Honest Doubt (4 page)

I looked at her hopefully, and poured a tiny amount of wine into her wineglass; I didn't want to overwhelm her or seem to be getting her drunk for nefarious purposes.

She took a sip. “I guess I've never really tasted good wine before,” she said. “I always hate it; it tastes sort of sour, or else sweet.”

I smiled gratefully. And waited.

“Professors are peculiar,” she said. “The older ones have tenure, which means they can't ever be fired; you'd think that would make them secure, and they'd just go on doing whatever they got tenure for doing. But they still hate the thought that anyone might not want to hear what they have to say, or read what they write, or invite them to important conferences. The younger professors in the department, the ones without tenure, have different ideas sometimes, and it seems to me the older professors feel threatened. I don't know any of the details except in one case.”

I smiled encouragingly and sipped my wine. It was good.

“There's a professor in the department, one of the most famous. He's an authority on Freud.”

“Freud? I thought it was a literature department.” I really was surprised to hear Freud mentioned, but I shouldn't have interrupted her. “Do go on,” I urged.

“I don't attend the committees where the full professors decide on who to give tenure to, but news always leaks out. I know what happens because either they all talk about it in my office, or one of them tells me about it, to keep on my good side, or because they all like to talk and need to talk to someone who can follow what they're saying. Anyway, everyone in the department knows that if an assistant professor writes anything about Freud that questions anything about him, that's the end of that younger person's chance for tenure. He turned down a wonderful young woman because of that.”

“But surely it takes more than one old professor to turn someone down?” I really wanted to understand this stuff.

“But there're always others who don't like the candidate. In this case she was a woman; she taught feminist texts, and suggested that Freud had been mistaken— or so I gathered. I don't really read all that the people in the department write; even if I could understand it, I haven't the time.”

“It all sounds pretty petty to an outsider. Maybe all businesses are like that. But in most businesses, if you don't bring in the money, you don't get to keep the job. In a big detective firm, say, if you never solve any cases or satisfy any of the customers, you won't last long.” I was determined to ask Kate what the point of tenure was, but it wasn't a question I really wanted Dawn's opinion on.

“It is petty,” she said. “They're supposed to be dealing with great writing and eternal truths, and they act more like salesmen fighting over territory— that's what one of the other department secretaries said, and I thought it was true.”

“Sure sounds it,” I said. I decided not to question her any more; after a time, you begin to seem a little too interested in what they're saying, which is a good impression to avoid if you can.

Dawn went on: “The truth is, the department's changed a lot. We get very different students than when I began working there; of course, they're not all women anymore— Clifton used to be a women's college—but it's more than that. In those days, we got mostly well-off, anyway, middle-class kids, Americans, whose parents had been to college and sort of spoke the same language as the professors; I don't just mean English,” she explained, quite unnecessarily, but I nodded understanding, “but how they look at the world and all. Today many come from other countries, and they're interested in peculiar things— well, some of them do seem peculiar to me, though I don't feel right in judging. ‘Queer studies,' for instance, that's what they call it: the study of homosexuals in literature. And the study of imperialism and colonial peoples; and, of course, feminism. They also do a lot with race, and class, and that sort of thing. Many of the older professors want the students to concentrate on the classics— Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton—and some students want to study more modern authors and the younger professors don't see why they shouldn't. It makes for a lot of trouble, I can tell you that, and the worst part is deciding who to hire and who to give tenure to. I try not to look back, but in the old days, there was a kind of good feeling in the department that just isn't there anymore.”

“Sounds awful,” I said, dismissing the subject. “Times change, and there's no doubt they're changing now. Shall we contemplate coffee and a really horrendous dessert?”

“Oh, I couldn't have coffee; I'd never get to sleep. I don't even dare to drink decaf.”

“Dessert, then. I insist. This is your night to say boo to your diet.”

The waiter came around with the dessert cart, and we each chose one. She had a hard time making up her mind, and I ordered the one she finally rejected so that I could offer her a bite, claiming a bite of hers, to be fair. She'd told me a lot, and I wanted her, in exchange, to have a good time. I suspected her life didn't include too many good times. I couldn't help wondering if any of those old professors ever took her out for a meal; somehow, I doubted it. Later, I dropped Dawn at her home, and took the taxi on to Park Slope. I've never understood how people can keep cars in Park Slope; there's never anywhere to put them. A guy I know calls it Double-Park Slope. Thank the lord for my land-lords, their area space, and my bike.

My next obvious task was to interview some of the professors myself, to try to narrow my list of professors down to those who might be suspects in Charles Haycock's murder. Dawn had given me a sense of the atmosphere in the whole department; it hardly encouraged me to think that was enough to make my interviews productive. The professors might agree to see me once in a murder investigation of one of their number, but a repeat might not be so easy to arrange. I had to make the first interview count, at least until my suspicions were a little more directed.

It seemed only natural to consult Kate Fansler at this point. She would certainly have some suggestions, and—this was a thought I was a bit ashamed of, but upon which I was, all the same, determined— I wanted to see if her husband, Reed Amhearst, who had connections in the D.A.'s office, could get me in touch with the police detective on the case, even though the case was in New Jersey, where Clifton College was. Police officers do offer their colleagues from other places a certain amount of courtesy. I was sure that if the police who were handling the case and I could combine information we could both do better, but it's far from easy to convince the police of this. They don't like private eyes messing around in their cases. It would have to be a special favor, and maybe Reed Amhearst could manage it.

I took a shower and, back in my sweats, sat down with a pad and pen to plan out my questions for Kate Fansler. Sure, I knew I could have waited to see her; probably I
should
have waited to see her. But I really did need to get my head cleared about English departments; families are much more common ground to me. People say that all families are different, but for my money they're all pretty much the same. My hope was that all academic departments were pretty much the same too, so I could really get a handle on this from my own investigations and with Kate Fansler's help.

Besides, I wouldn't mind seeing Banny again.

The real Oxford is a close
corporation of jolly, untidy,
lazy, good-for-nothing,
humorous old men who have
been electing their own
successors ever since the
world began and who intend
to go on with it.

—C. S. LEWIS, in a letter to his brother

Three

WHEN I called Kate Fansler for another appointment, I offered to go to her office. This seemed more professional and fairer to her than intruding upon the privacy of her home. But, having thanked me for my consideration, she told me to come to her house as before. “You'll want to see Banny again,” she said, “and I can hardly take her to the university. Dogs are forbidden on the campus, and she's so big that people with dog phobias become hysterical and have to be carted off to the infirmary.”

I agreed, thanking her. My own interpretation, not to undermine her generosity and hospitality, was that she hardly wanted to be seen consulting a private investigator about a fairly famous academic murder at another college. Kate was by now, I supposed, fairly well known as a detective, and the murder at Clifton College was the topic of the moment; I thought her keeping her work as a snoop away from her colleagues was a good idea.

Not that I wasn't grateful to be going to her apartment, seeing Banny and seeing her in her own space, so to speak; I was damn glad of the chance. But one figures things out for oneself; one has to, no distrust intended.

Banny recognized me, which was a nice compliment. She actually got up, huge tail wagging, and walked over to me after Kate had opened the door. I dropped my helmet in the outside hall, gave Banny a really good doggy greeting and Kate a modified one, and followed both hosts into the living room. Once seated, I denied being thirsty, and pulled out my notes. I figured I owed it to Kate to get right down to business.

But Kate had noticed me dropping my helmet outside her door, as she had not last time. Somehow, the fact that I ride a motorbike fascinates even the most sophisticated people; they want to know why, and how, and if I ever give someone else a ride.

“No, I don't. For one thing, they haven't a helmet. For another, while there's theoretically room behind me, there
isn't
much room behind me. How come you noticed my helmet this time? You didn't notice it on my first visit.”

“Reed noticed it when he came in the last time you were here. He said, ‘I see she rides a motorbike,' and I asked how he knew, since I'm supposed to be the detective in the family, and he mentioned the helmet, gallantly admitting that had he been inside when you arrived, rather than arriving from outside, he wouldn't have noticed it either.”

I nodded and returned to my notes. But she was still in a questioning mood.

“Why do you always mention being . . . well, heavy?” she asked. “I know that's not a very tactful question, but if I don't come right out with it, I'll be thinking of it through all our conversations, which would, you admit, be distracting. So forgive me and answer.”

“Would you start out asking a black woman why she referred so often to her race?”

I could see I had embarrassed her.

“Kate, please. Being fat's my hang-up, the cross I bear rather less gladly than I might; that's a quotation from a hymn, in case they didn't make you go to church. All the other nasty jokes are now forbidden, but not against fat people. Example: someone gave me a collection of short stories, detective stories, by women, and here's how one by Sue Grafton begins. I've been lugging the book around with me to read while waiting for appointments, so I happen to have it here, as evidence. Grafton is describing a woman waiting outside her office. ‘She was short and quite plump, wearing jeans in a size I've never seen on the rack. Her blouse was tunic-length, ostensibly to disguise her considerable rear end.' Later, Grafton's detective goes to see a relative of this woman and notes that, like the first one, ‘she was decked out in a pair of jeans, with an oversize T-shirt hanging almost to her knees. It was clear big butts ran in the family.'
¹
See what I mean?”Kate seemed to be searching for something to say. I kept on talking, to give her a moment. I guess I really wanted her to understand how I felt about this fat stuff.

“Look,” I said, “being fat's been a lot of use to me. You can believe that. It's gotten me confidences I'd never have had otherwise. But I don't see why thin has to be a qualification for looking down on others, the way white used to be. I've made it a kind of crusade. But I do agree, it can get boring as a subject, and I'll try not to mention it again. Now, can I tell you—”

“It isn't boring, and I'm perfectly willing and happy to have you talk about it, now that you know I've mentioned it so we both don't have to pretend you're not saying what you're saying. I do hope you see what I mean.”

“I do, and I'm grateful you brought it out in the open. If there's one thing I hate more than another, it's tact. Not real tact, maybe, but the kind where you know they're being tactful. I meet up with a lot of that. It doesn't deserve the name ‘tact,' does it?”

“I'm pretty tired of tact,” Kate said. “It's mostly a technique useful to those trying to get away with something.” She looked at her watch. “I'd like a drink. Can I offer you something? I'm having Scotch, but you can have whatever you want. It is well after five.”

“ ‘And as the sun sinks my thirst rises.' I had an uncle who used to say that. If you don't mind, I'll wait till I've gotten through these notes and heard what you have to say. I've got to go and see these professors, and it's absolutely new terrain for me. Maybe after I've talked to you, I won't sound quite so ditsy. It's not exactly in my usual line of work.”

“Perhaps you'll make a specialty of it when this case is over,” Kate said. She went across the room, where there was liquor and ice and everything, and made herself a drink. I agreed to have a glass of seltzer, and settled down. I hoped Scotch didn't affect her too much, but what the hell. At least she made me feel welcome. Banny's eyes followed Kate's passage across the room, but Banny didn't move; Kate wasn't going anywhere.

Kate sipped her drink. “Claire Wiseman told me that the department sounded like a business the owners were trying to wrest from one another. She seems to know someone who used to work there, and her tales are pretty harrowing, Claire says. Not that I've ever been an admirer of small colleges in the countryside; there's far too much togetherness and far too much interest in one another's lives. In a university in New York City, like mine, we all go home at night and fade into a different, largely private world. Certainly there are departmental struggles, but they aren't each professor's whole life. Also, small departments are either pleasant or hell. Tell me about this one—the details, I mean. I know you can't make any judgments yet.” She took another sip and sat back, all attention.

I took a deep breath and peered at my notes, though I had them by heart. It does no good to sound too knowledgeable before those who may offer information; it's best if they feel themselves to be the authority in the matter, which of course they usually are, to some extent. I didn't act differently with Kate.

“It's a department of ten professors,” I reported, “six tenured, four not. Divided, as I suppose all English departments are, into periods, or maybe they should be called fields, or areas—I'm not too clear on that. Anyway, the periods or fields, in no particular order, are Victorian—well, there is a particular order here, because that was Haycock's field, and he's the reason we're talking about all this. I know you said most professors aren't given to murder, but are English departments more given to murder than most?”

“Not as far as I know,” Kate said. “The only act comparable to murder I know of personally was a suicide. A new assistant professor was found to have plagiarized his dissertation and his book; he killed himself before the matter went far, thus proclaiming his guilt, or so everyone thought. That's about it. Do go on.”

“Well, in addition to Victorian, we have American, Modern—I'm not sure what that is, exactly— Medieval, Renaissance, Romantics/Seventeenth Century, Eighteenth Century, and something Comparative. Most of these have a full professor attached to them, lord of all he surveys, so to speak.”

“That's a new and insightful way to put it,” Kate said. “Go on.”

“The leftover fields are covered by assistant professors. Sometimes one of these chaps, or an assistant professor, teaches the novel. There's also a part-time person who teaches creative writing, which, I gathered, is there to bring in the money from people in the neighborhood who are yearning to become published writers.” (It was Octavia who gathered this, but I saw no point in saying so.) “The person teaching it last year and this year is named Kevin Oakwood, a writer I've never heard of. And that's about it. The only one of these fields with a woman running it—that's probably not the right term—is Modern. I think that may be a part of the trouble with Haycock—he hated professional women, or so it seems. And two of the three assistant professors are women. I did learn that there's a lot of turnover in the junior faculty; two on tenure-track lines—I hope I'm impressing you with my newfound lingo —were new last year and stick together. It was over the promotion of one of the assistant professors who'd actually stuck around a while that the war of the sexes broke out in the rolling fields of New Jersey.”

“Professor Haycock took his cue from Tennyson when it came to women,” Kate said. “Hold on a minute while I get a book. It's a quote too suitable to Haycock to miss.” Kate left the room, then came back, turning the pages of a book—the poems of Tennyson, I was detective enough to deduce.

“Here we are: ‘Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions matched with mine / Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine.' That's from ‘Locksley Hall.' And, to do Tennyson and Haycock full justice, we ought to add another couple of lines from ‘Locksley Hall': ‘He will hold thee, when his passion / Shall have spent its novel force / Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.' ”

“Was Tennyson serious?” I asked.

“Ah, you'll have to ask a Tennyson expert that. But I'll try to brush up on that exalted poet. I used to quite like him, but I never admitted it; he wasn't the accepted cup of tea when I was young, and probably isn't now. But he could write neat lines.”

Kate paused, as if reminded of something. “But you know, he did write one famous line that still bothers me after all this time; it's one of his prize bits: ‘Now lies the earth all Danaë to the stars,' from a lyric called ‘Now sleeps the crimson petal.' An immortal line, beautiful. But what disturbs me is that Zeus came to Danaë, whose father had locked her up to prevent her getting pregnant, in a shower of gold. The Greek gods always found a way to screw the women they were after. But the stars do not affect the earth in any way; the earth does not lie vulnerable to the stars. So it's a weak, fanciful metaphor, though a gorgeous one, describing a clear night in the country.”

There was a pause as I took this in. “You know, Kate,” I finally said, allowing an edge to creep into my voice, “there is no doubt that you're going to be a big help to me in this case.”

“I'm glad you appreciate that.” Kate grinned. “Leave me the lists of courses and faculty, the whole thing, and I'll be ready to talk about it in a more coherent way then, when I've got the whole department and faculty straight.”

“So I guess I should be going now,” I said. I, who usually couldn't wait to be on my way, seemed to be lingering. I gathered up my notes and the book I'd been reading from.

But Kate held up a hand. “You have to realize that you're likely to do better than I would in this particular investigation. I'd be handling too much baggage to be able to see the situation with any clarity. I've been an academic for too long. I'm unlikely to view things in a new light. I'd have expectations and knowledge of how an English department works on the inside.”

“That sounds like an advantage to me. I've learned as an investigator that you can't know too much about a situation; you rarely know enough.”

“True. But I think in this case, with murder a possibility, a fresh look and new impressions might be worth a lot—and you can always get the fruits of my long experience here when you feel need of them. Your perceptions of these people and what they're like—that's what you ought to be going along with, for a while at least.” She seemed to reflect on her words.

“Nonetheless,” she went on, “there is some information that might be worth having before you talk to the personnel and gain impressions of the scene. That is, the background of the academic situation you'll be observing and how it came about—in a very general sort of way, of course. When my generation of professors was getting tenure, the academic picture was a lot rosier than it is today. Never mind the reasons for the change—there's some disagreement about that— but no one debates the effect: there is too little money for faculty, too few positions for the generation of new Ph.D.'s coming along. There's a general exploitation of new Ph.D.'s, hiring them part-time and as adjuncts, where they make too little money with no benefits and no real part to play in the department.”

“Why do the departments keep turning out Ph.D.'s if there are no jobs?” I asked. “Or is that one of those questions for which there is an obvious answer I'm not bright enough to see?”

“On the contrary. I'm telling you all this because the real answer is not widely admitted. Why do the major universities, and even the second-rank universities, continue to turn out Ph.D.'s? The university wants the money, they want the population so that they can keep their place in the world, and the professors prefer teaching graduate students, who are self-selected for literary studies and smart, to teaching college-age kids whose desire to learn is hardly passionate; they're inspired by quite different passions in those years. But above all, the senior professors want graduate students to teach the introductory courses, like literature surveys and composition, so that they don't have to teach them themselves. As it happens, the graduate students make very good teachers; they're enthusiastic, new to teaching experience, excited to be in the life they've always dreamed about. But that's hardly permanent; once they've done their stint, they're on their own with no jobs in sight, or very few.”