Death at the Alma Mater by G. M. Malliet Page A

dignitaries come to plant a tree or open a new building. But releasing the handshake, the Master began wringing his own hands distractedly, betraying his anguish at having a corpse on the premises. St. Just had the distinct feeling that the corpse wasn’t nearly as worrying as its location: hard by the college boathouse, according to the Chief Constable. The Master confirmed this impression with his next sentence.
    “To have this happen this weekend, of all weekends,” he said. “And here.” He sighed deeply, adding in aggrieved tones, “Why couldn’t it have been Jesus?”
    St. Just felt Sergeant Fear stiffen beside him in alarm: Were they dealing with a religious mania of some sort? But St. Just, familiar with some of St. Mike’s history, assumed the Master meant the nearby Jesus College. It was well known there was strong feeling between the two rivals. Something to do with one of the boat races held between the wars—allegations of sabotage resulting in wounded feelings, hurled insults, and umbrage taken—all the usual. The St. Michael’s boat had sunk, if memory served, giving all aboard a good and embarrassing dunking. Such memories ran long and deep in Cambridge.
    “I doubt there would be a good time, when you think about it, Sir?” said St. Just. “Or a good place?”
    The Master thought for a moment and then said, “No, no, I suppose not.”
    But he didn’t look convinced. How much better if Jesus College were going to be splashed all over the newspapers as a haven for murderers and cutthroats. Applications to St. Michael’s would be down next year because of this, no question about it. The students wouldn’t mind—they’d love it, in fact, the ghoulish little cretins—but their parents … Really, it was most distressing. He voiced the last thought aloud.
    “I can’t begin to tell you how deeply distressing this is. It was our alumni weekend, you see. Well, that’s certainly ruined, for a start,” he fumed huffily. He might have been a vicar’s wife complaining about low participation in the Bring and Buy.
    St. Just, watching him, thought he had the kind of face designed for a periwig—the long, high-arched nose, the sullen set of the full but bloodless lips. But St. Just nodded, not without sympathy. It was definitely a sticky wicket: deuced hard to explain to the old members how standards had slipped this far since their day.
    “I quite understand your distress,” he said. “Now, we will need to talk with you at some length, but for the moment, if you would lead us to where the body was found …”
    This set him off again.
    “Body,” gasped the Master. “A body at St. Michael’s.” The man looked to be genuinely in a state of shock, his narrow face drained to a faint gray in the artificial light of the court.
    “Sir,” said St. Just firmly. “If you wouldn’t mind. Time is of the essence in these matters.”
    The man seemed to gather his wits through an effort of will. His mouth gathered into a puckered twist, he stolidly led them across the close-cropped grass towards the river, the jaunty bounce in his step as he’d walked over to meet the policemen now completely subdued.
    SOCO had already established a beachhead. The body of Lexy Laurant remained in situ, hidden by a crime scene tent that was illuminated to an unearthly glare by arc lamps. It was a scene that had all the otherworldly qualities of a low-budget outdoor film set, complete with space aliens—SOCO—pacing the area in a methodical, robot-like search for evidence, wearing booties just a shade away from being Cambridge blue. Two constables conferred to one side of the tent, their heads close together, talking quietly, as if not wishing to disturb the newly dead. The air was laden with the scents of summer and the murmurs of the men; the gentle lapping of the river could just be heard behind the muted silence. The river, regardless and apart, wended its slow, sinuous way towards the River Ouse, which in turn