G Malliet - Death at the Alma Mater

Here Malenfant studied his own slender hands, with their long, elegant fingers-a pianist's hands. St. Just likewise looked at those hands, whose job it was to plunge into a victim's body and… well. The mind recoiled. Although both men served the same cause of bringing the guilty to justice, often in unpleasant ways, he would take his job over Malenfant's any day.

"Yes, it could have been a man or a woman. Take a little peek for yourself; just don't go inside the tent just yet. We'll let forensics do their work, shall we?-they might have more to add. Once again, I must bid you gentlemen bonne nuit."

To his retreating back, Sergeant Fear murmured, "I always think he's rather like an undertaker."

"A tres chic undertaker," agreed St. Just.

They walked over to the tented entrance. The body was already in a bag, ready for transport. St. Just motioned to one of the attendants, who unzipped the bag to reveal the victim's face. A woman who had been beautiful, then. Blonde and in her thirties, maybe early forties, with regular, pretty features distorted by a mask of fear. Or was it surprise? St. Just felt he recognized her from somewhere. The artificial light caught the diamonds in her earlobes and the gold at her neck, setting them aglitter like the jewels on a pharaoh's coffin.

One of the SOCO team approached St. Just and Sergeant Fear.

"Her evening bag was found near the body, Sir. Well, we assume it was hers. We're taking it to the lab for a closer look for prints. I've written out a list of the contents-nothing out of the ordinary though." He handed him the list.

St. Just asked Fear, "At what distance are we from the college proper, would you say? A five-minute walk?"

"Less. It took us about three minutes, but we were in no particular hurry."

St. Just nodded. He looked up and about him, taking in the scene. Across the river, the lights of one of St. Mike's oldest and largest foes, Jesus College, glared balefully, as if in retaliation for the SOCO lamps. There once had been a bridge joining the colleges but an early Master of St. Mike's, goaded beyond the limits of his patience, had literally had it burned down during an ongoing feud over access rights. There was also, St. Just noted, no footpath.

"Have someone find this young man who discovered her body-let him know he's to remain available to us. We'll need to decide the batting order for talking to everyone."

The Master had been hovering some distance away from the crime scene. As the two men approached, having overheard them he said, "You mean Sebastian Burrows. The young man. He's inside with the others. I've asked them all to wait up for you in the Senior Combination Room. Was that all right?"

"That was precisely fine. Let me have a further word with you first, Master. In your study, perhaps?"

He sent the Master on ahead, having arranged that they would meet him in his study in a few minutes. St. Just exchanged a few words with one of the constables, then he and Sergeant Fear headed towards the college proper. They ran into Portia at the foot of the main staircase. She looked as if she'd been waiting for St. Just, as no doubt she had.

St. Just nodded to Sergeant Fear, indicating he should wait for him with the Master, then turned to her. She was wearing what he knew was her standard summer work outfit: cropped black yoga pants and a matching sleeveless top. She was looking even more delectable than in his imaginings. But first things first.

"So, what do you know about all this?" he asked her.

"I just wish I knew more," she said. "I wasn't part of the group. This really has little to do with me, this weekend, so I paid little attention, and I've been wracking my brains since I heard what happened tonight. Actually, the Master let it be known that he preferred it if the 'loose ends' hanging about-the summer people-laid low until the old members had left. If we absolutely felt we had to emerge from our rooms for sustenance, we were to strive to look dignified, intelligent, and sober. What he thinks we look like on usual occasions one can scarcely imagine. In any event, it hardly mattered. The honored (read: wealthy) guests were all housed in the Brooke Wing, separate from the revolting masses. I just met people in passing, really-a chat here and there. I've been up to my ears in The Paper Without End."

Even with St. Just, Portia could not bring herself to reveal how often she abandoned the dratted thesis to turn to the almost visceral pleasure-the sights, sounds, smells-of the world inhabited by her fictional detective. Of working out the puzzling dynamics of his latest case.

"It's all right," St. Just said. "Just tell me whatever you remember of what's happened tonight. Start with after the dinner."

"Well…" she began. "I went up to my room after dinner to freshen up. This was a bit after nine-fifteen. Then I came straight back downstairs and headed into the SCR for a glass of port. The Master had invited me to join the group. I gather he felt I wouldn't let the side down too badly. Some of the Fellows-Professor Puckle, for example-might start droning on about Lacanian theory, or Freudian analysis, or something, which is pretty much everyone's cue to run for cover. So it was quite an honor to be asked, if you knew the way the Master's mind works. Frightful snob."

"Did you have much to do with Lexy Laurant?"

"Hardly anything," Portia replied, her lips curved in a little moue of disappointment. "She was lovely to look at, is nearly all I can tell you. My impression, for what it's worth, was that she was massively insecure, the type to cling for ballast to anyone who came along. I think she was flirting with the Argentine she brought along in order to make Sir James jealous-they were married once, did you know that? He's here this weekend, current wife in tow. That was my sense of what was going on-Lexy was playing the jealousy card. But the whole thing looked rather a game. Harmless, too, I would have said. Well, before she was killed, I'd have said that."

"The Argentine?"

"Sorry. His name is Geraldo Valentiano."

"Sounds like a silent film star."

She smiled. "Not far wrong. Just wait until you meet him. You are in for a treat."

"Where did they meet, he and Lexy? Any idea?"

"Dunno," she said. "I doubt it was at a Mensa convention."

"Anything else you can think of?"

A shrug. "Lexy was very wealthy. But then, I gather they all are, so as a motive, money would seem to be a wash. She did tell me on the way down to dinner that her room had been broken into, but that nothing had been taken."

"Really?" St. Just mused on that for a moment, then said, "This Geraldo-did he seem possessive of her… jealous?"

"Not exactly," she replied, drawing out the words as she considered the question. "But he seems the type to own people, rather. Especially women. I guess you could call it a form of jealousy."

St. Just sighed. The investigation had just begun and he was already weary. Suspects galore and probably motives to match. But if it weren't a complicated case, and a high-profile one, the Chief wouldn't have landed him with it. He almost longed to be out with the Reach Out! team, being eaten alive by household pets.

Portia was looking up at him worriedly, seeing his exhaustion clearly in the unforgiving light of the overhead chandelier. His was a handsome face, candid and open, with a beaked nose that jutted from the strong planes of his face like a promontory of his native Cornish coast. His thick dark hair fell more or less in a center part, but the white hair that had begun to fringe around his ears was becoming pronounced. That and the small scar under his chin gave him a slight air of a battle-scarred tomcat.

They stood close together for a moment and a small surge of mutual reassurance seemed to pass between them. St. Just could feel the skin around his eyes soften and relax as he returned her gaze.