by Joyce Cato
Pippa sighed. ‘Well, all intense. Like you are now, in fact,’ she pointed out, putting her hands on her hips. ‘My mum always says to be careful of you, ’cause you’re so thin-skinned, and you know she’s right. You always do seem to feel things more than anybody else. I mean, the things that other people just shrug off, you seem to take to heart and brood on. You must know that’s true. You get het up about things that are like water off a duck’s back to the rest of us. Come on, Ian, you know you do,’ she cajoled, laughing lightly.
But he could feel the weight of her gaze, measuring him, and he felt suddenly vulnerable.
Ian flushed. ‘I can’t let things pass me by, that’s all. Not if it’s something I care about. I think people are too damned apathetic half the time, and that’s just not me.’
‘Exactly,’ Pippa said, walking slowly towards him. ‘That’s just what I’m talking about. And you didn’t like Maurice, did you? And with this tiger-stuffing thing coming up, you were getting really hot under the collar when you thought he was hinting that he wouldn’t let you near it.’
Ian went pale as he suddenly realized just what she was getting at. ‘Just what the hell are you saying, Pip?’ he asked gruffly.
‘Well, someone killed Maurice, didn’t they? You know you can tell me, Ian. If—’
Ian Glendower began to laugh. He couldn’t help it. He reached for her, pulled her into his arms and kissed her soundly. Pippa’s nails dug slightly into his shoulders and she felt a little stiff in his arms. When he pulled back his head to look down into her beautiful face, he laughed again and then shook his head in exaggerated bemusement.
‘You really are a silly little twit sometimes, Pip,’ he murmured with tender exasperation. ‘How could I have killed Maurice? I went straight from hall, where he was alive and well, and then met my class, where I’ve been, ever since; in front of six or so impeccable witnesses who can swear that I never left the room! How on earth could I have bumped off the horrible little man? With the aid of telekinesis, or some sort of voodoo magic maybe?’
Pippa’s face cleared, and she giggled in that delightful way she had that always made Ian feel like giggling right along with her. ‘Right – ‘course you were!’ She gave herself a playful head-slap. ‘And I was there too, so you’ve got seven witnesses. We’re all of us OK, even your students, because we’ve all got alibis!’
‘Exactly,’ Ian said, his eyes glittering just slightly. ‘So, now we’ve got all that sorted, what say we do something much more interesting?’
He nudged her back suggestively towards the bed, and this time, when Pippa’s arms came around his shoulders, it was in order to hug him tightly and again she gave a little giggle.
Vicki Voight, sitting in a viewing room with five others, glanced through the darkened gloom to check her watch. Surely it must be lunchtime by now?
They were watching the lecture screen, where a scene depicting the skinning of a baby seal in full white winter coat was being shown in graphic detail. The team of taxidermists involved had been hired to produce a tableau for a winter show in a mid-west American museum, and clearly knew their stuff.
Vicki wondered, cynically, what the chances were that their society would ever be asked to do such a large and interesting tableau, and decided that, Maurice’s tigers aside, the likelihood had to be very slim.
Still, she’d certainly never seen such a marine animal being worked on before and, although she’d found it informative, the novelty was rapidly wearing off. Besides, she was hungry. A friend who knew Oxford had given her the names of a few good places for lunch, and she was looking forward to trying them out. Preferably with a man, if she could find one.
Although she was married, the spark had long since gone, and her husband back at home had probably decided that while the cat was away the mice would play, so why shouldn’t she do the same?
Surely she could find some suitable male in a city the size of Oxford, who was interested in a quick dalliance, with no holds barred? After all, wasn’t that the philanderer’s dream come true?
Finally, the film came to an end and the owner of it thanked them for watching. Vicki, along with the others, made a charge for the door only to find two uniformed constables waiting for them. It soon became clear that they wanted name, rank and serial number, plus a brief statement as to their movements from 11.30 to 12 noon and Vicki, as treasurer, quickly took the lead.
‘What’s this all about, Constable,’ she asked loudly of the one who looked marginally older than his companion.
‘Just routine, madam,’ he said mildly.
Vicki snorted. ‘Don’t give us that. We’ll find out eventually anyway,’ she pointed out realistically, and caught the eye of several society members, who nodded encouragement. ‘Has there been a theft?’ she asked sharply.
This set off a murmur of worry amongst the others, who all began to agitate to be allowed back to their rooms to check on their belongings. They became so restive, in fact, that the PC was obliged to impose a little authority.
‘I’m sorry, but we need to take down your names and addresses. I’m afraid there’s been a fatality.’
The word brought an abrupt silence to the little throng.
‘Who’s dead?’ Vicki was annoyed to find that her voice was wavering, and coughed, and tried again, this time with some authority in her tone. ‘Is it someone from our society, or from the college?’
‘I really do need to get statements from you all as to your whereabouts from eleven thirty until twelve.’ The constable tried again to avoid answering.
‘Well that’s easy, we were all here,’ Vicki quickly spoke for everyone. ‘After Maurice’s opening speech, those of us who had elected to watch the seal tableau came straight here. The film was due to start at eleven, and we were all in our seats by then, and it’s only just ended, as you can see for yourselves.’
‘I see. And it’s like a sort of mini-cinema in there, is it?’ the constable, who was nobody’s mug, asked blandly, peering over her shoulder at the now shut door.
‘Yes. There’s about seating for twenty, and a cinema screen. Go ahead and check it out for yourself,’ Vicki offered, although she had no doubt that they would be doing that anyway.
‘And the lights were dimmed for the duration of the showing?’ the canny constable asked again.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Vicki said, perplexed for a moment about what could possibly be the significance of that, before she caught on. ‘But the entrance is situated in the front of the room, and if anyone had left, the light from outside flooding through the opening would have been clearly visible to the rest of us, Constable, I assure you. None of us sneaked out at any time.’
‘Perhaps to use the loo?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Vicki said thoughtfully, casting a quick look around. Five heads shook in negative and she nodded. ‘No, we’ve all got remarkably well-behaved bladders, apparently.’
Somebody at the back giggled nervously.
The young man sighed, then brightened. ‘But there must be a fire exit though, probably a door at the back. Fire regulations state they must be kept unlocked.’
Vicki nodded. ‘I would imagine so. But if it’s like most fire exit doors that I know, it’ll be heavy and noisy and hard to push open, and I doubt very much that anyone could have sneaked out without us all hearing.’
The constable nodded, but silently vowed to check it out for himself once he’d got all their details. Just to be sure.
When they’d all given their names, addresses, daytime landline numbers and mobile phone numbers, they were allowed to leave. The others, discussing it avidly amongst themselves, went off in a group towards the gatehouse, and the exit onto Woodstock Road, and thence to town, but Vicki, her rumbling tummy forgotten, headed straight for hall. She needed to see just what was going on, and what the damage might be.
But she wasn’t, at that point, particularly worried. She knew she had no reason to be.
The constables immediately c
hecked out the viewing room for themselves, of course, but even the elder of the two had to admit that the fire door was heavy and noisy, and creaked loudly when it was pushed open. Furthermore, no matter how many times he tried to open the door, either quick and fast, or slow and sneaky, it always made a racket.
But perhaps the noise of the film had been loud enough to cover it? Should he ask for it to be run again, so that he could hear for himself, or would Inspector Golder think it a waste of time? On the other hand, he might give him credit for showing some initiative. This was his first murder case, and he wanted to get noticed and make a good impression on the top brass. That was the way to promotion, after all. Trouble was, it was hard to tell which way the DI would jump. Perhaps he’d be better off mentioning it to Sergeant Trent. He seemed like a decent bloke who’d give credit where it was due.
‘Funny, she never pushed to know who was dead,’ his mate said, interrupting his line of thought. His companion had only been on the job for a few months, and was inclined to be still a bit wet behind the ears. ‘She seemed the autocratic sort to me. I’ve got an aunt just like her. I was expecting her to give you a much harder time over it,’ he admitted.
The older one was about to slap him down, but then, grudgingly, realized that he had a point. ‘Yeah, she didn’t really seem all that curious, did she?’ he said thoughtfully.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘And, of course, it’s just our luck that’s there no CCTV worth having,’ Peter Trent said. It was nearly six o’clock that evening, and the assistant bursar had loaned the police the use of a lecture room for their operations. A full-scale murder inquiry was underway, a press liaison officer had been seconded to deal with the media, and the room was full with busy people setting up computers and extra phone lines, and – most importantly of all – a coffee post. Some hero had managed to get several coffee percolators and a can of good grade coffee beans from the kitchen. The sergeant knew that the big and oddly beautiful cook had been behind that, but he let the constable who’d come back with the booty get all the credit.
They’d been in contact with their counterparts in Yorkshire, and had been informed that although Maurice Raines’s children had been found and informed by a family liaison officer, Mrs Raines was absent from the family home. It was a glitch that Trevor could have done without, but his colleagues up north had done their homework, and had reported that the neighbours weren’t particularly surprised or worried by her absence. As one old biddy had put it, once the husband was away, the wife liked to play.
Which was an intriguing bit of information, and one he had sent two members of his team to follow up. It was just a pity that the helpful neighbours were unable to point them in any specific direction.
Laura Raines, it seemed, was a lady who knew the value of discretion.
‘No CCTV at all?’ Trevor said now, taking a sip of coffee from his mug.
‘Only on the outer perimeters of the college,’ Peter Trent confirmed. ‘Which makes sense, when you think about it. They’re interested in trouble from the outside, rather than within.’
‘That’s typical of a bloody college,’ Trevor said grimly, draining his mug and slamming it down on the desk top. Even though he’d put in much longer days than this, and then some, he was feeling oddly tired. Perhaps it was because he was already beginning to sense that this was going to be a dog of a case. ‘Were we dealing with your average Joe attacked and murdered on the streets, chances are we’d have it all on film – or if not the actual crime, some valuable peripheral evidence showing us the faces of potential witnesses maybe. But die in the hallowed halls of an Oxford college, and no way does anything useful get recorded. I blame bloody Morse.’
He said this last with a wry twist of his lips, just to show that he wasn’t really serious, and Peter shrugged. He knew when he was needed to play devil’s advocate and did so now.
‘You can’t really blame them for not having any cameras inside though, guv, can you?’ he pointed out reasonably. ‘I mean, students and fellows alike live here, not just work here. And nobody wants to know that Big Brother is watching if you slip out in the middle of the night to go to the loo. Or worse, tiptoe along the corridors to somebody else’s door, that you shouldn’t be tiptoeing along to. If you see what I mean.’
Trevor did. Only too well. He sighed. ‘It’s not just that. It’s …’ At that moment, there was a momentary hiatus in the room, that sudden dimming of conversation and cessation of movement that only happened when something has attracted attention, and Trevor turned to look as Jennifer Starling paused in the doorway.
At nearly six feet tall, with her longish almost black hair and that unfashionable but undeniably eye-catching hourglass figure that she possessed, he was not surprised that her presence hadn’t gone unnoticed.
With another sigh, he rose from his chair and nodded to his sergeant to follow him. He approached the Junoesque cook with a gimlet-eyed smile. ‘Ah, Miss Starling, thank you for coming.’
Jenny smiled back briefly. When summoned by the police, she didn’t really see that anybody had any other option but to obey, but she appreciated his manners nonetheless.
‘Not at all, Inspector Glover. I’m only too glad to do anything to help. But,’ she glanced at her watch meaningfully, ‘dinner is at seven-thirty and as it is the main meal of the day, I really need to be in the kitchens. I’m serving trout and apricot in aspic that can’t be left unsupervised for long, or it won’t set properly.’
‘I don’t intend to keep you long. We just need to get a few things straight.’ He led her to a small side-room, which was obviously used as a makeshift kitchenette for the lecture room. Peter Trent found a small cupboard to lean up against, whilst his boss put his back to a small, chipped, white porcelain sink. Jenny stood in the centre of the room between them, feeling a bit like the filling in a sandwich.
Since she had no intention of turning her head to look at first one of them and then the other, like a demented spectator at a tennis match, she fixed her gaze firmly on the inspector and waited. She suspected that he’d chosen this arrangement precisely to wage some sort of psychological warfare, and she was in no mood to play silly buggers. Even if he did suspect her of murder, she had a fig and nut salad to prepare.
‘I’ve been doing some digging on you, Miss Starling,’ Trevor said, and watched as her shoulders, previously straight and attractively set, slumped just a little. A look of annoyance and consternation was quickly followed by one of resignation. She held out a weary hand and waved it vaguely in his direction.
‘Let me stop you right there, Inspector,’ she said. ‘In spite of what you may have been told, I don’t and never have intended to interfere with a police investigation. I don’t consider myself a Father Brown, or a Lovejoy, or any other type of amateur sleuth you care to name. I just want to cook.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it, Miss Starling,’ Trevor said smoothly, feeling for the first time that this might not be as bad as he’d first thought. When he’d filled in Peter Trent on just who their cook was, they’d both been filled with misgivings. Nearly all of the top brass had heard Jennifer Starling’s name mentioned in the recent past. She’d been mixed up in several murder cases before, but had always been on the side of the angels. Well, at least, as much as could be expected under the circumstances. Nobody in the police service liked members of the public getting involved in what was not their business, but at least she’d never tried to publicize her involvement, or gain from it financially.
And, having spent the best part of over an hour talking to the coppers on the previous cases where she’d been involved, he was willing to give her the grudging benefit of the doubt. His fellow senior investigating officers’ reports on her had been mixed, of course, just as you’d expect when talking to a lot of different people with different personalities and their own axes to grind. And, although a few had been less than impressed and somewhat scathing in their assessment of her, even they had had to admit that she’d had her us
es. Others had openly admitted to their admiration for her intelligence. But all had been of the opinion that she was, overall, more of a use than a hindrance.
When he’d relayed all of this to his sergeant, a man whose experience and common sense he valued, they’d discussed it at length, and had finally agreed to play things by ear. This initial interview with the hot potato that was Jenny Starling, was the opening gambit in what he hoped wouldn’t be a long drawn out process.
So far, anyway, he liked what he was hearing, and to be fair, all of the officers he’d talked to about her had admitted that she had been reluctant, but helpful, in the pursuit of their inquiries. They’d all expressed the same belief that in talking to people and nosing out the lie of the land around her, she was exceptional. As one of them had put it ‘what people won’t say to a copper, they’ll say to her. And if she thinks it’s relevant, she’ll pass it on to us.’
Trevor had caught the significant part of that sentence at once. And if Miss Starling didn’t think it was relevant, she’d keep it to herself, he’d mentally added.
Still, all in all, Trevor was feeling optimistic. ‘All right, Miss Starling, let’s not beat about the bush. You have form… that is, you have experience at this sort of thing—’
‘Not by choice, that’s for sure,’ Jenny muttered mutinously. She’d just finished talking to the Bursar, and was feeling resentful. Why did she have to get mixed up in all this? She was not the police, and she wouldn’t blame Inspector Glover for reading her the riot act if she started putting her nose in. Besides, she’d only been employed at St Bede’s for a matter of days and it was only a summer-long job anyway. What loyalty did she really owe them?
On the other hand, someone had murdered Maurice Raines, and that was just not on, no matter how you looked at it.
‘The bursar’s asked me to keep an eye on things,’ she admitted stiffly, and looked up in time to see a flash of anger cross the inspector’s face. ‘I know,’ she agreed glumly, ‘that’s just how I felt, too. But–’ She shrugged helplessly–‘If I don’t keep him in the loop, you’ll have to. Or worse, he’ll bully poor old Art McIntyre into doing it.’