The Cambridge Theorem (17 page)

“And?"

“Well, she doesn't know Fenwick by sight as he works the late shift and she's always done by two, but when I describe him to her, she says yes, she thinks she's seen him on the corridor a couple of times early in the morning and just assumed he was someone new in the lodge she hadn't met yet, delivering a message or something.”

“Describe him to me."

“Fenwick? Blonde, slim build, nineteen or twenty. Bit effeminate.”

“Homosexual?"

“Well, could be. But I aren't pointing any fingers, you see. It's just, he's been out the last two days, starting the day after Bowles kills himself, and then I'm told he's been friendly with the chap. I thought I'd give him the benefit of the doubt, you know, see if he shows up today, and talk to him myself. It's serious, you see. Strictly forbidden.”

“What?”

“Any kind of, well, friendships with the junior members. Male or female. Strictly forbidden. May I?”

Smailes had left the Marlboro packet and his lighter on the desk top. Beecroft took the seat across the desk from the detective and lit one slowly. He looked a little shaken.

“Why are you telling me this? Why not Hawken?”

“Well, I don't want to accuse anyone unfairly, you see. It could be that my chap is mistaken, that Mrs. Allen is mistaken, and that he's just out sick, see. To tell you the truth, I'd rather not have Hawken on the warpath on this one, unless I know it's true. He would sack young Fenwick automatically. Then there'd be a big palaver, I know it.”

“And you would be in the hot seat?”

“Well, there'd be an inquisition. He'd want to know how Fenwick was taken on, and how come I didn't know his background, even though he always has the last word on new hires. And then, I thought, maybe he does know something.”

“Fenwick?”

“Yes. Maybe he's not telling the truth calling in sick. Maybe he's left town, you know. It's possible. I talked to the switchboard man and apparently he's called in both days from a call box. Could be from anywhere, couldn't it? So I thought you'd be a better person to tell, all round.”

“I think you're right. Do you have his address?” Beecroft reached into the jacket of his dark suit, and pulled out an index card.

“He's not on the phone, apparently. Lived with his mother until recent, but I think this is a flat.”

Smailes looked at the address and saw it was near his own. “Does anyone else know about this?”

“Well, people in the lodge know he's out sick, but I think only this other chap knows about him knowing Mr. Bowles, you know. I've not said anything.”

“Please don't, okay, until I've spoken with him. But if it's true, that he had a relationship with Bowles, or knows something about why he killed himself, Hawken will have to be informed, you understand.”

“Well, of course.” There was an obvious distaste in his voice. “And he'll be sacked, like I say, no doubt about it. But, like I say, the rules is quite clear. Nobody's fault but his own.”

Smailes gathered his cigarettes, and chose his words carefully.

“Must be a demanding bloke to work for. Hawken.”

“Yes, well, we go back a long way,” Beecroft replied cautiously. “He can be difficult, yes.”

“I met Davies yesterday. Got the impression he doesn't care for Hawken too much.”

“Not half.”

“Really? They've obviously worked closely together. Got Bowles to keep his tutor while he was a fellow, anyway. Did Davies resent having to do that?”

“No, that's got nothing to do with it. That's not that unusual, given the young fella's history. No, it goes way back.” Beecroft looked at Smailes steadily, seeming to weigh how far he should let his own animus push him. “Not long after he first got here, must be eight, nine years ago, Davies changes his name, and asks for the signboard on his staircase redone. You've seem 'em, I expect, at the foot of each staircase?”

“Yes, I have. What was the change?”

“Shortened a double-barreled name, that's all. From Forse-Davies, or Furse-Davies, something like that, to just Davies.”

“I see. Go on.”

“Well, Hawken says okay but Davies has to foot the bill since the college only pays for them to be repainted once a year, at the start of Michaelmas term, see. Davies was livid, but went ahead anyway.”

“Why the rush?”

“Well, as I recall, his mother had made the original change, which he never liked, and then when she died, he couldn't wait to 'ave it changed back again. Then there was all that business two years ago.”

“About the dig out in Turkey?”

“Wherever it was. He tell you about it? See, he'd been planning it for years and the college was fronting most of the necessary money from the general fund, see, but Hawken writes in this condition that the second year money depends what happens the first year. Well, Davies comes back to report in, I dunno, August or something, and Hawken persuades the council that it's not worth it, that Davies hasn't found nothing, and they voted down the second year. Least that's how it was explained to me.

“Well, Davies was furious. Had to wind it up and come back and has spent the best part of the last two years trying to raise his money elsewhere. Then the bloomin' government out there starts to give him grief. He lays it all at Hawken's door, of course.”

“He tells me he's going back again, he's raised the money.”

“So I hear, but no one knows where he got it. Gotten pretty tight-lipped about the whole business.” Beecroft looked at him anxiously. “This is all confidential, you understand.”

“Of course, Mr. Beecroft. Davies told me most of it himself. You've just filled in a few blanks. Where would you guess the money's coming from?”

“Can't say for sure, of course, but there's been a lot of correspondence of late with the British Academy. That's my bet.”

“Who're they?”

“Sort of government place in London. Gave him a bit for the first trip. I expect he's gotten them to cough up some more.”

“What's behind Hawken's attitude?”

“In my opinion? Politics, pure and simple. He wants to be known he's a tight wad, tough manager, reining in the free-spending dons, you know. Hawken's got his eye on the Council of Senate, see, the mucketymucks.”

“So that's why he's so upset about the suicide, eh? Scandal won't improve his chances, I shouldn't think.”

“Absolutely. But you wait. He'll get there, my guess.”

“Which won't make you sorry, Mr. Beecroft.”

“I'll not answer that, if you don't mind,” said Beecroft stiffly.

“Of course, excuse me. Thanks for the information. And Mr. Beecroft? You've done the right thing. I think I'll pay a visit to our Mr. Fenwick, right away.”

“Leave by yourself, will you, officer? I'll stay and tidy up Dr. Poole's room a bit. I don't want people to know I've been talking to you, in case nothing comes of all this. You know how tongues wag.”

Smailes opened the door to leave and startled an elderly man who was about to knock on it. He had completely forgotten his appointment with Sir Martin Gorham-Leach. He stood in the doorway, confident his big frame would hide Beecroft, who was still sitting by the desk. He began brightly, “Ah, you must be Sir Martin. I do apologize, but I've been called back to the station unexpectedly. Can we reschedule this meeting for tomorrow?”

Gorham-Leach looked bemused. He was a frail-looking man, probably in his early seventies, with a high forehead and rimless, octagonal glasses. His face looked slightly flushed, perhaps from the exertion of the stairs, and there was a shine on his angular cheeks. He had pursed, fleshy lips, and an almost bird-like way of holding his head slightly cocked to one side. He wore an old houndstooth jacket and a neat, blue tie. He made a fastidious gesture with his hands.

“Oh, well, let me see. I suppose it's possible. Except, I don't usually come to college on Fridays.” His consonants rang with academic precision. He was obviously a creature of habit.

“Well, I was about to give up Dr. Poole's room today, anyway,” said Smailes. “Can I visit you at your home?”

“Certainly, certainly. You know where it is?” he asked trustingly.

“Can I ask Mr. Beecroft?”

“Oh yes, Beecroft knows, I'm sure. I think everyone in Cambridge knows where I live. Park Parade, overlooking the Green. Shall we say ten o'clock?”

“That sounds okay.”

“It's best for me. You see, my housekeeper leaves at half past ten and she makes a much better cup of tea than I do. Do you prefer tea, or coffee?”

“Tea's fine,” the detective smiled. He shook his head slightly as the old don ambled away back down the staircase. He assumed he represented a vanishing breed. He closed the door carefully, not looking round at Beecroft.

Like all of CID, Derek Smailes drove his own car on police business, a three-year-old Austin Allegro. Police detectives liked the anonymity of driving private cars, and they liked the expenses they were able to claim. He lit another cigarette and thought about what Beecroft had told him. If Fenwick worked the night shift, perhaps he had a tryst with Bowles after getting off work. Perhaps they had quarreled, like any lovers, and Bowles had ended his life in forsaken anguish. Perhaps here was the missing motive, something to tell the cooly-controlled Alice Wentworth. Then the note was indeed a fake, something to make family and friends think his delusions had returned, to shield his lover from suspicion or exposure, to protect his job. But hadn't his sister said that he sounded strange on Saturday, three days before his death? Was this just coincidence? And what about Beecroft's story of the resentment between Davies and Hawken? College politics, or something else, something Bowles had wind of? Loose ends were inevitable in any investigation, he reminded himself. Simon Bowles had learned that.

Smailes had a slightly sour taste in his mouth as he contemplated the prospect of interviewing Fenwick. He was not completely immune from the savage prejudice with which most of the British police regarded homosexuals, but he felt they were entitled to live their lives in peace without harassment from the authorities. He thought it absurd that their way of life, until recently, had been illegal, and felt more pity than outrage that in their loneliness they were obliged to seek out furtive contacts in shabby, public places. One of his most distasteful duties when he first became an ADC was the stake-out operation of the Chesterton Lane cottage, the public lavatory over on the river that everyone knew was a meeting place for gays. The police had sniggered and jeered as they had snapped their polaroids of the sad couplings in the cubicles, knowing that the teachers and civil servants they caught would have their careers wrecked, their marriages destroyed. He despised the self-righteousness with which the evidence had been presented in court, the sergeant mispronouncing words like “fellatio” and “anal,” the prim woman magistrate doling out her petty fines, probation and ruin. What was the crime here, he wondered? He had hated his colleagues, their hypocrisy and glee.

Alan Fenwick's flat was the ground floor of a newly-converted row house about a mile from Smailes' own place. There was a small apron of concrete in front of the bow window on which sat a late model Austin Mini. Fenwick answered the door himself. He looked ghostly pale and was wearing a light blue shirt open at the neck, and dark slacks, and had a haggard look as if he had not slept. The dark pouches beneath his eyes contrasted with the pallor of his skin, and the thin, light hair. His hands and features were delicate. He leaned against the green painted door frame with unconvincing defiance, and asked why the police wanted to see him. Smailes explained that he was conducting investigations at St Margaret's, and would like to question him. Fenwick led him through a dim hallway into a small bed-sittingroom.

The room was tastefully furnished in an understated way. There was a sink, refrigerator and hot plate on a counter against the far wall, with yellow formica cabinets above and below. The furniture was all modern, and newer than his own. Nothing was out of place. The single bed was carefully made, and there were a couple of dishes and glasses draining beside the sink. There were no pictures or photographs on the walls, which were newly painted. Fenwick had evidently been sitting in an armchair beside a small standing lamp, since there was an open magazine on the seat. Smailes could not make out the title. He walked over to the black plastic chair standing beside the small dresser. Here, the only decorative touch, was a small vase of freshly cut flowers. He did not see a telephone in the room.

“Mind if I sit down?” he asked, grabbing the chair and turning it to face the armchair.

“Please, go ahead,” said Fenwick, remaining standing. He looked terrified. Smailes reckoned he was no older than nineteen.

Smailes slowly extracted the small, dog-eared notebook and began, “So tell me what you know about the death of Simon Bowles?”

“I don't know anything about it, except what I read in the paper yesterday. I was terribly shocked.”

“Why have you been away from work, the last two days?”

“I called in. I think I have a virus. You know, light-headed, feverish.”

“Have you been to the doctor?”

“Not yet,” said Fenwick, wretchedly. He was gripping the back of his armchair and trying to control himself. Now his face had turned red and Smailes thought he might be about to break down. Smailes looked at him pointedly and raised his voice.

“None of this is true. You went there on Tuesday night, didn't you, after your shift? Simon Bowles was your lover, wasn't he? You quarreled about something, didn't you? Did he threaten to kill himself right then? How did you learn he had killed himself? Did you go back to see him? Did you…”

“Stop, stop,” said Fenwick. “It's not true. He was already dead when I…” Here he succumbed to the wrenching sobs that had been building within him, and had to steady himself against the chair. Smailes got up and helped him sit down, and then filled a glass of water from the draining rack and handed it to the pathetic young man when his sobbing subsided in intensity. After a few moments he gathered himself and gulped a mouthful of water. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve.