G Malliet - Death at the Alma Mater

"He's probably somewhere trying to work the ring out of his nose."

Hermione allowed herself a delicate snort. She always enjoyed Gwenn's company, almost despite her better instincts. That two women so exactly opposite should have remained friends was something Hermione always wondered at and, in her way, was grateful for. She had few friends: No one, if she but knew it, felt they could quite live up to her high moral standards. Gwenn, because she didn't care, didn't try.

"She does rather lead him around, doesn't she?" agreed Hermione now. "Always has done."

"I've seen Chihuahuas with more courage than Karl."

Hermione nodded.

"And I've seen Rottweilers better disposed than Constance." -- Constance and Karl Dunning were in the SCR, taking advantage of the rare freedom of the place, he to admire the woodwork and she surreptitiously to take a peek inside the walnut drinks cabinet.

"They do all right for themselves, these Fellows," she said, assessing the paneled walls, the oil paintings, and the two deeply embrasured windows that looked out over the front of the college. Their window seats held padded tapestry cushions, depicting the college shield (goats and unicorns rampant), that had in 1951 been the project of the then-Master's wife.

From the open windows of the SCR came the sweet fragrance of flowers and newly shorn grass and the faint "thwump" of a tennis ball in play. Tall leaded windows on the opposite side of the room were merely decorative.

"As for our rooms," Constance continued, "I've seen better accommodation in a stable."

"There are parallels in Christianity, of course," said her husband mildly.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing. Take a look at this. That's a genuine Chippendale or I miss my guess."

She nodded, gray eyes judiciously weighing and measuring, oversized round earrings gleaming. She smoothed her skinned-back dark hair, which she habitually wore shellacked into a tight chignon at the base of her large skull, and straightened the knitted jacket of her suit.

"There's mold somewhere in this room," she announced. "And in my room upstairs. I can feel it, seeping into my pores. My allergies-"

"There's mold in most Cambridge rooms. It's probably what prevents the buildings from collapsing altogether-it acts as a sort of glue. Oxford's far worse, I hear."

"And the food! Remember what you said about the food! It's all not going to be what we're used to."

"No, indeed, my dear."

"We should leave now!"

"Sweetest, it's only for a few days."

"I'll be in a hospital by then, I tell you. And, my room is going to be freezing at night. There is no heat coming out of that contraption on the wall. But-you just don't care, do you?"

"Darling, I told you: The heat is at the optimum setting already. The thermostat must be broken. But it's only for the weekend. Besides, it's summer. Could be much worse, and probably usually is." He gave her a hopeful, benign smile.

She leveled at him a venomous look from beneath high-arched eyebrows.

"Do I look happy?" she asked him.

As there was no need for reply, wisely, he made none.

"Then have it seen to," she commanded. "Ask the Porter or someone."

People wondered how Karl stood it, and why. He would be mortified to hear some of the theories and rumors that had been bruited about over the years, most of them originating with Gwenn Pengelly. Gwenn had read widely of the tales surrounding the Duchess of Windsor and her baffling hold over HRH. The story had been spread around the time of the abdication, and had gained rapid currency, that Wallis had picked up some diabolical sexual techniques during her time in China, and that she had used these to ensnare the future King. For some reason, foot fetishism was the most agreed-upon outlet for the Prince's ardor.

But the truth, probably in the case of HRH and certainly in the case of Karl Dunning, was much simpler. Karl, introverted and shy, had been lonely when he met Constance. Insanely lonely and, thanks to his financial acumen and various inventions for which he held the patents, wealthy. Constance, with the sure instincts of her kind, had spotted the weakness and gone in for the kill, unawed by either Karl's social status or his intellect, where lesser egos had been deferential to his genius. Far from resenting his entrapment, Karl remained grateful and deeply attached to his wife, recognizing the neediness behind the constant demands. He was one of those people who needed to be needed. Most would have agreed that according to his lights, he'd found the perfect match.

"Just get through the weekend, my dear," he said now. Her unhappiness made him almost physically ill, so attuned was he to her moods. "Get through just these few days, and I promise you a week at the Ritz in Paris that you'll never forget. Whatever you want is yours."

She didn't have to pause for thought. She kept a mental list of her latest wants constantly updated.

"You know I've had my eye on that cocktail ring…"

"Anything."

"All right, then. But don't expect me to enjoy myself for a moment."

"You're a saint, Constance."

As the instructions accompanying the invitation to the alumni weekend had explained, there would be an informal meal in Hall Friday night, to be followed by a formal dinner on Saturday night. Saturday day would be taken up with lectures, tours, and chances to reminisce. Augie Cramb, late of Austin, Texas, debated the choices as he walked along Sidney Street, past Sidney Sussex College, his footsteps carrying him ever farther away from St. Mike's. He'd much prefer a pub meal and a chance to chat up the locals to what, however "informal," would surely be the grinding bore of a meal in Hall. Even when he'd lived here as a graduate student for the two long years it took to get his Master's, he'd avoided meals in college like the plague they often were. It wasn't the pomp and circumstance of college life he was after, but to get to know the people. He regarded this natural inclination as the secret to his success. He understood the little man. It was the nobs he couldn't fathom. Besides, the weekend was going to be awkward enough in spots without his having to go out of his way to have meals with the others. He was here to sightsee. Sightsee he would.

He pulled out his personal navigation device, although he knew the way perfectly well. Augie, who had made and conserved his fortune during the dot-com bubble, loved gadgets, and this small new GPS seldom left his side. He punched in the name of the pub he remembered from nearly twenty years ago. Nothing. Maybe it was another victim of the pub closings that were swamping England. More than fifty per week were shutting their doors, he'd read somewhere. The smoking ban and cheap supermarket booze had done for them. It was the real end of the British Empire as far as Augie was concerned.

Well, there was always The Eagle on Bene't Street. That pub was so famous, so beloved of scientists and World War II buffs, it would be around even if the city fell. Heck, if there were ever any danger of the Eagle's closing he'd buy the place himself.

He set his steps towards Petty Cury, turning there to walk towards the river. He kept his eyes on the GPS screen, not realizing how this inhibited his ability to see any actual sights. So engrossed in his gadget was he, in fact, that he had collided with Sir James before he knew it.

"Oh, I say, I'm jolly sorry," said Sir James.

"Jamie, my boy!" shouted Augie in surprise. Several heads turned to see what the commotion was about. Augie, from the wide open spaces of Texas, where a man was free to yell all he wanted, saw no need to moderate his speech.

Sir James, hugely affronted at the familiarity (his knighthood was a source of immense pride and had been awarded not before time, in his opinion), smiled somewhat frostily and turned to his wife.