Peter Hamilton: Manhattan in Reverse

‘No. Not yet. But the possibility is there. Change is always a domino effect. And the likes of you and me must be conscious of that, above all else. We are the appointed guardians, after all.’

‘I’ll remember.’

‘And you’ll need to keep remembering it as well, not just for now, but for centuries.’

I managed to prevent my head from shaking in amusement. The old man was always going on about the uncertainties and dangers of the future. Given the degree of social and technological evolution he’d witnessed in the last four hundred years, it’s a quirk which I readily excuse. When he was my age the world had yet to see electricity and mains water; medicine then consisted of herbs boiled up by old women in accordance with lore already ancient in the First Imperial Era. ‘So what do we know about this possible murder?’

‘Very little. The police phoned the local family office, who got straight on to me. The gentleman we’re talking about is Justin Ascham Raleigh; he’s from the Nottingham Raleighs. Apparently, his neighbour heard sounds coming from his room, and thought there was some kind of fight or struggle going on. He alerted the lodgekeepers. They opened the room up and found him, or at least a body.’

‘Suspicious circumstances?’

‘Very definitely, yes.’

We drove into the centre of Oxford. Half past midnight was hardly late by the city’s standards. There were students thronging the tree-lined streets, just starting to leave the cafés and taverns. Boisterous, yes; I could remember my own time here as a student, first studying science, then latterly law. They shouted as they made their way back to their residences and colleges; quoting obscure verse, drinking from the neck of bottles, throwing books and bags about… one group was even having a scrum down, slithering about on the icy pavement. Police and lodgekeepers looked on benignly at such activity, for it never gets any worse than this.

Francis slowed the car to a mere crawl as a bunch of revellers ran across the road ahead. One young man mooned us before rushing off to merge with his laughing friends. Many of them were girls, about half of whom were visibly pregnant.

‘Thinks we’re the civic authorities, no doubt,’ Francis muttered around a small smile. ‘I could show him a thing or two about misbehaving.’

We drew up outside the main entrance to Dunbar College. I hadn’t been inside for well over a decade, and had few memories of the place. It was a six-storey building of pale yellow stone, with great mullioned windows overlooking the broad boulevard. Snow had been cleared from the road and piled up in big mounds on either side of the archway which led into the quad. A police constable and a junior lodgekeeper were waiting for us in the lodgekeeper’s office just inside the entranceway, keeping warm by the iron barrel stove. They greeted us briskly, and led us inside.

Students were milling uneasily in the long corridors, dressed in pyjamas, or wrapped in blankets to protect themselves from the cool air. They knew something was wrong, but not what. Lodgekeepers dressed in black suits patrolled the passages and cloisters, urging patience and restraint. Everyone fell silent as we strode past.

We went up two flights of spiralling stone stairs, and along another corridor. The chief lodgekeeper was standing outside a sturdy wooden door, no different to the twenty other lodgings on that floor. His ancient creased face registered the most profound sadness. He nodded as the constable announced who we were, and ushered us inside.

Justin Ascham Raleigh’s accommodation was typical of a final-year student — three private rooms: bedroom, parlour and study. They had high ceilings, wood-panelled walls dark with age, long once-grand curtains hanging across the windows. All the interconnecting doors had been opened, allowing us to see the corner of a bed at the far end of the little suite. A fire had been lit in the small iron grate of the study, its embers still glowing, holding off the night’s chill air.

Quite a little group of people were waiting for us. I glanced at them quickly: three student-types, two young men and a girl, obviously very distressed; and an older man in a jade-green police uniform, with the five gold stars of a senior detective. He introduced himself as Gareth Alan Pitchford, his tone sombre and quiet. ‘And I’ve heard of you, sir. Your reputation is well established in this city.’

‘Why thank you,’ Francis said graciously. ‘This is my deputy, Edward Buchanan Raleigh.’

Gareth Alan Pitchford bestowed a polite smile, as courteous as the situation required, but not really interested. I bore it stoically.

‘So what have we got here?’ Francis asked.

Detective Pitchford led us into the study. Shelving filled with a mixture of academic reference books and classic fiction covered two walls. I was drawn to the wonderfully detailed star charts which hung upon the other walls, alternating with large photographs of extravagant astronomical objects. A bulky electrically powered typewriter took pride of place on a broad oak desk, surrounded by a litter of paper and open scientific journals. An ordinary metal and leather office chair with castors stood behind the desk, a grey sports jacket hanging on its back.

The body was crumpled in a corner, covered with a navy-blue nylon sheet. A considerable quantity of blood had soaked into the threadbare Turkish carpet. It started with a big splash in the middle of the room, laying a trail of splotches to the stain around the corpse.

‘This isn’t pretty,’ the detective warned as he turned down the sheet.

I freely admit no exercise in self-control could prevent me from wincing at what I saw that moment. Revulsion gripped me, making my head turn away. A knife was sticking out of Justin Ascham Raleigh’s right eye; it was buried almost up to the hilt.

The detective continued to pull the sheet away. I forced myself to resume my examination. There was a deep cut across Justin Ascham Raleigh’s abdomen, and his ripped shirt was stained scarlet. ‘You can see that the attacker went for the belly first,’ the detective said. ‘That was a disabling blow, which must have taken place about here.’ He pointed to the glistening splash of blood in the middle of the study. ‘I’m assuming Mr Raleigh would have staggered back into this corner and fallen.’

‘At which point he was finished off,’ Francis said matter-of-factly. ‘I would have thought he was dying anyway from the amount of blood lost from the first wound, but his assailant was obviously very determined he should die.’

‘That’s my belief,’ the detective said.

Francis gave me an enquiring look.

‘I agree,’ I stuttered.

Francis gestured weakly, his face flushed with distaste. The sheet was pulled back up. Without any spoken agreement, the three of us moved away from the corpse to cluster in the doorway leading to the parlour.

‘Can we have the full sequence of events, please?’ Francis asked.

‘We don’t have much yet,’ the detective said. ‘Mr Raleigh and five of his friends had supper together at the Orange Grove restaurant earlier this evening. It lasted from half past seven to about ten o’clock, at which point they left and separated. Mr Raleigh came back here to Dunbar by himself around twenty past ten — the lodgekeepers confirm that. Then at approximately half past eleven, his neighbour heard an altercation, then a scream. He telephoned down to the lodgekeeper’s office.’

I looked from the body to the door which led back out into the corridor. ‘Was no one seen or heard to leave?’

‘Apparently not, sir,’ the detective said. ‘The neighbour came straight out into the corridor and waited for the lodgekeepers. He didn’t come in here himself, but he swears no one came out while he was watching.’