by Roger Keevil
“Still doesn't help, sir.”
“Television, publishing, all that sort of thing. In this country, they own the 'Splash' group of newspapers.”
“Oh, right.” Copper caught on. “Not that I read the 'Splash', of course,” he continued. “Some of the neanderthals used to leave the odd copy lying around in the locker room at the station until the W.P.C.'s took exception to the fact that they always seemed to have fallen open at the Page 5 picture of 'gorgeous pouting Chenisse, 17', so that put a stop to that. I do buy the 'Sunday Splash' sometimes, but only for the ...”
“Football coverage,” chimed in Constable with a smile. “Yes, where have I heard that before?”
“Plus they do a very good magazine of the week's television programmes,” added Copper defensively. “If I ever get a chance to watch them,” he muttered under his breath.
“But why would you bother with all that fictional detective rubbish on TV when we have the pleasure of dealing with the much more fascinating real thing?” teased Constable. “It's far more enjoyable,” he said, as he boosted the power of the car's heater and switched on the windscreen wipers to clear the sporadic flurries of snowflakes.
“So what's this all about, guv? And where are we going anyway?”
“Over to Camford. It seems His Lordship has been found dead in the quadrangle at one of the colleges.”
“What's he doing there?” wondered Copper. “You'd think he'd have been a bit old to be a student?”
“Apparently he was the Master or Chancellor or some such thing. We shall no doubt find out in due course.”
The University of Camford was one of the three oldest educational establishments in Britain. Founded in medieval times by breakaway students from one of its rivals, it had grown over the centuries to become an architectural as well as an academic gem, and was worthily nicknamed 'the City of Aspiring Dreams'. The streets of the town, some the narrowest of twisting alleys, some broadening out into stately squares, were lined with college buildings from all periods ranging from the Gothic to the Regency, the vast majority in the local red sandstone, while on the outskirts, more modern cathedrals of glass and steel had arisen to house the upstart disciplines of science and technology.
The group of emergency service vehicles, blue lights flashing, parked in the street outside a monumental Tudor building left no doubt as to the detectives' destination. The gatehouse of Ewell Hall, with its bands of contrasting stone and brickwork, adorned with terracotta roundels of Roman emperors and a huge coloured coat of arms, was one of the most photographed buildings in the town, and appeared on many guidebook covers. The college itself had been founded in the 1500s by one of Henry VIII's ministers who had worked his way up from the reputed back streets of Bermondsey to the dizzy heights of the nobility, only to lose his head as the result of a fatal misjudgement regarding one of the king's many marriages. Sadly, the founder's estates had gone to the king, leaving very little in the way of an endowment, and the college had struggled along through the centuries, relying on its reputation for excellence in the study of theology and classical Greek literature, until modern times, when a spectacular offer of monetary support had been seized with both hands by the outgoing authorities. In deference to the benefactors, an American pharmaceuticals conglomerate whose president, having fallen in love with a picture of the gatehouse, had decreed the gift on a whim, Ewell Hall had been officially renamed Harde-Knox College, although nobody in the town ever referred to it as such.
Detective Inspector Andy Constable drew to a halt between a plain black van and a rather battered-looking Volvo. “I see the doctor has beaten us to it once again,” he remarked with a smile. “That man is drawn to dead bodies like iron filings to a magnet.” He looked up through the windscreen at the graphite-grey clouds roiling overhead. “So, let us see what the fates have brought us this bright and sunny day.” He climbed out of the car, Copper following, nodded to the uniformed P.C. standing guard, and stepped through the small open wicket in the massive and forbidding iron-studded oaken gates, only to find his way blocked by a small officious-looking man wearing a neat toothbrush moustache and sporting a bowler hat.
“You can't ...”
“Oh yes we can.” Dave Copper gave him no chance to get any further. He produced his warrant card. “Detective Sergeant Copper … this is Detective Inspector Constable. I'm sure you can work out why we're here, so let's not mess about.”
“Will this be the officer in charge, then?” responded the man eagerly. “Oh good,” he continued, assuming a reply in the affirmative. “Because I've been waiting for someone senior to arrive, so that I can tell them all about it. You see, what happened was, I was opening up ...”
“First things first, sir.” Copper interrupted once again. “You are ...?”
“My name is Lisson, officer – Colin N. Lisson. I am the lodge-keeper of the college.” He puffed himself up. “That's my little office in there.” He indicated a small hatch window overlooking the entry passage. “Now that's very important, you see, because it means that nobody can come in or out without coming past me, so you'll want to be knowing what I can tell you, won't you? Vital evidence, and all that.”
“So you're on duty here at the gate all the time?” Copper sought to clarify.
“Indeed I am.” The self-satisfaction was overwhelming.
“In that case, sir, I wouldn't dream of dragging you away from your duties for a second.” Copper could hardly restrain a smile at the deflationary effect of his words.
“But I was the one who called the police in the first place,” bleated Colin. “Surely you want to speak to me?”
“Of course we do, sir. Later. And we shall know where to find you, shan't we? So perhaps if you'd like to point the way for the inspector and myself, we can go and find out what's actually happened.”
“If that's what you wish, sergeant.” Colin, with the slightly huffy air of a thoroughly ruffled hen settling back on to its clutch of eggs, stood back and pointed to a stone arch on the opposite side of the snow-dusted grass quadrangle. “It's at the end of that passage, in the Vice-Chancellor's private quad. You'll find all the other police gentlemen through there.” There was the faintest of pauses before the word 'gentlemen'.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Lisson,” said Constable affably. “We shall be back. In the meantime, sergeant, to work.” He led the way around the perimeter of the large open space, its centre adorned with a rather straggly Christmas tree whose lights lent a sort of melancholy cheer to the scene, and into the darkness of the passageway.
Emerging into the wintery half-light of a late-December morning, the detectives were met with the unusual sight of the police doctor standing somewhat nonplussed, viewing a dead body from a distance. The reason was easy to guess. The Vice-Chancellor's quadrangle was a modest space, scarcely ten yards square, a miniature version of the main quad with a paved path running around all four sides, a further arched exit opposite the entrance, and a grassed area in the middle. The grass here likewise bore a light coating of snow, unbroken save for the body of a man who looked to be in his sixties, lying in the centre, his features contorted in a grimace.
“This is a turn-up for the books, Doc,” Constable greeted the doctor, as flash after flash from the police photographer lit the scene. “Normally when you beat me to a crime scene, I expect to find you up to your armpits in the victim, full of helpful information for me.”
“Cheeky young whipper-snapper,” retorted the doctor good-humouredly. “As it happens, I am standing here freezing my nether regions off in order to help you do your job better. I didn't wish to be accused of contaminating your evidence by trampling in there to look at him, when there isn't much doubt that the gentleman in question is not terribly likely to be joining the party any time soon. And even the daftest plod – no offence, sergeant ...”
“None taken, doctor.”
“... will have picked up the fact that we have a dead body lying in the middle of a patch of snow with no foo
tprints leading to him. So I thought that I would let the photographer get on with it until you turned up.”
“Very considerate of you, Doc. So, that is the late Lord Ellpuss.”
“So I'm told. And now that you've seen him, I propose to have my minions load him on to a stretcher and haul him away to my nice cold examination room, which is probably a damn sight warmer than it is here. If that's all right by you?”
“If that's what you think best.”
“Frankly, Andy, the only thing I can do here is try to establish some sort of time of death by sticking my thermometer somewhere unmentionable, and in these temperatures, that's not necessarily going to be too reliable. I can't see any obvious injuries, but that look on his face is none too pretty, so if you want a back-of-the-envelope opinion, I'd say that in the absence of strokes or heart-attacks, he's consumed something that didn't agree with him. That's the first thing I shall look for.”
“You're the expert. Tell us when you know anything.” The inspector nodded to two officers standing by who, under the doctor's supervision, began the process of gathering up the body to be taken away. Constable turned to Copper.
“Right, we've seen the scene and we've seen the body. And so far, I've got nothing to tell me that this is a suspicious death.”
“Other than the fact that His Lordship doesn't look as if he was having a thoroughly good time when he dropped off the twig, guv,” commented Copper. “And the doc said he might have a bit of trouble sorting out time of death, but I reckon we can get a pretty good idea from the weather. I looked out last night just as I was going to bed, which was around midnight, and it was coming on to snow then. Not too hard, but a bit. And when I came out this morning, there was only about as much as there is here, so I don't think it snowed for long. So Lord Ellpuss must have been in position by midnight, or else there'd be footprints.”
“Good thinking, sergeant. Keep going.”
“Ah. Right, guv.” Copper took the point. “Either his footprints, or if he's been done unto by somebody else, their footprints bringing him here and dumping him.”
“For which we have not one iota of evidence,” said Constable. “So I suggest we go and see if we can find some. Chummy at the gatehouse was bursting to spill the beans about whatever he had to tell us.” He looked around the quad, to see the little procession of doctor and stretcher-bearers disappearing towards the exit. “Nothing much else to do here, so let's follow this lot and ask a few questions in the warm.”
“Righty-ho, guv,” agreed Copper. “People like that always have a kettle stashed away in their cubby-hole. If we can't get a cup of tea out of him, we're in the wrong job.”
*
A brisk knock on the hatch at the gatehouse brought an immediate response, as Colin N. Lisson appeared in the adjacent doorway.
“I thought you'd be back,” he said knowingly. “I knew you'd be needing to find out what happened. You'd better come inside.” He stood back to allow the detectives to enter.
“Do I understand from what you said earlier, Mr. Lisson,” began Constable, “that you were the person who discovered the body?”
“That's right.”
“Then perhaps you'd like to tell us exactly what happened. My colleague here will make a few notes.”
“Thirsty work, note-taking,” pointed out Dave Copper, casting an extremely meaningful look at a tray on a cabinet which bore a kettle, mugs, a box of teabags, and a bottle of milk. “And it's not that easy to write, sir, when your fingers are chilled to the bone.”
“Point taken, sergeant,” said Constable comfortably, settling into the only available armchair, a slightly shabby item with a floral print cover. “I'm sure if we ask nicely, Mr. Lisson will be kind enough to furnish a couple of frozen policemen with a warming cuppa.”
“That'd be great, Mr. Lisson,” enthused Copper, seating himself into the only other chair, an upright chair next to the small dining table squeezed into a corner of the room. “Milk, no sugar, thanks.”
As the slightly startled Colin Lisson found himself rail-roaded into the rôle of host, filling the kettle and clattering mugs, Constable continued with the questioning. “I think you mentioned that nobody can get in or out of the college without passing your lodge. So this is the only entrance to the precincts?”
“It is, inspector. That's why my job is so important, you see. Now, what happens is, the gate's open all day, but I go around last thing every evening to check all the open areas, and then I lock the gate for the night.”
“And what time do you call last thing?”
“That'd be about half past eleven usually. I go round the quads and the cloisters, and then I lock up and go up to my little flat upstairs for the night.” He pointed to a spiral staircase visible through a small door in a corner.
“So you live on the premises?”
“Well, I have to, don't I, otherwise there wouldn't be anyone to answer the night bell,” said Colin reasonably. “Sometimes one of the dons who live on the premises stays out past curfew, so I have to let them in.”
“How about the students?”
“Oh no. If they're late, they have to stay out. I don't stand any nonsense from them.” The words were filled with a smug self-satisfaction. “But there aren't any students here at the moment anyway.”
“And last night, nobody went in or out after curfew?”
“No, inspector. It was all quiet until this morning. And then I did my usual – I got up about half past seven, had my bit of breakfast, and then I did my usual walk-round just before I open up the gates at eight o'clock. And that's when I found him. Gave me a turn, I can tell you, seeing the Master all stretched out in the snow with that horrible look on his face. I could tell he wasn't right, and I didn't want to touch him, so I came back here and phoned 999 straight away.”
“And here we are,” said Constable. “So, then, a bit of background, if you don't mind, Mr. Lisson. Some information about the set-up here yesterday would be useful. Am I right in thinking that the college students have all gone down for the Christmas vacation?”
“That's so, inspector,” answered Colin. “They all disappear pretty promptly after the big do.”
“Sorry, sir, what 'do' would that be?” asked Copper.
“The Ewell Hall Yule Ball,” explained Colin. “They have it every year just before Christmas, on the last Thursday of the Michaelmas term. Black tie event in the Great Hall, with a band and everything. It's quite the social event of the season.” Colin seemed happy to bask in the reflected glory. “And then as soon as that's over, everyone disappears the next day, and my job gets a lot easier, I can tell you.”
“So let me see if I've got this right,” said Constable. “The Ball was two days ago, since when the college has been deserted?”
“Well, not completely, no. I'm still around, of course, because I have to be, and there's one or two of the college servants stay on over Christmas – you know, cleaners and so on. And some of the academic staff live here. But it was mainly just the people for the meeting of the Trust yesterday.”
“Which Trust is this, sir? I'm afraid we're not au fait with the workings of the college.”
“Camford Academy Strategic Holdings, they call it,” said Colin, placing mugs of tea in front of the police officers. “C.A.S.H. for short. They set it up – oh, quite a few years ago now, because Ewell Hall has never really had two halfpennies to rub together, so the former Master set up a trust to try and manage the finances a bit better and get gifts from donors and what-have-you. It was all a bit haphazard, to be perfectly honest, but then the old Master passed on and Lord Ellpuss took over, and he became Chairman of the Trust as well and really gingered things up, and then they got all that money from the American company and things began to look much rosier. Mind you, that's when they started all this 'Harde-Knox' nonsense.” Colin looked and sounded thoroughly grumpy. “Trying to change the name of a place with our history. It'll always be Ewell Hall to me.”
“So you said so
mething about a meeting of the Trust, Mr. Lisson,” said Constable, trying to bring the lodge-keeper back on track. “This was yesterday?”
“Friday, that's right. Yesterday at seven, it was.”
At last, thought Constable, we're getting somewhere. “And can you tell us who was involved with that? Lord Ellpuss himself, presumably?”
“Yes, he stayed on with his family after the Ball.”
“Family?”
“Yes, his wife and their son.”
“They were also on the premises last night?”
“Yes. The Master's House is just round here to the left in the main quad, before you get to the chapel. Lord Ellpuss stays there whenever he comes to Camford. And the Reverend Grey lives in the apartment on the other side of the chapel. He's another one of the trustees - he's the college chaplain,” explained Colin, in response to a quizzical look from Dave Copper, his pen poised in mid-air.
“And you mentioned other dons who live inside the college, Mr. Lisson. Who would they be, and were they also involved with this meeting of the Trust?”
“There's Professor Plump, of course – he's the P.V.C.”
“Sorry?” Copper looked baffled again.
“Pro-Vice Chancellor,” explained Colin. “He lives in the Vice-Chancellor's House, which is on one side of the Vice-Chancellor's quad where I found the Master.”
“Does the professor also have a family?” asked Constable.
“No, inspector. He's a single gentleman. He says he likes to think of the staff and students as his family.”
“Any more residents within the college?”
“Well, yes and no. There's Miss Scarlatti, who's the Dean of Modern Languages. She's got rooms on the opposite side of the main quad, just round to the right, but she doesn't often use them to stay. She's got a big house out on the edge of town. Fancy modern place, it is – must have cost a fortune.”