Elizabeth George - For the Sake of Elena

“But I understand the girl wasn’t killed on University property, so it stands to reason that someone from the city may have committed the crime. If that’s the case, you’re heading into a nasty situation of another sort no matter what anyone wants from New Scotland Yard.”

“Yes. Believe me, I know.”

“So the Yard’s involvement-”

Cuff stopped Lynley with the abrupt words: “Elena was killed on Robinson Crusoe’s Island. Are you familiar with it? A short distance from Mill Lane and the University Centre. It’s long been a gathering place for young people, somewhere they go to drink and smoke.”

“Members of the colleges? That seems a bit odd.”

“Quite. No. Members of college don’t need the island. They can drink and smoke in their common rooms. The graduates can go to the University Centre. Anyone who wants to get up to anything else can do as much in his own bed-sit. We’ve a certain number of rules, naturally, but I can’t say they’re enforced with any regularity. And the days of the proctors patrolling are gone.”

“Then I gather the island’s mostly used by the city.”

“The south end, yes. The north end’s used to repair rivercraft in the winter.”

“College boats?”

“Some.”

“So students and locals might have occasion to bump into one another there.”

Cuff didn’t disagree. “An unpleasant run-in between a member of a college and someone from the city? A few choice epithets, the word townee hurled like an execration, and a killing as revenge?”

“Was Elena Weaver likely to have had that sort of run-in?”

“You’re thinking of an altercation that led up to a lying-in-wait.”

“It’s a possibility, I should think.”

Cuff looked over the top of his glass to an antique globe standing in one of the library’s bay windows. The light from the room created the globe’s duplicate -slightly contorted-on the imperfect pane. “To be frank, that doesn’t sound at all like Elena. And even if that weren’t the case, if we’re talking about a killer who knew her and waited for her, I doubt it was someone from the city. As far as I know, she had no city relationship close enough to lead to murder.”

“An arbitrary killing then?”

“The night porter indicates she left the college grounds round a quarter past six. She was by herself. It would certainly be convenient to reach the conclusion that a young girl out running was victimised by a killer she didn’t know. Unfortunately, I tend to think that’s not the case.”

“Then you believe it was someone who knew her? A member of one of the colleges?”

Cuff offered Lynley a cigarette from a rosewood case on the table. When Lynley demurred, he lit one himself, looked away for a moment and said, “That seems more likely.”

“Have you any ideas?”

Cuff blinked. “None at all.”

Lynley noted the determined tone behind the words and led Cuff back to their original topic. “You mentioned that Elena had potential.”

“A telling statement, isn’t it?”

“It does tend to suggest failure rather than success. What can you tell me about her?”

“She was in Part IB of the English tripos. I believe her coursework concentrated on the history of literature this year, but the senior tutor would be able to tell you exactly, if you need to know. He’s been involved with Elena’s adjustment here in Cambridge from her fi rst term last year.”

Lynley raised an eyebrow. He knew the purpose of the senior tutor. It was far more personal than academic. So the fact that he had been involved with Elena Weaver suggested adjustment problems that went beyond a confused undergraduate’s learning to cope with the mysteries of the University’s system of education.

“There were troubles?”

Cuff took a moment to tap the ash from his cigarette into a porcelain ashtray before saying, “More so than most. She was an intelligent girl and a highly skilled writer, but quite soon into Michaelmas term last year she began missing supervisions, which sent the first red fl ag up.”

“And the other red fl ags?”

“She stopped attending lectures. She went to at least three supervisions drunk. She was out all night-the senior tutor could tell you how many times, if you feel it’s important- without signing out with the porter.”

“I take it that you wouldn’t have considered sending her down because of her father. Is he the reason why she was admitted to St. Stephen’s in the fi rst place?”

“Only partially. He’s a distinguished academic, and we’d naturally give his daughter serious consideration. But beyond that, as I said she was a clever girl. Her A-levels were good. Her entrance papers were solid. Her interview was-all things considered-more than adequate. And she certainly had good reason to find the life at Cambridge overwhelming at fi rst.”

“So when the fl ags came up…?”

“The senior tutor, her supervisors, and I met to develop a plan of action. It was simple enough. Other than attending to her studies, putting in appearances at lectures, and turning in signed chits that indicated she’d been to her supervisions, we insisted she have more contact with her father so that he could monitor her progress as well. She began spending her weekends with him.” He looked faintly embarrassed as he continued. “Her father suggested that it might be additionally helpful if we allowed her to keep a pet in her room, a mouse actually, in the hope it would develop her sense of responsibility and no doubt get her back to the college at night. Apparently she had quite a fondness for animals. And we brought in a young man from Queens’-a chap called Gareth Randolph-to act as an undergraduate guardian and, more importantly, to get Elena involved in an appropriate society. Her father didn’t approve of that last item, I’m afraid. He’d been dead set against it from the very fi rst.”

“Because of the boy?”

“Because of the society itself. DeaStu. Gareth Randolph’s its president. And he’s one of the more high-profile handicapped students in the University.”

Lynley frowned. “It sounds as if Anthony Weaver was concerned that his daughter might become romantically linked with a handicapped boy.” Here was potential for trouble indeed.

“I’ve no doubt of that,” Cuff said. “But as far as I was concerned, becoming involved with Gareth Randolph would have been the best thing for her.”

“Why?”

“For the obvious reason. Elena was handicapped as well.” When Lynley said nothing, Cuff looked perplexed. “Surely you know. You would have been told.”

“Told? No.”

Terence Cuff leaned forward. “I’m terribly sorry. I thought you’d been given the information. Elena Weaver was deaf.”

DeaStu, Terence Cuff explained, was the informal name given to the Cambridge University Deaf Students Union, a group that met weekly in a small, vacant conference room in the basement of Peterhouse Library at the bottom of Little St. Mary’s Lane. On the surface, they were a support group for the not insignificant number of deaf students who attended the University. Beyond that, they were committed to the idea of deafness being a culture in itself, rather than a handicap.

“They’re a group with a great deal of pride,” Cuff explained. “They’ve been instrumental in promoting tremendous self-esteem among the deaf students. No shame in signing rather than speaking. No dishonour in being unable to read lips.”

“Yet you say that Anthony Weaver wanted his daughter to stay away from them. If she herself was deaf, that hardly makes sense.”

Cuff got up from his chair and went to the fireplace, where he lit the coals that formed a small mound in a metal basket. The room was growing cold, and while the action was reasonable, it also bore the appearance of temporising. Once the fire was lit, Cuff remained standing near it. He sank his hands into his trouser pockets and studied the tops of his shoes.