Sam Bourne - Pantheon

Soon they were back, he and Riley, across that blank table in that blank interview room. Wearily, James asked, ‘Do you do everything for your police force, Detective?’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘Well, one minute you’re investigating a murder, the next you just happen to be on call for what must have looked like, at worst, a minor break-in.’

‘Let’s say I like coming out on special occasions.’

‘And why exactly was this a special occasion?’

‘You’re an important man, Dr Zennor.’

‘Ah, so you knew I was involved, did you?’

‘I know now.’

‘I see. So when Dorothy Lake told you to dash over to the Dean’s house on St Ronan Street, you dropped everything and ran.’

Riley’s failure to react, his lack of surprise or puzzlement at the mention of Miss Lake confirmed it: she had made the call. ‘I see you’re not denying it.’

‘It’s not me who’s under arrest for criminal trespass, Dr Zennor. So why don’t we say that I ask the questions and you answer them, OK?’

‘Fine with me, Detective.’

Riley plodded his way through the interrogation, James responding with a simple, straight, if not complete, account of the truth. He had discovered that his post — sorry, his mail — had been intercepted and wanted to take this matter up urgently with the Dean. That was it.

‘Talk to him, eh? Do you break into the houses of all the people you wanna talk to?’

‘I wasn’t breaking in! I was looking into his garden. Just in case he was there.’

They went round and round, Riley trying to make two and two equal five, trying to get James to stumble on an inconsistency, James stubbornly offering a straight bat. Finally the detective, who seemed as weary as James, sighed heavily and said. ‘I’m going to arrest you, which means you have the right to make a telephone call. Most people call their lawyer.’

He led James out of the interview room and into a tiny cubicle which contained nothing but a plain chair and a telephone on a small shelf. ‘I’ll be right here.’

James picked up the receiver and heard his own breath. After no more than a second’s thought, he responded to the operator’s enquiry by asking to be put through to the office of the Yale Daily News. James checked his watch. It was mid-afternoon, it was summer. There was every chance there would be no one there. But the call was answered.

‘The editor, please.’

Another delay, then a second voice. ‘Can I help?’

‘Yes, I hope you can. My name is Dr James Zennor and I’ve been dealing with one of your reporters, a Miss Dorothy Lake.’

‘Yes, I know. Is there a problem?’

‘No problem at all. She’s been extremely diligent. She is keen to have my co-operation on the story she’s working on and I just wanted to check her bona fides, if you will. Do you mind if I ask how she came to you?’

‘She was an undergraduate at Vassar and on the paper there, I think. She comes very highly recommended.’

‘I’m glad to hear that. By whom?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You said she comes very highly recommended. Recommended by whom?’

‘Well, I’m not sure I should say. I don’t want people to think nepotism plays a part in these decisions.’

‘No, no, of course not. This is strictly for my own reassurance. It will stay between us.’ James looked over his shoulder to see Riley pointing at his wristwatch. He could cut off this call at any moment.

‘In that case, I’m glad to reassure you that Miss Lake came with the highest possible recommendation.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes. She was recommended by the Dean, Dr Preston McAndrew. And here I would appreciate your discretion, Dr Zennor. But Dr McAndrew is Miss Lake’s uncle.’

He lay on the hard, narrow bed in the cell. Part of him welcomed the chance to lie down and rest. He was exhausted and needed to think. But the other part was desperate to act, to get back out into the daylight and onto the streets, to see if this new knowledge might somehow lead him to Florence. First, though, he had to think.

He went over and over again the events of the last twenty-four hours, since Dorothy Lake had found him outside the Wolf’s Head tomb, reviewing them in light of the discovery of her family connection to the Dean. Theoretically, it might make no difference: yes, she had got her start with the Yale Daily News through him, but now she was an ambitious young journalist whose sole desire was to get a good story.

But the other possibility was just as likely, that she was, in fact, working for her uncle — doing what he had asked her to do. Perhaps that amounted to no more than a request that she keep an eye on James, letting the Dean know what he was up to. But he had to consider that her duties went far beyond just that.

He thought of the list of names of Wolf’s Head alumni in Miss Lake’s notebook, how it had included everyone except one of the society’s most eminent past members: the current Dean of Yale University himself. He should have become suspicious of her the moment McAndrew had revealed his connection to the Wolf’s Head. But he had not even thought of it.

In the same way, James had accepted that it was just rotten luck that he had been interrupted by the Dean himself as he went through the files in the outer office. But what if Dorothy had tipped her uncle off? She might have recovered from her fall earlier than agreed, then gone to find McAndrew or sent the secretary to get him. It would mean that her telephone call to Riley and the Yale Police Department just now would have been her second betrayal of James in as many days.

So for all his courtesy and promises to help, the Dean had been suspicious of James and had despatched someone, his own niece, to watch him, so that she could sound the alarm if he ever got too close for comfort. But too close to what? What exactly was the Dean hiding? Whatever secret it was, he clearly believed James was getting dangerously close. But why would he believe that? Because James had been in contact with Lund? Or simply because he had been making enquiries about the Oxford children?

James’s head hurt. His shoulder was throbbing, as it always did after strenuous exercise. It would be so easy to fall asleep, to slip into a stolen hour of rest and dreams, where Florence and Harry might visit him. His eyelids were growing heavier. But then he heard the sound of metal scraping against metal. His jailers were unlocking the door.

Without speaking, a junior officer ushered him into the hallway. Preparing himself for release — to sign a form, have his belongings returned to him and be sent on his way — he was instead greeted by Riley, mug of coffee in hand, a curl of steam rising from it. The detective nodded towards the interview room. ‘Shall we?’

James followed him inside, tasting the sourness of his own mouth. The sweat from his earlier run had congealed on his skin, leaving a clammy film on his back; he hadn’t eaten for hours. He wanted to be almost anywhere but this room. Surely the Yale Police Department had better things to do than prosecute an English academic for climbing a garden gate?

‘Detective Riley-’

‘Hold on, Dr Zennor. I need to check something with you.’

‘All right,’ he said, shaking his head at the exasperating endlessness of it all. ‘Fire away.’

‘It’s not a question exactly. I need to look at you. Can you stand up a second?’

‘Look at me? What the devil is this about?’

‘It will only take a moment.’ The detective moved closer, so that he was just a few inches from James, then raised himself on tiptoes — and began looking at James’s hair.

‘What the hell is this?’

‘I’m nearly done.’ Riley began touching James’s hair, probing into the scalp. Instinctively James reached up to push the man off and away, but the detective was strong, grabbing James’s right arm with one hand, using the other to touch James’s hair, repeatedly rubbing a lock of it between finger and thumb.