G Malliet - Death at the Alma Mater

She was in the area of the college designated for use by unmarried Fellows-a relatively modern add-on, circa 1780, connected by a long corridor to the main building. The circa 1980s, Gulag-style dormitories for the undergraduates, of no architectural distinction whatsoever, were tucked firmly behind a screen of trees, well away from the main building. The youngest students, who called it Cell Block Nineteen, were roundly encouraged to stay there, where they reigned in squalor, according to the Bursar, like wild monkeys surrounding the main compound. But their Junior Combination Room was in the main building.

Portia's steps carried her past the open door of this JCR, a room not unlike the waiting rooms of airports in many a third-world country, generations of slothful, untidy students having rendered redecoration pointless.

Three students, having apparently escaped the cell block, sat watching the start of a DVD, laughing as they tried unsuccessfully to fast forward through the government's copyright violation warnings. One of them, a young man who she remembered gloried in the name Gideon Absalom, began reciting his own version of the warning, adding additional, personalized threats.

"We'll take your wife and your children!" he sang. He stood and began dancing in an exuberant style, part hoochie koo, part Michael Jackson. "We'll confiscate all of your property!" Here he leapt, spinning, into the air, landing en pointe with all the precision of a ballet dancer. "You'll spend your life in prison!" he cried. The rest joined in the chorus, throwing their arms wide: "So don't fuck with us!"

In spite of herself, Portia, trying to slip past unobtrusively, let out a loud splutter of laughter. Gideon, seeing her, took a bow, smiling as he doffed an imaginary hat.

Ah, to be young again.

She continued towards the central staircase in the main entrance hall, where she nearly collided with the Bursar, and where she had her usual Stepford Wives-caliber exchange with him. Quite voluble in some circumstances, Mr. Bowles seemed not particularly comfortable around the female sex, which added to the stiltedness of most of the conversations Portia had had with him. He was quite a formal man, most at home, she thought, in black tie. Even his dark, slicked-back hair and rounded belly added to the illusion that one was addressing a penguin of good breeding but limited vocabulary. His embonpoint seemed to be increasing with his status as a pillar of the college, she noted. He must dine out frequently as a guest at other colleges; it couldn't be because he enjoyed the food on offer from St. Mike's kitchen.

"How are you, m'dear?" he asked her now. He was the kind of man who called women m'dear, especially when he couldn't recall their names. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes," she agreed, falling into line. "Quite."

"Will you be at the dinner tomorrow?"

"Oh, yes, of course. Quite looking forward to it. Just popping into the bar and then back to work on the thesis!" she said heartily.

"Quite, quite! You may find one or two of our visitors there. Pay them no mind."

"Quite!"

The college bar, like all such amenities, was the heart and soul of the college. It nestled in a room just off the main entrance hall, near the Great Hall, and with a view over the front grounds. Small and cozy, it was surrounded on three sides by leather-padded benches; the bar itself ran the length of the fourth wall. It was largely intended for use by the undergraduate and graduate students, and although college Fellows were in theory welcome to mingle, they (horrified by the very idea) preferred to do their drinking in the sanctuary of the exclusive SCR at the far side of the Great Hall.

There was only one other person in the bar. Somehow she'd become aware of his presence in college without having actually met him. Big and tall, with a voice to match. It was Augie Cramb, returned from his visit to the Eagle and changed for dinner. He was playing about with what looked like a GPS gadget, poking and prodding at its screen.

"Howdy," he said, by way of greeting.

She smiled and nodded, hoping to grab a Coke from that night's bartender (the college kept the students on a rota) and make her escape.

The man was beside her now, one large paw extended. His costume-there was no other word-was a grab-bag of influences, with a tuxedo shirt, jacket, and bowtie paired with black Levis and a cowboy belt. The Wild West meets Brideshead. At least he'd left off the chaps.

"Augie Cramb."

"How do you do. Portia De'Ath."

"You from around here?"

She turned to accept the Coke from across the counter and said, "Only in a manner of speaking. I'm a Visiting Fellow of the college."

Augie's jaw dropped. "You don't say?" He gave her a playful punch on the arm, nearly spilling her drink. "But, wouldn't you be called a Visiting Gal?" He threw back his head and laughed uproariously at this witticism. Portia smiled tightly and said, simply, "No."

Augie threw a fiver on the bar and, taking her arm, led her towards one of the benches. She had two options: Struggle madly as if she were being kidnapped by pirates, or politely acquiesce. The British in her acquiesced.

"I was here as a student, about twenty years ago. They didn't have fellers that looked like you then, I can tell you that."

"What were you reading?" she asked politely.

"Law. Damned silly waste of time-it was my daddy's idea. I always knew I was going into business. Anyway, they sent me an invite for this alumni weekend and it made me nostalgic, you know? Thought I'd come see how the old place was holding up."

"And what are your impressions?"

"They could use an influx of cash, is my impression. Money's being spent for show, but the infrastructure is coming apart. They're gonna lose the chapel roof if they don't act fast. 'Course I know that's why we were invited, and I'm happy to oblige."

"I see. You're in construction, then?"

This caused another explosion of laughter. He had a truly infectious, puckish laugh, like someone who looked at all of life as suitable material for a comedy. Portia, despite earlier misgivings, found herself warming to him.

"Lord, no," he said at last. "I just have lots of money, you see. I'll let someone else repair the roof. It's why we're all here, this group, this weekend. We're all loaded."

He didn't appear to be bragging, just stating a fact.

"Anyway, I've been looking forward to this weekend for months. Even though flying is less a pleasure these days and more like being evacuated from a country where rioting has just broken out."

"Do you know all the visitors this weekend?" Portia asked, taking a sip of her drink.

"Yep. Funny thing, that. We had a bumper crop of success stories, I reckon. Most of us what-you-call 'matriculated' at different times, but our years at St. Mike's overlapped. I suppose you've heard of Lexy Laurant?"

Portia grinned, nodded. "Yes, I've also heard of Weetabix."

"Exactly. Everyone knows Lexy, if only from the newspapers. Anyway, I haven't seen her myself yet. She's here with some playboy type in tow, so the bedder who does her room tells me. That's because her ex-husband is here, too."

"You don't say…"

"And his wife."

"Oh. Awkward, that."

Another playful bop on the arm. "You can say that again, Visiting Gal." Much as she liked him, she was pretty certain if he called her that again she'd wrest the GPS from his hands and beat him about the head with it. "I remember James-Sir James, as I suppose we must now call him," Augie went on, oblivious. "Everything dress-right-dress with that one. Always knew which fork to use. La-di-da. I saw him and the missus just this afternoon. Too grand for the likes of me, a'course. But I'll tell you what…" Here he lowered his voice confidentially, decreasing his range to half a mile. "I knew them when. Maybe that's why they've no time for me now. You reckon?"