Gone to Ground by John Harvey

mutual friends. But once he was here, we saw a good deal more of one another."
    "You were in the same department?"
    "No, not at all. Philosophy, that's my thing. But I teach a course on modern aesthetics and that's an area in which Stephen took quite an interest. Generally, though, it was more casual, social. We'd pass the time in the cafeteria, bump into one another in the town, meet at dinner from time to time with friends."
    "You liked him?"
    "What was not to like? He was bright, outgoing—not like some of those film academics who seem to spend the best part of their time in the dark, the entire contents of their lives in an old carrier bag down between their feet."
    "And his partner, Mark? You knew him, too?"
    Rouse nodded. "I met him a few times. At Stephen's house, when we had supper there, and maybe one or two other occasions. I wouldn't claim to know him well."
    "Well enough to have some impression of them as a couple?"
    Rouse smiled. "I'll tell you a story. My maternal grandfather, back in the States, he was in vaudeville. Music hall, I guess you called it over here. He used to do magic tricks. Not very good magic tricks. And juggle." Rouse raised his eyebrows toward the ceiling. "Is it any wonder vaudeville died? Anyway, there he'd be on stage, all decked out in this black cloak, top hat, the whole works. The Great Whatever. He used to change his stage name every few years so as to keep getting bookings. But whatever he was called, there was always Maureen. She was the one standing off to the side of the stage in a little skirt and high heels, handing him things, clapping her hands in amazement whenever he pulled a pigeon out from beneath his cloak. The Great Whosit and Maureen. That's how they were billed. That's how they lived their lives. They were married for almost forty years. And she was always 'and Maureen.' An afterthought. An extra. All that time, she never got to keep four boxes in the air at once, or pull a rabbit out from a hat. And that's what I think they were like, Stephen and Mark. That's who they reminded me of."
    "And Mark was Maureen?"
    "Absolutely."
    "Second fiddle."
    "You've got it."
    "How do you think he felt about that?"
    Rouse fixed Helen with his gaze. "How would you?"
    "I wouldn't know." It came out more sharply than she'd intended.
    "I think most of the time," Rouse said, "it was fine. For both of them, it was fine. But I couldn't help thinking there were occasions when Stephen wished Mark was more, well, intellectual. That he could contribute to some discussion they were having about hegemonic structures or signs and signifiers or whatever. Instead of sitting there trying not to look bored."
    "Stephen looked down on him, is that what you're saying?"
    "I suppose it is, in a way."
    "And Mark must have been aware of that?"
    Rouse lifted his shoulders. "I guess."
    "You think it led to any real animosity between them?"
    Rouse's eyes widened a little. "You're asking me if Mark might have had reason to kill him?"
    "I'm asking you if you thought there was any real animosity between them."
    Rouse smiled. "More than the average?"
    "More than the average."
    Two Japanese tourists were hovering close, intent on examining the paintings in that particular corner, and Rouse motioned toward the opposite end of the gallery. "They only allow themselves forty-seven seconds per painting, it's a shame to stand in their way."
    "Stephen and Mark," Helen said, when they'd stopped walking.
    "All right," Rouse said, "I'm going to tell you another story."
    "As long as the last one?"
    "Quite possibly longer. But more to the point."
    Helen smiled and waited.
    "This was only a few months ago, toward the end of November. Dinner at a friend's house in Waterbeach. Eight of us there would have been, mostly academics of one shade or another. It was a nice enough evening, the food was good, and as usual there was too much wine. Mark, it seemed, was the designated driver out of Stephen and himself, which was okay, except