pausing to light up also.

  “You riding with us?” asked the same man. “Cambridge Arms, isn’t it?”

&
nbsp; “No, no, I’ve got to get back to work. I just had a professional interest in this, that’s all. They a decent family to work for?”

  “Don’t ask me, mate. I just drive, that’s all. Don’t speak unless spoken to, you know. He was a youngster, I hear. Usually more upsetting, when they’re young,” he said.

  “Yes, quite young,” said Smailes, and had begun to move off towards his car when he heard a voice behind him. He turned. It was Lauren Greenwald, and her face looked angry.

  “Mr. Smailes, are you driving back to Cambridge?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Can I get a ride back with you? I can’t take any more of this.”

  “If you like,” said Smailes, surprised. “Where are you going?”

  “The college will do,” she said. Nothing more was said until they had been driving for five minutes. “It’s not just the Christian bullshit, it’s the whole fucking dishonest attitude towards death,” she said suddenly. She looked straight ahead as she spoke, recounting an angry story of her meeting with Bowles’ family, of their emotional repression, of their treating Simon Bowles’ death as an embarrassment. “They’re so bloody British, emotion is something distasteful to them. I just couldn’t face going back to that hotel and drinking sherry with them, making small talk.” She turned to Smailes, and he could see the pain in her eyes. “Thanks for the ride. I could have waited for Giles and his brother, but I didn’t want to get into explanations. They’re almost as bad.”

  Smailes was unsure what to say. “Well, weeping and wailing isn’t everybody’s way, you know,” he volunteered. But he thought of his father’s funeral, the way he had cried and cried. The words sounded hollow.

  “Oh sure, stiff upper lip, and all that. Can’t we just admit that Simon’s death is a tragedy, and share grief? What’s the matter with these people? Do they think grief is something shameful? His sister seems more angry than sorry that Simon is dead.”

  “Are funerals different where you come from, miss?” he asked.