G Malliet - Death at the Alma Mater

"For show?" asked Geraldo, offended. Clearly, using people, women in particular, was his prerogative. He was not used to the shoe being on the other foot.

St. Just nodded. "For show. That speaks of a willingness to use people in rather a cold-blooded manner, does it not? Where is the victimhood in that? I think people tended to misread Lexy, on several levels. As I say, we were told by many that she brought Mr. Valentiano along to show Sir James she no longer cared. Now, just allow the possibility that she truly did no longer care."

"I don't follow," said Hermione.

"It's a subtle but important difference," said St. Just. "If she really had lost all interest in James, if she'd given up the struggle to captivate him, it means we've been reading the situation wrong from the beginning. For all we know, she may have grown to actively dislike or even hate him."

James' eyes sought out his wife's, beseechingly. She, this time, averted her gaze. Her face held a crushed, closed-in expression, as if it were all quite more than she could bear. Maybe, like Lexy, she wasn't so much in love with him any more. Maybe she knew St. Just was right.

Besides, having a murderer in the family was going to be frightfully difficult to explain away, even despite the already low standards of the Bassett family. Hermione was right-they were all barking.

"Really," said Sir James. Making an effort, he seemed to be recovering some of his aplomb, thought St. Just, perhaps thinking he was in trouble, but not trouble so deep a good barrister with a shovel couldn't fix things. "It would make an entertaining case. If only you had witnesses. But we just saw your witness being carried out, didn't we?"

Another little slip. Good. "First, what makes you think Saffron was a witness? But let's talk about her now, shall we? Let me tell all of you what I think happened. Then you tell me if you agree. How's that?"

Hermione, who had not taken her eyes off St. Just, nodded as if mesmerized.

"Saffron, it so happens, kept a diary, and on the night of the murder, having an almost unobstructed view from her room, she saw three people near the boathouse. Sir James, Geraldo, and Augie Cramb. She did a little 'private investigating,' and talked to all three of you. But only one of you was terrified enough at having been seen as to react as you did, Sir James. I think you misread her motives: You thought she was trying on a spot of blackmail.

"You went to see Saffron," continued St. Just, "and you brought chocolates with you. Chocolates that had been poisoned with an overdose of Lexy's tablets-the tablets you stole from her and later diluted for injection. I think you knew Lexy's reliance on drugs-it was probably getting to be an open secret-and you wanted to keep her unbalanced this weekend, even send her into a downward spiral if you could. Take advantage of her vulnerability. We found traces of the needle marks in the remaining chocolates where you injected them, undoubtedly using one of the needles India required for her insulin.

"Now, the Master and Bursar and so on would not expect Saffron to open the door when she'd sported her oak-they would respect the tradition and not dream of knocking. The other visitors of this weekend were strangers to her. Only the police, or Seb, or the stepfather or mother of her beloved Seb, would she be willing to speak with. But it wasn't Lady Bassett or Seb who had been seen talking with the fake Lexy. It was you. India had a real alibi for the whole time. So, as it happens, did Seb."

"Oh, come on, Inspector. You'll have to do better than this," Sir James said, his eyes now cold with dislike.

"All right, I will," said St. Just, smiling. "Would you get Saffron Sellers on your mobile, Sergeant?" he asked, his voice suddenly loud, filling the room.

The group exchanged glances, mystified. Had they heard him correctly? Sir James made a strange whickering sound, like a horse smelling smoke in its stables.

"But she's dead," said Hermione Jax, in a shocked voice. "We saw them… taking her… away." Already outraged at the indecency of a criminal investigation taking place within the hallowed grounds of St. Mike's, perhaps she believed St. Just quite capable of holding a seance in the SCR.

"You saw something that looked like a woman's body being stretchered out," said St. Just. "My Sergeant, happily, was able to find us an alibi doll of our own, in one of the more risque Cambridge shops this afternoon. Saffron, I am happy to tell you, is fine and is expected to make a full recovery. So fine, she was able to tell the police about the chocolates given her by Sir James, about what she saw… about everything she knew, in fact. The real Saffron, who was found by the bedder in good time to save her-and who was in any case on a slimming regime, so she tells us, and so ate only a few of the chocolates-was taken to hospital from a side entrance to the college earlier today while I kept the members of the media entertained in the main entrance hall."

Sir James looked wildly round, as if the answer to his dilemma might be found hiding behind the sofa cushions or in the overhead chandelier. Finally, his eyes came to rest on St. Just's face.

Sergeant Fear permitted himself a triumphant twang! of the elastic against his notebook. Got him!

It was difficult to say later exactly what happened next, but the slight sound seemed to galvanize Sir James. The mask of benign but exasperated tolerance vanished, and in its place his face held an expression of the purest malice, like one of the gargoyles overlooking the Fellows' Garden. He made a move towards the exit.

Sergeant Fear stood and in one smooth unbroken movement threw aside his notebook and dove for the other man's ankles. There followed a loudly chaotic scuffle involving what looked to be several sets of arms and legs, one set clad in the finest Savile Row had on offer, the other in dark blue from Marks and Sparks. A blue-clad arm swung wildly and a fist connected sharply, followed by an anguished shout, just as the kerfuffle of limbs was increased by four. This was St. Just adding his elongated bulk to the skirmish. A moment later found Sir James contained in a chokehold, still struggling but, against the two policemen, starting to give up the fight.

"All this over a book?" asked Portia.

"I think that's the part that pushed him over the edge," replied St. Just. "I've had recent experience of writers and their egos, as have you. His book, all his hard work-the fruit of his genius, as I'm sure he thought of it-was finally being acknowledged, and this cursed woman he'd dumped years before refused to relinquish the rights. If it had been-I don't know, a piece of furniture or something, silverware or a painting, it might have been different. But his book-a book which is suddenly in huge demand, with movie rights being fought over by the studios. It was his birthday present to her once, he's finally admitted, and he thought the book was essentially worthless-worth a few thousand, at best. He'd actually, he says, forgotten all about it."

"Until it-and its author-became famous."

"Exactly."

"Thank God, Saffron is all right. Couldn't you have told me, though?"

"I'm sorry, darling." He reached across the table to pour her a conciliatory glass of wine. They were in her rooms in college, eating another of the gourmet meals she'd managed to prepare in incremental stages, taking advantage of outbursts of quiet in the chaotic student kitchen and combining them with the use of her own tiny kitchen. She had called into service three hot plates, borrowed various implements from the college chef, and raced several times up and down the hall to the communal microwave. At one point she had returned to her rooms wailing, "That blasted cat nearly got away with my scallops!" before vanishing once again into her kitchen.