G Malliet - Death at the Alma Mater

"I have half a dozen witnesses or more who give me an alibi," Sir James ploughed ahead. "Doll, indeed. You'd be laughed out of court. Where's this doll then? Where's your evidence?"

"I'm so glad you asked," said St. Just. "We'll get to that in a minute. Right now, I'm talking about your motive. As I say, the divorce papers on file revealed nothing of interest. And I assumed that the success of your books, and one in particular, meant that any problems you may have had in recent years were mitigated-years your investments were performing badly, both yours and your wife's. Your wife, to whose money you've had frequent recourse nonetheless to maintain your extravagant way of life. One wonders how soon even India, devoted as she is, would have tired of propping you up?"

India looked away, but not quickly enough to hide a fleetingly guilty look. St. Just sighed. Again addressing Sir James, he said:

"'We were children together once,'" you said of Lexy. "That wasn't strictly true-Lexy was the child, you were several years older. But to a romantic like Lexy, old friendships meant everything. Everyone spoke of her dog-like devotion to you, but only one of you-the Reverend Otis-recognized that what was in her sad eyes was not love, nor even mourning for a lost love, but a sort of pity. Pity for you. She had stopped wanting you at last. She, I believe, had finally recognized the man you were."

"You believe." Sir James practically shouted his contempt. "I repeat, where's your proof?"

"And I'll repeat that I'm very glad you asked and I'll get to that in a minute. Now, what was strange about your finances was this: About the time the money should have begun to roll in from your book, with talk of its being made into a film and so on, the money just continued to roll out. That could have been explained by a delay in paying the royalties-I understand publishers wait to see the level of returns on a book before issuing a cheque to its author. All right, that made sense, but where was the advance for this famous book? Oh, wait, that's right! The advance would have been paid years ago, because you sold the book to this publisher years ago. But…what about those royalty cheques? When might you expect to see some cash for your efforts-cash over and above the advance monies? Well, I'm happy to say that a call to your publisher set us straight."

St. Just's eyes narrowed, as if scanning a far horizon. He's going in for the kill, thought Sergeant Fear, fairly bristling with anticipation.

"We had a most pleasant chat today with someone in the accounting office of your publisher, didn't we, Sergeant Fear? I spoke with Mrs. Pennyfinger, a helpful and extremely competent woman who's been employed by your publisher for many years. She told me your now-famous book had been published and promptly 'sank without a trace'-her exact words. She told me you didn't even earn out your small advance. But then, some time later, the book developed a cult following on the Internet, a completely unforeseen circumstance. Well, not completely unforeseen, because the publisher had retained the rights to come out with a reprint of the book, which they promptly did. A large reprint, at that. And even that print run was not enough to meet demand, because the book was going to be made into a film now-the Reverend Otis knew about that from his reading of a newsletter about the publishing industry. How ironic for you: A book that met universally with seawalls of indifference suddenly becomes a bestseller.

"Now, you might all be thinking what a lucky man Sir James was, to have life breathed into his creation a second time. But here is where it got interesting. Mrs. Pennyfinger told the police that payment had started going out some months ago, but your name, Sir James, was not on the cheques issued by the publisher. Instead, the royalties were going to the person to whom lifetime rights had been legally assigned: your wife at the time, Lexy. Now known, of course, as Lexy Laurant.

"And who had made this momentous decision, and who had signed the paperwork? You yourself, Sir James."

"What was it?" St. Just drove on, relentlessly. "A birthday present? Anniversary? A bribe to get rid of her? Or some sentimental gift that cost you nothing-after all, you knew what the book was worth then, which was nothing much. You fobbed it off on her, but I'd be willing to bet that's not how she saw it. Lexy would have seen it as the sublime romantic gesture: You knew her well. During your divorce, you still thought the book was worthless and you were frantic anyway to get rid of Lexy and marry India. You probably thought you had been clever but then suddenly-the book became worth serious money. And just when you needed serious money.

"That money from your book-it could save you. Now, you might once have been able to swindle Lexy into assigning the rights back to you, but no longer. The veil had fallen from those famous blue eyes, had it not? I'm sure you reasoned-and this just fed your rage-that it was your book, not hers, for all that you had signed it away. It must have been absolutely galling, Sir James. The book was yours. And now this silly gesture, the gesture that Lexy had no doubt thought at one time to be so sensitive and loving, had come back to haunt you in a big way."

"All right," said Sir James. "I'd assigned her lifetime rights while we were married, and they weren't part of the divorce settlement. So what? What does this have to do with poor Lexy being murdered? What proof do you have? You couldn't possibly-"

"Now, it's proof you want?" St. Just turned and pulled from his briefcase an evidence bag. Holding it aloft, they could see it contained a puddled mass of plastic. "Your doll, I believe, Sir?" He held up a second evidence bag. "And a wig for your doll. Partial to blondes, are we?" He nodded in India's direction. "But let us not forget: Lexy was a blonde-famous, in fact, for her hair. The Lexy Cut, they call it. All the rage among the ladies. Do you know, Sir James, it did occur to me that you and your wife might be in on this together-that it was India in a wig that everyone saw talking with you in the Garden, providing you an alibi. But India was seen in the SCR right after dinner, so that wasn't possible."

St. Just shook the bag in Sir James' direction. "We found these items-as you very well know, Sir James-in the river, inside a rubbish bag, the whole wrapped tightly with tape, and weighed down with a large stone. Funny kind of thing to find in the river, don't you think?"

"Leftovers from an undergraduate prank, that's all. What rubbish you are talking."

"A first-year caper, you say? High-spirited youngsters larking about, you think?"

"Quite obviously. I'm surprised I have to point this out to the police."

"We're always grateful for input from the public; you've no idea. So, you're saying that when the lab tests the prints that are all over the plastic here-"

"There can't be pr-" Sir James began, then bit off the end of the sentence. But not quickly enough. St. Just let the silence hang in the air for several long moments.

"What's that you say, Sir James? There can't be prints-because the killer wore gloves? And just how would you know that, Sir? Still, no matter. The saliva found in and around the valve, used, of course, by the killer to inflate the doll-well, that's as good as it gets. As good as prints, maybe better, I'm told. Ah! I see, Sir, you hadn't thought of that."

And from the look of him, he hadn't. Sir James glanced around at the others, stricken, as the meaning of St. Just's words spread through the SCR like the sound of a muffled underground detonation.

"Well, I never," spluttered Mrs. Dunning. Her husband shushed her with a quick gesture. The Master, the Bursar, and the Reverend Otis, who had remained huddled together throughout these revelations, continued to look on silently, their mouths forming three perfect circles of astonishment.