G Malliet - Death at the Alma Mater

"Was she alone?"

"No. Sir James was with her."

"Do you recall in what order everyone left Hall after the meal?"

"Sorry, no, as I was among the first to leave. I wasn't really part of the group, as I've said, so I'm afraid I rather bolted at the first opportunity. Tried to bolt, I should say. I was waylaid by Gwenn Pengelly, and then the Master wanted a word. Anyway, as you pass through the gallery from the dining hall, headed towards the SCR, you overlook the Fellows' Garden. She was there-Lexy, I mean. As I told you, I went up to my rooms to freshen up, then I came straight down. I imagine others did the same, or visited one of the ground-floor facilities. They all drifted in to the SCR after dinner fairly quickly, is all I can tell you."

"But by-what-say, nine-thirty? You'd all gathered together? All except Lexy."

She nodded.

"When you saw Lexy in the Garden, what was her manner?"

Portia shrugged. "She was just sitting quietly. She was with James, as I've said."

"He sat with her?"

"No, he was standing."

"And he was definitely one of those you saw shortly afterwards in the SCR?" St. Just could not keep the tension from his voice. Sir James would probably have been the last person but one to have spoken with Lexy.

"Yes. Guarding India."

"And what was his manner with Lexy?"

She considered. "Placating. He seemed to be-oh, I don't know. Calling on all his reserves of patience. Not angry, but maybe trying to convince her of something, was my impression. Placate her, perhaps. Of course, one couldn't hear what was said. The windows in the gallery overlooking the Fellows' Garden are sealed closed. Anyway, he was definitely in the SCR dogging India when I arrived, which was fairly quickly. So he can't have stayed long with Lexy. Not long enough for… you know. Which in any event he wouldn't have done in such a public spot."

"Try to remember who else was definitely there in the SCR." The leather chair creaked like a wooden ship under St. Just's weight as he sat forward.

She sighed. "One wishes one weren't so distracted by that blasted thesis-and whatnot-all the time. Let's see, the Reverend Otis was there, of course. I was talking to him, you see, and I had my back to the room… I was rather trying to dodge the Texan, if and when he came in."

Fear thought St. Just looked inordinately pleased to hear it.

Portia went on, "Let me think about it some more-maybe there was a voice or two I heard and could recognize. I'll try to make a list, give you the approximate times I think they came in, or at least-and this is very different, isn't it?-when they were in the room talking. But I wasn't wearing my watch and I was facing away from the clock on the mantelpiece, so even times will be very rough estimates. At some point Geraldo joined us-the Reverend Otis and myself-for a moment. I'm sorry, that's all I can recall."

St. Just said, "So, what do we have? At some point after dinner-"

"It ended at nine-fifteen, but some people hung about in Hall, talking."

"Right. Let's say you saw Lexy and James in the garden at nine-twenty-would that be roughly accurate?"

She nodded. "Perhaps a minute or so later."

St. Just folded his arms across his chest, and she noticed the elbow was giving out on the light sweater he wore. Typical. St. Just was always scrupulously clean in meticulously pressed clothing, but some of his wardrobe was so worn Oxfam would have rejected it.

"So, some time after that," he said, "Lexy left the garden, we assume for the boathouse. We'll need to ask Sir James if she left him or if he left her sitting there, and find out if any other witness saw her leave. We'll also need to look for signs that she was dragged from where she'd been killed-say, the garden. The killer had plenty of time, as it turns out, before she was found, but dragging her about would run the risk of exposure-as you point out, the garden is much too public a spot for that to be a likely scenario. Much more likely she was killed at the boathouse. But-why was she there? Just wanting to be near the river? Sergeant Fear, I'll need a diagram of the grounds. Get someone to clock the distance from the garden to the river. She could have been carried, of course. She was a little thing, and we have at least one strapping candidate who could have lifted her, even dead, as easily as carrying a large toddler. Your Argentine, for example," he said, with an amused glance at Portia.

"He is hardly my Argentine," she said firmly.

St. Just grinned happily and went on. "So, she was meeting someone, or someone found her. She met up with someone, by accident or design." He sighed. "We're not getting very far yet. But thank you, Portia. That was invaluable. We'd better have a word now with the young man who found her."

The young man who answered the summons to the Master's study also fit the profile of someone strapping enough to carry Lexy Laurant's body without effort. He was perhaps twenty years of age, tall and blonde in a way that recalled the genetic legacy of Norse invaders of the medieval British Isles. He wore his hair long in front, razored in the back, and he had a coltish habit of tossing the thick strands off his forehead with a shake of his head. He sported the British white-man's tan, a darkening of the fair, rosy complexion already reddened by the icy blasts of winter.

He was trying, St. Just thought, to look man-of-the-worldish, as if discovering corpses were pretty much a monthly experience in his adventurous and full young life. St. Just felt sorry for him-the first corpse is always the hardest.

He anticipated St. Just's first question by denying any real knowledge of Lexy, and spent most of the interview painting her as a figure lurking on the periphery of his vision. This would be normal for one of his youth. She was not that much older, but perhaps just old enough to hold little fascination for a young man barely in his twenties. Still, by Hollywood standards, she wasn't too old for him by a long shot. Realistically, however, Sebastian struck St. Just as too immature for the role just yet, barely out of the pram. Lexy may have been immature in her own way, but still: Sebastian belonged to a different young world entirely, and it was hard to imagine what common ground these two might have found. St. Just hoped he wasn't giving in to some creeping old fogey-ism: He could be wrong, completely out of touch with the current mores.

"As I say," Sebastian Burrows reiterated, "I barely knew her."

"Even though she was once married to your stepfather?"

"Precisely. She was once married to my stepfather, that's all." Again, he shook back the golden locks. St. Just wondered if it were a nervous affectation, or an indicator he was lying. "No blood tie."

"How often had you met her?"

Sebastian answered indirectly.

"I know her mainly through the tabloids and magazines, and a few chance sightings in London."

"Where, precisely?"

He named several nightclubs, including Boujis, that St. Just knew were all the latest rage. Sebastian could be lying about how often he met her, thought St. Just. They might frequent the same nightclubs very often. Run into each other, get to know each other. It wasn't impossible…

"When you saw her, on these extremely rare occasions then," said St. Just, "it would help us awfully to get your impressions. Of her character."

Sebastian shrugged. "I don't know, I tell you."

"Do try."

"All right, my impressions, however fleeting: She was kind of neurotic, you know? She liked excitement, noise, people around her. She liked to be the center of attention. This is only my impression from her look, the way she dressed. I didn't really notice her, it's just that she seemed to be everywhere I was for a while."