G Malliet - Death at the Alma Mater

Now she surveyed with satisfaction the result of her labors. They would start with the rescued roasted scallops served with a vermouth sauce, moving on to slow-roasted lamb flavored with rosemary, fried zucchini, and scallion potato puree. To finish, a Tarte Tatin. She thought of it as her Inspector Nankervis Special.

"Sorry," he repeated. "The murderer had to feel absolutely safe; cocky gets them every time."

Portia gave him a mocking smile. "Don't I know it?"

"It stood to reason that whoever stole Lexy's tablets also tried to silence Saffron with an overdose of those same tablets. The idea being to stress Lexy out and leave her strung out, without her usual defenses. Maybe hoping to wear her down to where she'd sign back the rights to his book, so he could avoid having to commit the murder he'd already planned-just in case."

"She did seem to be unraveling a bit as the weekend wore on."

St. Just nodded. "He may also have intended the tablets as a backup-in case he couldn't get her alone, he'd try an overdose made to look like accident or suicide. But in any event the tactic of stressing her out didn't work; it may even have backfired, making her more stubborn and difficult to deal with."

"Saffron told you what she'd seen," said Portia. "What exactly was it she'd seen?"

"She saw three people walk to the boathouse that night. She knew one of them was the killer. She just didn't know which one."

"What was she after? Was it a spot of blackmail?"

"No, I really don't think that's in Saffron's makeup. The realization she held the key to a real-life crime was what sent all common sense flying out the window. She wanted to investigate on her own and come to the police with a fait accompli. Does this sound like anyone you know?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," said Portia.

"Really. Anyway, both Augie and Geraldo now admit she approached them. They didn't want to say anything because they'd not told the police they'd been near the boathouse, and Saffron's evidence would, they knew, make them look guilty. They just couldn't decide whether to own up to what was actually just a little walkabout for fresh air, or to stay quiet. Maybe they'd both have paid for her silence if asked; we'll never know. We've found Seb, by the way. Rather, he turned himself in when he saw the reports and the camera footage on the telly-he thought he'd had a hand in driving Saffron to suicide. He had no idea it was a murder attempt by Sir James, trying to silence her. If the bedder hadn't come by when she did, if Saffron had taken even a slightly larger dose, he'd have succeeded. That is what's frightening to contemplate."

"It was awfully handy, having all those television crews out there, just as her 'body' was being carried out."

"Hmm." He took a sip of his wine. "Reporters got wind of the story somehow. Gosh, I wonder who tipped them off? Surely not Gwenn Pengelly? Anyway, the news footage drove Sebastian to make a clean breast of things-he'd already admitted he was running a private distillery, and making a tidy sum from supplying undergraduate parties. He also broke into Lexy's room, by the way: He hadn't realized the weekend visitors would be given those rooms, and some of his equipment was stashed in there. He had to retrieve it. He was so shaken he probably thought he'd had something to do with Lexy's death as well, but we soon convinced him otherwise.

"It's a shame, really. Seb was not so much a bad kid as a foolish one. His mother's gone into overdrive to get the authorities to overlook the whole episode-it may be the first real attention she's shown him in years. We shall see…"

"I've been thinking of what you said," said Portia. "We all got it so wrong, didn't we? We saw exactly what we saw, but our interpretation was off. For example, I told you Lexy's eyes kept following Sir James. Absolutely true. But quite possibly she was trying to recall what she had ever seen in him in the first place."

St. Just nodded, smiling. "I really choose to believe Lexy, for all her silliness and wiles, would have changed, given time. Finally prying herself away from Sir James was a sign she was headed in the right direction. If only someone had realized her unhappiness, not to mention her addiction, and gotten her some real help. Geraldo was useless for that role, but if she'd lived, who knows? She might have met someone who didn't view her only as an attractive, rich, advantageous match, however temporary."

"Sir James-he took an awful chance."

"Not really. He planned things to the minute, and I think we'll find he did a bit of research on establishing time of death." He paused, thinking of Malenfant's grisly little lecture from France-breaking away from his game of boules or his cafe lounging or his mistress-on the temperature of the brain and how the eyes of a dead person are the first to "go." He had rattled off something about Rouleaux or boxcar formation in the eyes, as well as a mention of potassium levels.

"Suffice it to say," St. Just said aloud, "time of death cannot be determined precisely to the minute, although I daresay scientists are working on that. Sir James could easily have gotten away with pretending she was alive when she had in fact been dead about twenty minutes."

Outside, although well after nine-thirty, dusk was just showing at the edges of the day. It would be Lighting Up soon-a phrase he'd never hear again without thinking of Lexy Laurant, the woman who could light up a room. A shadow emerged from the trees just then, resolving into the forms of India and Geraldo. She was leaning against the wide trunk of an old shade tree, head flung back in accepted romantic heroine fashion, as Geraldo leaned in close, murmuring something-no doubt sweet nothings-his arms pinning her in place. She didn't seem to mind.

As if reading his thoughts, a talent Portia seemed to have developed rather quickly in their relationship, she said, "I wonder how India's going to cope? Stiff upper lip and all that, but that can carry one only so far. The scandal is what's going to kill someone like her."

He turned from the window and smiled, lifting his glass in a toast.

"Oh, I daresay she'll get over it." -- It was late afternoon on a cold Spring day-freezing cold, the sun a silver-white disc against a sky nearly stripped of clouds by a steady wind. The river was choppy enough for there to have been discussion of postponing the race, but in the end it was decided to carry on regardless. Crowds, the largest on record, lined the Thames for the University Boat Race from Putney to Mortlake.

Sebastian Burrows was in the Blue Boat. What he couldn't get over, what he couldn't quite believe himself, was that not only was he in the Blue Boat, he was the stroke. All the months of training had finally led to this. All the early-morning practices, where he had often passed couples in dinner jackets and long dresses just coming home from a night of partying. All the weekends spent freezing on the Fens, enduring the bleak monotony of training on the River Great Ouse. All the punishing sessions on the erg. Before the race was over, he knew his lungs would be searing, his brain scrambling for oxygen, his legs surging with lactate. It wasn't uncommon for rowers to pass out at the end of a race.

Augie Cramb, he knew, would be waiting on the bridge to see Cambridge "beat the bejesus out of Oxford," as Augie put it. Augie had probably been standing on the bridge all day to keep his place. His mother said she couldn't make it. But never mind that. That much Sebastian was used to.

He knew he was lucky. Far, far luckier than he deserved, and he was smart enough to be thankful. They hadn't sent him down, for one thing. That Inspector had fixed it, but only, he'd said, because Seb had turned himself in. Because he'd come back for Saffron's sake. The whole scheme with the alcohol he'd now put firmly in his past. The Inspector said it would stay that way if Seb kept out of trouble-otherwise St. Just would come down on him like the hounds of hell. Seb believed him. That expression about the iron hand in the velvet glove: That, he thought, was St. Just.