The Cambridge Theorem (11 page)

He looked again at Lauren Greenwald, whose face had become distracted, and watched as it contorted slowly into a mask of grief. She drew in a long breath as if trying to control herself, and then let out two enormous, heaving sobs.

“Oh God, it's true, it's true. It's such a stupid, fucking waste. Simon's dead. I can't believe he killed himself because he was in love with Giles, and saw me and Giles together all the time. I just can't believe that.”

Smailes waited until she had composed herself, which was several minutes. He told her quietly that he had finished his questions for the time being. He watched her as she rose and slowly left the room. He could not help noticing that from the rear, she was very pleasantly proportioned.

He was disinclined to believe it also. Suicide was rarely a sudden act, but rather the culmination of a terrible process of mounting fear and hopelessness. Most of the suicides he had seen were of people with some type of dreadful history, who had given up thinking that things would ever improve. He had known a couple where prominent, well-situated people had killed themselves rather than face some terrible disgrace for which they were responsible. But neither of these situations seemed to fit Simon Bowles. The young man had been working—seemingly normally—at his typewriter when first interrupted—hardly the behavior of someone overwhelmed by a personal problem. He had put his papers away in a manila folder in the desk, and not locked anything as the three young people left for the bar—or so Allerton claimed. So the absence of the file in the drawer that morning meant it was either stolen, or filed with the dozens of others in Bowles' four drawer cabinet. Assuming the latter, and accepting that nothing unusual had transpired between the three friends while they were together, something had happened between the hours of ten thirty and one o'clock or so, when Smailes was convinced the post mortem would determine the time of his death. An unexpected visitor? Threats, accusations, or some new, terrible piece of news? Something that had caused the frightening hallucinations to return when the visitor left? On consideration, Smailes was inclined to believe the note, that something terrifying had happened to him, and he had indeed taken his life on impulse. But not out of unrequited love for Giles Allerton.

On this occasion, Smailes was compelled to wait in Hawken's outer office before the senior tutor would see him. The electric clock on the wall told him it was just before three. To his surprise, he found that Hawken's secretary was not the desiccated matron he would have expected, but a young Australian woman who had the figure of a beauty queen and the tan of a surfer. She also had an openness of manner that seemed out of place in the Cambridge college, and asked him frank questions about Simon Bowles and why he had done such a dreadful thing. Hawken leaned through the doorway, waving his pipe with his good arm.

“Ah, detective sergeant, do step in. Sorry to keep you.”

Hawken expressed his concern that Simon Bowles' sister, who had called him almost immediately after being informed by the Rickmansworth police of her brother's death, was planning to visit the college on Thursday, the following day, to take care of her brother's personal effects, and to make arrangements for a funeral service. He had told her he would call back, when he had checked with the police that it was all right for her to dispose of the things in his room. Hawken assured Smailes that he had put no pressure on the woman to take care of such details right away. She could have the rest of the academic year, as far as he was concerned.

Smailes hesitated. In a different environment, he could simply seal off the room and take as long as he liked before deciding on a more detailed forensic examination, or a physical inventory of the room's contents, for example. To make such a move now would probably mean upgrading the classification to Suspicious Death, amending the paperwork and going back in to George to explain his actions. But while Bowles' sudden death was peculiar, he had found nothing to indicate that it was suspicious, and didn't fancy going toe-to-toe with George with anything as loose and uncorroborated as his uneasy feelings. He decided he ought to check the room once more, to see if there was anything he had missed. But there was no reason to hold up the family. He told Hawken it was fine if Bowles' family wanted to straighten out his affairs.

“How did she sound, the sister, when you spoke to her?”

“Well, I think she was in shock, naturally. She said it was going to be a terrible blow to her mother. But she seemed in control, I must say. Quite business-like.” This term of Hawken's was obviously one of the strongest approbation.

“Did she say anything more?”

“She said she was sorry that her last conversation with him had been so unpleasant. He was apparently due to go home for a family gathering last weekend, and had called to cancel at the last minute. She had been angry with him. She did ask how the police were treating the affair. I told her your name, that you were making inquiries. I trust you have spoken with the friends who were with him last night?”

Hawken had taken a seat on one of the butcher block sofas and seemed considerably more relaxed than during their earlier conversation. There was almost a manner of apology about him, that he regretted his earlier tone. He shifted his weight on the sofa and winced slightly as he positioned his crippled arm into his lap with his good hand. Smailes had taken a seat opposite and watched the painful maneuver as he leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. He too felt the weight of his prejudices, a sense of embarrassment.

“War wound, sir?” he asked quietly.

“No, I'm afraid not,” said Hawken with a sigh. His story was obviously one he had told many, many times.

“Skiing accident while I was an undergraduate. Bavaria. Too much schnapps at lunch then missed a turn and hit a tree doing about fifty. Lucky to still have the arm at all. My own fault of course. Kept me in desk jobs all through the war, unfortunately. But one learns to live with one's limitations,” he said without conviction.

“Well, Mrs. Wentworth—that's her name—said she would contact the coroner's people as the woman police officer had told her to do. Plans to come into the college tomorrow, around one or so. Have you discovered anything about what might have precipitated this? I have told Sir Felix I will give him a full report, and I should do the same for the college council.”

“I'm afraid not. According to his friends, his behavior was quite normal. Reserved, as usual, but nothing that worried them. He had been studying, his friends went to his room, and then took him to the bar for an hour or so. He left before them, and he returned to his room alone, I assume. Has his room been locked since this morning?”

“Oh yes, I asked Mr. Beecroft to check the room was locked securely after the last of your people left. What were they doing in there, may I ask?”

“Scenes of crimes officers. Photographs and fingerprints. Forensics, those kinds of things,” said Smailes evenly, suddenly concerned why Hawken would want to know. He decided at that moment that lifts should have been taken from Bowles' room, and that the omission was a mistake that he would remedy as soon as he was able, and that he would make sure Hawken would not learn of it.

“Surely you don't suspect crime here, Mr. Smailes?” Hawken asked.

“No, I don't,” said Smailes. “Scenes of crimes procedures are routine in any sudden death case, particularly a suspected suicide. The coroner's office, well, their requirements are quite strict. But what we don't know is why this guy Bowles actually did it. His friends think the note could refer to the hallucinations about the snakes, that something made them come back. He had apparently told someone, not a friend here at the college, that he couldn't take it if they ever did. But I'm not sure. The reference in the note could be covering the real reason he hung himself.”

“Real reason? How can we possibly know the real reason? And does it really matter?” asked Hawken evenly.

“Actually, for the coroner, not particularly. The fact that Bowles had attempted suicide before, and that he had left a note, no matter how enigmatic, will be pretty persuasive. And there appear to be no suspicious circumstances.”

Smailes paused as if to concentrate on extracting his notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. In fact, he leant forward and from under his brows kept his eyes fixed on Hawken's expression. He saw no trace of relief or concern pass across it.

The detective made a production of licking a thumb and finding Hawken's earlier remarks. “April two years ago you said, I think?”

“What?”

“The first suicide attempt. When he was found in the quad, shouting about snakes. When he jumped out of the window the first time.”

“Court. Found in the court. Quads are at Oxford. Yes, two years ago, before Finals. Around this time, late March or April. I'm sure the hospital or his family can give you the exact date.”

Hawken's annoyance was returning. Smailes was surprised that he could disturb this man's balance so easily, merely by acting the stupid policeman which he knew Hawken thought he was. As the senior tutor gave way to his agitation and walked over to the window, Smailes resumed.

“But normally we like to find out as much as we can, for the family. It's my own feeling that something happened between ten-thirty and one or so that made him do it. I don't think the two friends can help us much more.”

“Davies. He didn't have any clue?” Hawken addressed the remark to the top of the ancient casement window, and Smailes wondered again about the two men's motives in imposing the tutorial relationship on Bowles. Perhaps it had been Hawken's idea in the first place.

“No. He apparently had not seen young Bowles in a couple of months. Seemingly Bowles had promised to let him know if anything was seriously bothering him. But it's my guess that this was something sudden, unexpected. Or something so sensitive that he was unable to discuss it with anyone. You knew, for instance, that he was homosexual?”

Hawken wheeled on him, angrily. “No, I certainly did not. Detective Sergeant Smailes, I assure you the sexual proclivities of our junior members are no business of mine, and of no interest. I think you have quite the wrong idea of the degree to which we college authorities interfere with our men. And I suggest you go very carefully with such allegations before you divulge them. To his family, for instance.”

Smailes returned the notebook to his jacket pocket and rose from his seat, contritely. “I'm sorry, professor, if I have given the wrong impression.” He wasn't sure if Hawken was a professor, but was fairly confident the title would conciliate him. “This may have some relevance to his death. It may not. Can you think of anyone else in the college I could speak to? Mr. Beecroft, for instance?”

“I can't think what Beecroft would have to add.” Hawken had regained himself after his outburst, and turned again to look out over the manicured lawn of the court. A weak sun had broken through the clouds. Smailes stood off to his right and looked out also. An elegant, elderly man in an academic gown was walking slowly in a diagonal course towards the porters' lodge. The sight puzzled Smailes, as he had distinctly seen the Keep Off The Grass signs posted around the lawn's perimeter.

“Well, he might, of course,” said Hawken, nodding towards the figure ambling across the grass.

“I'm sorry?”

“G-L. Sir Martin Gorham-Leach. Everyone calls him G-L. I believe he was supervising Bowles' thesis. Most unusual. You've heard of him of course?”

Smailes indicated that he had not, from which Hawken appeared to derive pleasure.

“Nobel prize for physics, back in the sixties. One of the most brilliant men here. Certainly the most eminent fellow of St. Margaret's. We've been lucky to keep him all these years, really, but it's probably because we don't tie him down with teaching duties. In fact, he has little contact with the junior members, which is why it was so unusual he agreed to look over Bowles' doctoral work. At least, that's what I've been told. Didn't Davies tell you?”

Smailes replied that Davies had not mentioned the relationship, and he wondered what an old scientist, no matter how distinguished, might be able to add to what he already knew about Bowles. But he had an intuition that by alternately pacifying and provoking Hawken, he might get this self-important little man to betray something about Bowles' death that he might be holding back. It could be that his agitation that morning was simply displeasure at the adverse publicity that would result from the suicide, but it was clearly something that affected Hawken directly, personally. Perhaps there were deeper political issues of which he, Smailes, was unaware. He agreed that he would be pleased to meet the eminent physicist the following afternoon, if Beecroft could make arrangements.

“Why is he ignoring the signs, walking on the grass like that?” asked the detective. The question seemed to delight Hawken.

“Oh, that notice is for the tourists, and the junior members. One of the quirks of a St. Margaret's fellowship is that it confers the right to walk across all the lawns. A tradition dating back to the eighteenth century, I gather. It allows our aging fellows to simultaneously exercise their limbs, and their prerogatives,” Hawken beamed at Smailes.

“I think I'll visit Mr. Bowles' room again. I'd like to take another look around before the family comes in,” Smailes said impassively. “Can I get a key at the lodge?”

“Yes, of course,” said Hawken, a little too politely.