Death and The Visiting Fellow E-Book

Tim Heald

• Herausgeber: Dean Street Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

When Doctor Tudor Cornwall, Reader in Criminal Studies at the University of Wessex, arrives for a semester as Visiting Fellow at his old friend's university down under, he is met with a nasty surprise. Indeed the surprises keep coming and they get nastier as the plot unravels. An exotic cast of suspicious academi includes an ecologically-correct axeman, a professor of wine and the world's leading authority on an esoteric form of Australian hedgehog. Then there is the student body to consider, too.This mystery began as a homage to Michael Innes's Death at the President's Lodgings, written when he too was a visiting academic in Australia, but this sparkling novel is emphatically set in the twenty-first century.

Leseprobe

Tim HealdDeath and The Visiting FellowA TUDOR CORNWALL MYSTERY

When Doctor Tudor Cornwall, Reader in Criminal Studies at the University of Wessex, arrives for a semester as Visiting Fellow at his old friend’s university down under, he is met with a nasty surprise. Indeed the surprises keep coming and they get nastier as the plot unravels. An exotic cast of suspicious academics includes an ecologically-correct axeman, a professor of wine and the world’s leading authority on an esoteric form of Australian hedgehog. Then there is the student body to consider, too.

This mystery began as a homage to Michael Innes’s Death at the President’s Lodgings, written when he too was a visiting academic in Australia, but this sparkling novel is emphatically set in the twenty-first century.

This book was conceived when I was myself a Visiting Fellow at an Australian University. I would like therefore to dedicate it to my friends, colleagues and former pupils at Jane Franklin Hall in the University of Tasmania and at the University of South Australia in Adelaide.

Absolutely no resemblance to any of these wonderful people is intended – nor indeed to my equally wonderful all-Australian wife, Penelope, whom I would also like to include in this dedication.

Chapter One

Death and the Visiting Fellow arrived almost simultaneously.

Or so it seemed.

Doctor Tudor Cornwall, Reader in Criminal Affairs at the University of Wessex, collected his bag from the airport carousel shortly after 0800 hours on 1 October, carried it through the green channel, signifying ‘Nothing to Declare,’ and emerged blinking into the reception area where he stopped. In front of him there was the usual crowd of uniformed chauffeurs, tour company reps, apprehensive relations and black market cab drivers. He gazed around, searching for the familiar figure of his friend and host, Professor Ashley Carpenter. There was no sign of him and Dr Cornwall frowned.

He and Ashley had spoken shortly before his departure from England. Ashley had wished him ‘bon voyage’ (some hope, travelling for over twenty-four hours in economy) and said he’d meet him at the airport. Tudor had said there was absolutely no need and he’d get a cab up to the college and see him there, but Ashley had told him not to be ridiculous. He was always up at six to take the dog for a jog. It was no big deal to motor the half-hour to Hobart International.

They could stop off at the Egg’n’Bacon Diner on the way back into town, have a heart attack on a plate and catch up on the news. They hadn’t seen each other since the Toronto conference. That was nine months ago.

The two men had known each other since Oxford many years before. In those days Ashley was the dashing Rhodes Scholar from New Coburg – a muscular oarsman who stroked the college eight and could have had a Blue for the asking were it not for the long hours in the lab where he was already establishing a reputation as a whizz in the world of forensic pathology. Tudor was reading history and developing a fascination with crime down the ages which was to define his career and make him almost as distinguished in his branch of criminal activity as Ashley in his. Tudor’s interests were catholic, ranging from ‘Who killed Perkin Warbeck?’ to ‘The incidence of rape in the little wars of Queen Victoria’.

In the normal course of events their paths would never have crossed. Unlike Ashley, Tudor was a ‘dry bob’. His sports were racket-based with a particular bias towards the obscure but historically interesting game of Real Tennis. (Frederick, Prince of Wales, was killed by a Real Tennis ball in circumstances which Tudor found deliciously intriguing though eternally baffling.) Their work took them to different destinations. The historian was always in the college library, the Radcliffe Camera or Bodley itself. Ashley was always elsewhere, cutting up corpses, staring at X-rays, specimens and samples. Ashley’s friends tended to be other Australians and New Zealanders; Tudor mixed with friends who, like him, had been to traditional, if minor, English public schools.

It was a girl who brought them together. Both of them pursued Miranda who was a great beauty, famous for her Juliet in the eponymous Shakespearean play, for her eccentric cloaks and striped trousers, for her wit, her charm, her everything. Like half the university, Ashley and Tudor courted her and though for a time they both had more success than most (she actually accepted invitations to dinners that neither man could properly afford) their rivalry ended in rejection and despair. Yet there was a silver lining to this melancholy affair. The two men found themselves ruefully comparing notes, then consoling each other, and before very long finding that they enjoyed each other’s company and had quite forgotten Miranda – who eventually succumbed to a dim philosopher from Trinity. Tudor and Ashley had been friends ever since.

Memories of those early days passed almost subliminally through Tudor’s brain as he scanned the crowd at the airport concourse. Definitely no Ashley. It was not like him. He was normally fastidiously neat and punctual in all that he did. Almost obsessively so. Tudor put down his case and ran a hand through tousled salt and pepper hair. More salt than pepper these days.

‘Doctor Cornwall?’

He looked down from his considerable height and saw a small tubby fellow in a lumberjack shirt and coffee moleskins. The man seemed agitated though relieved to have made contact.

‘They told me you’d be tall,’ he said, ‘and you seemed the tallest fellow around. I’m Davey. Brad Davey.’ He put up a hand which Tudor took and shook hardly realizing what he was doing. ‘I’m Executive Assistant to the Principal,’ said Davey. ‘She said she was sorry not to come herself but she’s sort of tied up. The police. They’re asking questions.’

‘What’s happened?’ asked Tudor. He realized that he was shaking and had broken out in a cold sweat. Intuition as well as his life’s work told him to expect the worst. ‘Is Professor Carpenter... I mean is Professor Carpenter all right?’

Brad Davey looked embarrassed.

‘We don’t know,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t look too good. They found the car but there’s no sign of the professor. He seems to have vanished. Could be all right. But it’s not like him. The police say they’re treating it as suspicious.’

‘Oh do they?’

Doctor Cornwell picked up his bag.

‘I’m sure there’s a perfectly rational explanation,’ he said. ‘There nearly always is.’

Chapter Two

Tudor had never been to Tasmania before and he knew little about it beyond what Ashley had told him. Ashley talked lyrically about Tasmanian ‘life-style’ but at the same time acknowledged a need to ‘get off the island’ at least every six months. Hence his addiction to academic conferences.

‘Far away place of which I know nothing,’ mused Tudor, as he and little Brad loaded his cases into the back of a battered shooting brake. The Visiting Fellow was travelling light as was his wont, both physically and metaphorically. He hadn’t gathered a lot of moss in life so far. Others, especially women, accused him of ‘lacking commitment’. Tudor shrugged and pretended not to understand what they meant. Privately he thought they might have a point.

He straightened up and gazed around. Brad had parked the car immediately under a ‘No Parking’ sign just outside the ‘Passenger Arrival’ entrance. The airport was single-runway, single-terminal, middle-of-nowhere–much. Tudor found himself looking up at steep mountains covered in thick foliage dotted with grey outcrops of granite. In places the trees seemed to have lost their leaves so that they dotted the hillside like phalanxes of poles, not natural at all.

‘Bush fires,’ said Brad, following his stare. ‘Scary, but I guess they’re nature’s way of spring cleaning.’

There was further evidence of bush fire on the road to the city. Some of the remains of the trees were charred black, others were a silvery white, almost luminous. There were few houses at first and most of those looked like little more than log cabins. The land seemed barren and scrubby. The road, dual carriage, not busy, skirted the occasional lake and sea inlet. Presently the number of houses began to increase until they were passing suburbs – row upon row of neat bungalows each with a garage and an identical plot of lawn about a third of an acre in size.

‘You get a great view of Hobart just round the next bend,’ said Brad. ‘Not quite Oxford’s dreaming spires or downtown Manhattan but we sort of like it.’

Tudor caught the mixture of pride and defensiveness he had met before in off-shore islanders.

‘You from Tasmania?’ he asked.

‘Born and bred,’ said Brad. ‘Been here all my life apart from a year travelling. This is home. And look, there she is...’ He pulled the car over on to the hard shoulder, turned off the ignition and leaned forward, arms crossed atop the steering wheel. Below them, a mile or so away, lay the little city. At its heart there was a prickle of utilitarian high-rise blocks. Fanning out from this downtown area, the roads were lined with much lower buildings, mostly red-roofed. There was a lot of green too: parks, gardens, tree-lined avenues. Apart from the hard core of concrete and glass, Hobart was a garden city. Between the shooting-brake and the waterfront was a wide estuary spanned by a single low-slung bridge. Behind it, lowering over the entire cityscape, was a single dominant mountain.

‘Mount Wellington. I call it the Wurlitzer,’ said Brad, ‘mainly because of that organ-pipe formation you see all along the rim of the summit, just above the tree-line.’

‘I see,’ said Tudor. ‘They do look like organ pipes. Wurlitzer’s a much better name.’

‘They found the car up there,’ said Brad, ‘Professor Carpenter’s. He must have gone for a walk.’ He giggled nervously. ‘Keen walker, Professor Carpenter. Good too. Knows what he’s doing. So if he has gone walkabout there’s no cause for concern. He can look after himself. Mind you, just because the Wurlitzer’s so close to the city, doesn’t mean to say it isn’t wild up there. The other side’s wilderness for two or three hundred miles. Nothing but bush.

Thick. No features. Odd he didn’t tell anyone what his plans were, especially with you coming. He was looking forward to your visit.’ Brad shook his head, took off the handbrake, engaged first gear and eased the vehicle back on to the highway. Tudor found himself not much liking Brad Davey though he would have been pressed to explain quite why. There was something mildly if indefinably creepy about him.

They did not speak again until they had crossed the bridge over the Derwent River and passed into the city itself. Then Brad pointed out the sights and sites in a terse tour-guide manner. Tudor nodded in perfunctory acknowledgement, managing little more in verbal communication than the occasional, ‘Mmmm.’ It occurred to him that something of his gut-dislike might have got through.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long flight. And I’m concerned about Ashley.’

‘Sure,’ said Brad. ‘No worries.’

Huh, thought Tudor, worries are exactly what we have. But he said nothing and they drove on in silence until five minutes or so on the other side of the city, in an affluent inner suburb in the foothills of the Wurlitzer, they turned left down a drive bright with spring rhododendrons, and drew up outside a handsome nineteenth-century mansion built in warm ochre sandstone. All around it, stretching back and flanking well-maintained lawns and flower-beds, were more modern blocks. They had a 1960s custom-built appearance.

‘Welcome to St Petroc’s,’ said Brad. ‘You’re in the Old Building. Top Flat. No elevator but great views and you’ve even got a little roof terrace. Neat.’

Tudor had no very clear idea of what to expect but was pleased when they climbed to the third floor. The apartment had a large living-room with views to the river and mountains beyond, all the usual facilities and, perhaps best of all, a spiral staircase which led up to a railed patio with table, chairs and pot and even better views.

‘Dame Edith,’ said Brad, ‘would like it if you could join her for lunch. Very simple. Just the two of you. In the lodgings. Twelve-thirtyish.’

‘Where exactly are the lodgings?’ asked Tudor, mildly amused by the archaic Oxbridge word.

‘Downstairs,’ said Brad. ‘The front door leads off the hallway. There’s a brass plaque and a bell. It’s really just a garden flat but Dame Edith is a stickler for traditional usage. You’ll see this evening. It’s a High Table night. If you didn’t bring a gown you’ll find one in your cupboard. We meet for sherry in the Senior Common Room at six. Jacket and tie.’ He pulled a face. ‘The further you get from the Mother Country the more like the Mother Country we behave.’

The Visiting Fellow laughed. ‘I can’t remember the last time I wore a gown,’ he said. ‘We’re very informal at Wessex. Very shirtsleeve order.’

‘Well,’ said the principal’s assistant, ‘that’s not the style at St Petroc’s. We like to do things according to the book. Now I have to dash. I have a tutorial coming up. Do you have everything you need? If you want to take a look round you’ll find the students really helpful. There’s a college bus every half-hour which runs downtown and then on to the main campus. Doesn’t take long. Just explain you’re the Visiting Fellow.’

‘I think I’ll just unwind, unpack, maybe have a bath and forty winks,’ said Tudor. ‘I’m a bit knackered to be honest. By the way, can I use my lap-top for e-mail?’

‘Sure. No problem. There’s a phone jack. Just dial “9” for an outside line.’

‘Great.’ He gave an unenthusiastic smile.

‘My extension’s 208 if you need me. The college office is 200. The girls there will help you all they can. We’re here to make you feel at home. I’ll see you at High Table.’

Tudor exhaled deeply as the door closed and he was left on his own. He sat down on the sofa, wondered whether to smoke a calming cheroot but thought better of it. His body clock said it was around ten in the evening rather than mid-morning but that was too bad.

The sooner he tried to acclimatize, the sooner he would actually do it. He ruled out a medicinal duty-free brandy on the same grounds.

The sofa was soporifically yielding. He kicked off his shoes, put his feet up and relaxed. The prospect of Dame Edith Arthur was intimidating. She had a formidable reputation even though running St Petroc’s was, by her standards, a twilight job. She had been Federal Minister of Culture in her prime and, subsequently, a popular High Commissioner in London. Her immense study of the Echidna or Tachyglossus Aculeatus was the definitive work on that curious antipodean cousin of the hedgehog and the porcupine. Dame Edith had a reputation for being as prickly as the animal on which she was the world’s leading expert: unmarried, outspoken, erudite, elderly but unbowed.

Tudor walked to the window and examined the view. A chunky tramp steamer was chugging up the Derwent like something out of Masefield. The city was laid out below him like a map. Apart from the modest array of modern blocks there were several church towers and a lot of green. ‘Ships, towers, temples and domes,’ he murmured, and unbuckled his largest case. Unlike most men he was a fastidious packer. His clothing was clean and neatly folded. Carefully and methodically he conveyed them to drawers, hooks and hangers. He had brought with him his three core books – a Concise Oxford Dictionary, the Oxford Book of English Verse – the first edition, edited by ‘Q’ – and Julian Symons’ majestic survey of the crime novel, Murder Bloody Murder. Bedside reading was, in his experience, best locally acquired, but without these three volumes he felt intellectually crippled. He was a reasonably competent user of the Internet but he had not yet found any electronic substitute for certain books. He liked the feel of paper between his fingers and too much screen-watching gave him a migraine.

Nevertheless, his laptop had become almost as indispensable as Murder and the two Oxfords. The Tasmanian telephone socket was not the same as the British one so he had had to invest in an expensive kit from some specialist in computer bits and bobs. To plug into a Tasmanian server he first had to convert to the American system and then onward to an Australian one which, of course, was the same as Tasmania’s. Too tiresome. He opened the bag and stared blankly at the cat’s cradle of wires and sockets and sprockets, then decided to have a bath before attempting to establish a connection with e-world.

He dozed off in the warm water but woke before it became uncomfortably cold, then shaved, dressed in clean clothes, and, feeling refreshed and dapper, dealt with the electronics in no time at all. He had one message waiting, transferred it to his in-basket, disconnected and pressed ‘Get’.

The message was short, reassuring and yet perplexing.

Welcome, it said, to Tasmania. Sorry not able to greet you in person. See you soon, but meanwhile stay stumm and don’t tell anyone I’ve been in touch. As ever, A.

Tudor Cornwall stared long and hard at the screen, then shook his head and looked at his watch. Almost time for lunch with Dame Edith. He turned back to the computer and frowned for a moment before pressing the delete button and watching the words disappear from view.

‘Anything you say, Ashley,’ he muttered, ‘but I wish you wouldn’t play silly buggers. Especially when I’m still practically in mid-air.’

Saying which, he switched off, adjusted his tie and cudgelled his mind in search of something to say about the echidna.

Chapter Three

Dame Edith looked like Mrs Tiggywinkle, an anthropomorphic coincidence which could not logically have had anything to do with her lifelong obsession with the echidna but was still curious enough to raise Tudor Cornwall’s extravagant eyebrows. She was short and round and dressed in various shapeless garments ranging in colour from beige to tobacco brown.

Ah Dr Cornwall,’ she said, appraising him over half-moon spectacles as he walked towards her apprehensively across a threadbare carpet. Her room was a clutter of books and papers from floor to ceiling. Crossing from her door to her desk was an obstacle course as Tudor slalomed gingerly between piles of texts and tomes.

Her handshake was firm and her gaze steady.

‘Sherry?’ she enquired. ‘I think you’ll be amused by its presumption. It’s Tasmanian. A splendid little winery up in the hills near Padstow. Wallaby Creek. Charming family called Mendoza who came out from Seville in the eighteen nineties. The grandfather made guitars for Segovia. Full without being fruity and just a hint of hazelnut. Or I have loganberry juice if you’d prefer something non-alcoholic.’

Tudor smiled.

‘Thank you. A glass of Wallaby Creek would be very nice.’

It was too. He sipped as he was bidden and sat as he was told in an elderly leather chair out of which most of the stuffing appeared to have been knocked. The chair was large and clubbish and it was only when he had sat down that he realized that it already contained a large ginger cat. The cat, not quite squashed, raised its head and bared its teeth reproachfully, if a little light-heartedly.

‘Don’t mind Fergus,’ said Dame Edith. ‘He’s perfectly friendly unless roused.’

Tudor smiled. He was not crazy about cats but they seemed to like him. Sure enough, Fergus stretched, arched his back, and moved, with supreme confidence, on to Tudor’s lap, where he lay purring. Tudor used his spare hand to stroke the cat’s head without enthusiasm.

‘You should be flattered,’ said the Dame. ‘He doesn’t usually like strangers.’

Tudor said nothing.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the Dame, after a lengthy and slightly awkward pause, ‘that your friend, Professor Carpenter, wasn’t here to greet you.’

‘Likewise,’ he said.

Tm very fond of Ashley,’ she said.

He saw no reason to doubt her.

‘So am I,’ he said. ‘We go back a long way.’

‘So I understand.’ She sipped her sherry and looked at him speculatively. A difficult debate appeared to be taking place inside her head. Eventually it seemed that a vote was taken and the matter resolved.

Tm afraid there may be a problem with Ashley,’ she said.

Tudor said nothing but looked quizzical. The cat purred. On the mantelpiece a handsome, though tarnished, carriage clock whirred briefly and struck the quarter. Outside an ill-tuned car changed gear with much grating. Student car, student driver, thought the Visiting Fellow. In their day he and Ashley had ridden bicycles. Only a very few of the rich and privileged had owned cars. He remembered an obnoxious army lieutenant on full military pay who drove a scarlet MGB.

‘It’s complicated,’ said the Dame, ‘and absolutely nothing has been proved. So I hope I can rely on your discretion.’

He nodded.

‘We have a thief in the college,’ she said. ‘It’s not uncommon in communities such as this. But it’s tiresome. For a number of reasons I prefer to solve such problems without recourse to outside help. Quite apart from anything else it sends the right signal to our students. They have to learn self-sufficiency. Besides, with a resident expert such as Professor Carpenter, it seems really rather superfluous to ring in the local constabulary. Why hire a mini-cab when there’s a Rolls-Royce in your garage?’

Tudor smiled.

‘I’d say Ashley was more of a Ferrari than a Rolls.’

Dame Edith glanced at him sharply.

‘Many a true word...’ she said. ‘We had our suspicions almost from the first. It was nothing dramatic. Petty cash mainly. No matter how much you lecture people on the need for security they persist in leaving their rooms unlocked and they will leave banknotes lying around, wallets on desks, credit cards with PIN numbers written in diaries. Sheer carelessness, but they’re children. They don’t understand. They always think it can’t happen to them. In this case the culprit is obviously a young woman I’ve had my eye on for some time.’

‘How did you come to suspect this particular girl?’

Dame Edith sighed. ‘I blame myself,’ she said. ‘She was a borderline case from an academic point of view, but she was severely disadvantaged socially. A lot of alcohol at home, poverty, possibly sexual abuse. I felt sorry for her. And she’d worked hard against the odds. I felt she should have a chance. We gave her a scholarship but our funds are limited and there was only so much we could do.’

She sighed and sipped, then continued.

‘She did some waitressing to help out financially. Then I heard she was working in a bar with a very unsavoury reputation. I confronted her with it and she denied even knowing the place. I think, to be honest, that she became frightened. Then, suddenly, the thefts started. We’d had nothing of the kind for at least two years.’

‘What made you think it was this particular girl?’

The Dame smiled. ‘Motive first,’ she said, ‘though I have to concede she wasn’t the only student with money worries. Character second. I don’t mean that she was a wicked girl, but she was... is... weak, easily tempted. Opportunity third. She wasn’t very sophisticated about it. Most of the people who reported things missing were in the same building as her.’

‘All circumstantial stuff?’ asked Tudor rhetorically.

She nodded.

‘But,’ he continued, ‘you had your suspicions even though you knew they were based on intuition?’

‘That’s another reason I wasn’t keen to call in the police. I had a hunch, well, it was more than a hunch to be honest, but I had no proof.’ She grimaced. ‘And if it was Elizabeth I really didn’t want to think in terms of a prosecution. A criminal record would be a disaster for her. She’s on a knife edge in any case.’

‘So you asked Ashley to investigate?’

‘It seemed sensible,’ she said. ‘He did some clever things with fingerprint powder and a hidden camera. Don’t ask me. I’m a zoologist not a policewoman. Within a couple of days he had conclusive proof. But unfortunately he made a mistake.’

The Visiting Fellow frowned. Ashley made a mistake?’

Tudor Cornwall was surprised. His old friend was not a mistake-maker.

‘Oh no,’ she laughed, causing Fergus to raise his head. ‘Nothing to do with his forensic procedures. He was professionally as immaculate as we’d both expect. No, he made a different sort of error. He confronted the girl directly and without a witness. He asked her to his room after dinner.’ She shook her head. ‘Silly boy!’ she said. ‘Silly, silly boy!’

There was a knock on the door and the Principal said, ‘Come in.’ The door opened and an Indian in a maroon blazer and matching turban entered behind a trolley loaded with sandwiches, fruit, a jug of water, plates, cutlery and glasses.

‘Thank you, Sammy,’ said Dame Edith. ‘And, Sammy, this is Dr Cornwall from England. He’s our Visiting Fellow this semester.’

The Sikh bowed seriously at Tudor who smiled back, before looking enquiringly at his boss and being told that he had done all that was required and they would serve themselves. When he had closed the door behind him, the Dame said, ‘He’s got a proper name but he complained that we all pronounced it wrong and it’s so long since we tried that none of us can remember what it was. He’s been “Sammy” for as long as I’ve known him. He came as a gardener but he’s been college butler for the last five years. He knows everything about everything at St Petroc’s. And then some more.’

‘Did he know about your college thief?’

‘I should imagine so. I wouldn’t dream of asking him though. He’d think it frightfully bad form.’

She rose to inspect the sandwiches. ‘Smoked trevally, local beef with horseradish and Whale Island Blue cheese,’ she said. ‘The college bakes its own bread. Do help yourself.

‘So the inevitable happened. Elizabeth refused to admit anything and then came to me the following morning to complain that she’d been sexually harassed by Professor Carpenter.’

Tudor almost choked on his smoked fish. He had never tasted trevally before and just as he was in the act of swallowing his first mouthful he was confronted with this ludicrous suggestion.

‘For heaven’s sake,’ he said. ‘When it comes to sex, the one thing Ashley does not need to do is to start groping students.’

‘I know that,’ she said, chomping on bread and cheese, ‘and you know that. Others may not. It’s the girl’s word against his. But there’s worse. She’s not stupid. She was back twenty-four hours later with the president of the junior common room and signed depositions from three other girls, all alleging that they had been sexually molested, propositioned, harassed or interfered with by your friend... and mine, Professor Ashley Carpenter.’

‘So when was all this?’

‘The day before yesterday.’

They ate in silence. Tudor was not happy. He thought briefly of telling the Dame about the e-mail message he had picked up earlier in the morning, but he discarded the idea as soon as he contemplated it. It was important to play his cards close, not reveal his hand, wait for others to show theirs. He had no idea who held the trumps. His only possible ace card was the knowledge that Ashley was alive and well and sending e-mails. But even that was supposition not certain fact. Anyone could have sent an e-mail in Ashley’s name. It wasn’t like snail-mail. You didn’t have handwriting to identify. You didn’t even need to know Ashley’s ID or password. Tudor was only semiliterate when it came to computers. He used his laptop just as he used his car. He could drive it well enough to get from A to B. If it went wrong he rang the AA or took it in to the garage. He supposed that he could send Ashley a message and ask some clever question to which only Ashley would know the answer. But even though that might prove that Ashley was alive, it wouldn’t prove anything else. The professor could have been kidnapped. He might be being held against his will, sending e-mail answers with a knife at his throat or a pistol at his head.

‘This smoked fish is delicious,’ he said. ‘So what’s the plan?’

‘Plan?’ The Dame seemed not to understand his question.

‘What do you intend doing?’ he asked.

‘Doing?’

Tudor found this second repetition irritating.

‘Well, with respect, you’re potentially on the brink of a serious and potentially embarrassing situation. Petty theft is one thing; you could probably hush that up without too much of a problem. Sexual harassment is something else again. It’s all the vogue. It could lead to a huge amount of unwelcome publicity for Ashley, St Petroc’s, you, even for Tasmania. People write books about this kind of thing.’

‘Quite,’ said the Dame, picking up another sandwich. ‘That’s why I’m relying on you.’ She smiled, almost wolfishly. ‘In fact, I think you’re my only hope. Ashley’s told me lots about you and I’ve read quite a lot of your stuff on organized crime in pre-industrial society. And your Robin Hood book of course.’

Tudor groaned inwardly. Robin Hood – The Crook The People Crowned was his first and still most popular book. He hated being reminded of it.

‘Well,’ he said, and embarked on a suitably self-deprecating life history. He didn’t enjoy it but he didn’t really see any alternative. He could have killed his old friend Ashley.

Always assuming he wasn’t dead already.

Chapter Four

After lunch, Tudor took a walk. He needed to clear his sinuses. The combination of cat and Tasmanian sherry coming so soon after the stale, recycled, germ-ridden air of his flight from Europe had played havoc with his tubes. He craved fresh air. Also, like a jockey before a race, he liked to walk the turf before competition was joined in earnest.

It was shortly after two by the time he came down from his eyrie and stepped out into the garden quad. It was a pity about the buildings, he thought. The 60s had a lot to answer for when it came to architecture. St Petroc’s had the utilitarian cardboard-box feel of a thousand and one utilitarian cheap brick, concrete and plate glass blocks in Tasmania’s mother country. On the other hand, someone had laid out a pleasant garden and spring was springing. The ‘old’ building itself was overlaid with a profuse pale purple wisteria. Trees blossomed. They looked like cherries, though horticulture was not Dr Cornwall’s forte.

As he emerged from the building which was not only the heart of the college but also the only edifice of anything approaching distinction, he noticed an attractive blonde in baggy white shorts, a skimpy blue top and a New York Yankees baseball cap. She was sitting alone at a wooden picnic table staring at an open foolscap folder and sucking on the end of a pencil. As Tudor came out she glanced up and flashed him a broad smile.

‘Hi!’ she said. ‘Can I help?’

‘Er... hello,’ he said. It was not exactly a ‘come hither’ smile. Under cross examination he could not honestly say that it was more than just friendly. It was not the girl’s fault that she was attractive. Her T-shirt was very tight and she was not wearing a bra. Tudor found her nipples disconcerting. She was lightly tanned, had even white teeth and dimples. Tudor had an uneasy feeling that she had been waiting for him.

‘You must be the new Visiting Fellow,’ she said.

‘Well, yes, actually, but how do you know?’

‘Well,’ she said, laughing, ‘you’re a strange face, you’re coming out of the old building, and you’re a Pom. So you just have to be the Visiting Fellow. Anyway, hi, I’m Elizabeth Burney.’

She held out a hand and he shook it, alarm bells ringing. The look she gave him clearly conveyed some kind of complicity though, once more, he would have had trouble convincing an unprejudiced third party that it went in any way beyond simple friendliness.

Also you look lost,’ she said. ‘Would you like me to show you round?’

Tudor considered. He was uneasy but he was tempted. After all, why not? He wanted to find his sea legs, and the girl obviously had local knowledge.

That would be very kind,’ he said.

She stood. Good legs, too, Tudor noticed, then realized that she was young enough to be his daughter.

‘It takes twenty minutes to walk downtown,’ she said. ‘You like to see downtown?’

He was intending to walk there anyway. He had intended to do so on his own and unattended. He was happy with his own company and tended to learn more when solitary. On the other hand, it would seem churlish to turn her down.

‘By the way,’ she said, ‘I’m supposed to be the college thief.’ She smiled again. ‘Not true, of course. But it’s a long story. Maybe if I get to know you better I’ll tell you about it.’

Tudor had heard that Tasmanians were famous for being open, frank and forthright, but this was ridiculous. He wasn’t at all sure how to respond. The English part of his character told him to retreat behind his English veneer of sang froid and stiff-upper-lippery. His natural middle-aged caution urged restraint, but something else told him not to be so bloody pompous, he was in Tasmania now so stop being so impossibly buttoned up. Let it all hang out. And, no, it had absolutely nothing whatever to do with sex. He was far too grown up for that sort of thing. Besides the girl was far too young. Also her appeal was too obvious, too ‘in-your-face’. No, no, the polite thing was to accept gracefully: he might learn something. After all, Dame Edith had asked him to help her out. How better than to interview this prime suspect.

‘Downtown,’ he said, fatuously. ‘That would be very nice. Thank you.’