G Malliet - Death at the Alma Mater

The Master thought for a moment and then said, "No, no, I suppose not."

But he didn't look convinced. How much better if Jesus College were going to be splashed all over the newspapers as a haven for murderers and cutthroats. Applications to St. Michael's would be down next year because of this, no question about it. The students wouldn't mind-they'd love it, in fact, the ghoulish little cretins-but their parents… Really, it was most distressing. He voiced the last thought aloud.

"I can't begin to tell you how deeply distressing this is. It was our alumni weekend, you see. Well, that's certainly ruined, for a start," he fumed huffily. He might have been a vicar's wife complaining about low participation in the Bring and Buy.

St. Just, watching him, thought he had the kind of face designed for a periwig-the long, high-arched nose, the sullen set of the full but bloodless lips. But St. Just nodded, not without sympathy. It was definitely a sticky wicket: deuced hard to explain to the old members how standards had slipped this far since their day.

"I quite understand your distress," he said. "Now, we will need to talk with you at some length, but for the moment, if you would lead us to where the body was found…"

This set him off again.

"Body," gasped the Master. "A body at St. Michael's." The man looked to be genuinely in a state of shock, his narrow face drained to a faint gray in the artificial light of the court.

"Sir," said St. Just firmly. "If you wouldn't mind. Time is of the essence in these matters."

The man seemed to gather his wits through an effort of will. His mouth gathered into a puckered twist, he stolidly led them across the close-cropped grass towards the river, the jaunty bounce in his step as he'd walked over to meet the policemen now completely subdued.

SOCO had already established a beachhead. The body of Lexy Laurant remained in situ, hidden by a crime scene tent that was illuminated to an unearthly glare by arc lamps. It was a scene that had all the otherworldly qualities of a low-budget outdoor film set, complete with space aliens-SOCO-pacing the area in a methodical, robot-like search for evidence, wearing booties just a shade away from being Cambridge blue. Two constables conferred to one side of the tent, their heads close together, talking quietly, as if not wishing to disturb the newly dead. The air was laden with the scents of summer and the murmurs of the men; the gentle lapping of the river could just be heard behind the muted silence. The river, regardless and apart, wended its slow, sinuous way towards the River Ouse, which in turn would travel forty miles to meet the North Sea.

A low, light mist was caught in a glimmering haze by the lamps, and lay like a light scarf on the river; no moon was visible in the night sky. As St. Just and his sergeant approached, the air was rent like intermittent lightning by the flash from the stills photographer's camera. Spectators-the staff and visiting members of the college-had long been herded back inside the college by one of the local constables sent to help secure the scene.

St. Just greeted Dr. Malenfant as he emerged from the tent and asked, "Time of death?"

Malenfant gazed laconically at his old friend for a long moment before speaking.

"Always the same with you, isn't it," he said, removing his latex gloves with a fastidious Snap! Snap! "No matter how long since we've seen each other. Just, 'Time of death?' he wants to know." Malenfant, despite his years in England, remained thoroughly French in manner and habit, the more so when agitated. "You may have observed," he continued, "that my holiday at present lacks certain…amenities. For one thing, it is not taking place in France. Puzzlingly, I remain here, in my summer holiday costume, miles from any beach."

St. Just imagined Malenfant, under his protective clothing, was wearing one of those blousy shirts the French seemed to go in for-those shirts that always made him think of old men playing a game of boules-and striped espadrilles on his feet.

"Why, you may ask?" Malenfant was now in full flow. He wore the kind of old-fashioned wire-rimmed glasses that have to be looped to one's ears. He unlooped them now, and paused to slick back his dark hair. "I appreciate your asking. My estimable colleague-my so-called replacement-has been struck down by a summer cold. I am told it is of amazing intensity, this grippe. He would have me believe it borders on pneumonia leading to an early, painful, and slow death. Pah. Between nine-sixteen and nine-fifty."

St. Just judged, correctly, that Malenfant had at last arrived at the answer to the original question.

"That's remarkable precise, even for someone of your gifts," said St. Just mildly.

"She was seen alive at around nine-fifteen. They had a formal dinner and it adjourned then. She was found at nine-fifty by some kid in a boat, so I am told." Malenfant rendered the word as keed. It was a true barometer of his distress when he allowed his flawless English to slip. He pointed to where Sebastian had abandoned the scull. "So you see, you don't really need me at all for time of death. I won't be able to get you a better estimate even after the autopsy. Now, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen. You'll have some preliminary results tomorrow and unless my colleague experiences a miraculous recovery, I will be around to answer your questions. She's been manually strangled, to answer your next question, by a right-handed killer. Stunned first, by someone wielding the scull found by her body, no doubt. No rope, no rape. Bonne nuit."

Poor Malenfant, thought St. Just. The man was a genius, but seldom was anyone so little suited by temperament to the unpredictable demands of his job. Meals, holidays, family occasions-all were sacrificed, routinely but unpredictably, on the altar of the homicide investigation. From no one else would St. Just have tolerated such curtness with equanimity, but Malenfant's written report would, he knew, be a model of over-compensating thoroughness and accuracy-once the man had gotten a grip on himself.

He also knew Malenfant had what he called a mistress in France to whom he longed to return. She would more rightly be called a girlfriend, as Malenfant was not married, but he clung to the fifties noir term as much more seductive, as having that certain je ne sais quoi with which "girlfriend" could not begin to compete. In his own way, the otherwise gloomy Malenfant was a bon vivant who happened to be a top-flight pathologist. Wine, women, song, food-these were things, St. Just knew, to which Malenfant was passionately devoted, although duty always won out. St. Just had asked him once why he continued to do the job he did. He had looked at the policeman as if he were mad. "So I am reminded to live, of course," he had replied.

"One question, Malenfant, before you go," said St. Just.

Malenfant, sighing theatrically, turned slowly back to face him. "Isn't there always?"

"Could a woman have done this?"

"Do you mean is a woman capable psychologically of choking someone to death? If you have to ask that, it is time for you to broaden your acquaintance with the fairer sex. If you mean physically, which I assume you do…" Malenfant reflected, then said, "Given the small physique of the victim, yes. A rather determined woman… but then, by definition, a strangler is determined. There are far simpler ways to kill someone. But given that the victim was almost certainly stunned, then strangled, it would be an easy enough job for anyone, man or woman. This is why accidental asphyxiation during sex games is such a recurring feature of my professional life-it doesn't take all that much time or strength and before the person realizes too much strength has been applied-poof! A minute or two's compression of the carotid arteries will do it. By the way, I'm certain we'll find your killer wore gloves."