The Yeare's Midnight (9 page)

She came back again to the image of Lucy Harrington’s eye, gouged from its socket. She stopped and corrected herself. It hadn’t been gouged. What had Leach the pathologist said? The killer had tried to do it scientifically and had eventually resorted to brute force. There was method in the madness. He had researched his subject carefully.
What
instruments
would
you
need
to
remove
an
eye?
A
scalpel
to
cut
and
forceps
to
pull
the
eyeball
from
the
socket.
What
else?
Leach
didn’t
think
our
man
was
a
doctor
so
where
did
he
get
the
instruments
he
needed?
Was he from a medical family? A long shot but it was a possibility.
Where
do
you
buy
medical
instruments?
Are
there
shops?
Trade
fairs,
maybe?
She made a mental note to check.

Dexter pulled up outside the station and hurried inside. The desk sergeant nodded curtly at her as she swiped her access card and hurried upstairs. Underwood’s office was on the third floor and she was glowing slightly by the time she arrived. Underwood was standing with his back to the door, staring out of the window. He had his coat on. His hair was a matted mess, Dexter noted despite herself.

‘You all right, sir?’ she asked.

Underwood turned and smiled faintly. His eyes were blackened at the edges and he looked exhausted. ‘I’m fine, Dex. Full of flu.’

‘There’s a lot of it about.’

‘There always is.’

Dexter prepared herself. ‘I’ve got some good news, sir.’ She pulled a folded piece of paper from her back pocket. ‘The writing on the wall at Lucy Harrington’s house.’ She savoured her moment of triumph and watched Underwood’s face closely as she spoke. ‘It’s from a poem. My friend at the library photocopied it for me. The poem’s called “A Valediction” …’

‘“A Valediction: Of Weeping”’ Underwood cut her off. He picked up a note from his desk and read aloud, ‘Written around 1620 by John Donne.’ He looked up at her. Dexter tried to disguise her disappointment. She failed.

‘Pardon my asking, sir, but how the bloody hell did you find that out?’ Dexter was angry. Life only stole things from her when she started to get excited about them.

‘I’ll tell you in the car.’ He picked his keys off the desk and tossed them over to Dexter. ‘You’re driving.’

The car crawled out of New Bolden in heavy traffic and turned towards Cambridge. Underwood sat in the front passenger seat, increasingly aware of the sweat soaking his back. He felt empty: as if the only thing that defined him now was his illness and exhaustion. So this was how it felt when you eventually realized your life was meaningless. He had spent years preparing for the moment but it still stung him like a hornet. His mind wandered through the previous night’s events. He would call Harrison later about the licence plate. Dexter half-turned to him as they finally broke free of the traffic and settled at a comfortable seventy miles an hour.

‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on, sir?’

‘I received a call this morning at eight from a Dr Heather Stussman. She’s a lecturer at the university. She was pretty freaked out. She thinks the guy who killed Lucy Harrington telephoned her yesterday.’

Dexter was shocked. ‘What makes her think it’s our bloke?’ She was finding it hard to concentrate on the road.

‘She got a letter in the post, a letter containing a line of poetry. Then yesterday afternoon some bloke called her, asked her if she’d received his letter and told her to watch the news. He didn’t mention Lucy Harrington but guess what the line of poetry was …’

‘Draw not up seas, to drowne me in thy spheare?’

‘Bingo.’

‘But the writing on the wall isn’t public knowledge yet. How did she know our man was talking about Lucy Harrington?’

‘That’s a very good point. I guess we’ll find out.’

‘Why did he call her? Who is she, anyway?’

‘She’s an expert. Fellow of Southwell College. She published a book on John Donne’s poems last year. She’s quite a big fish. American.’ Underwood frowned as the hulk of New Bolden power station loomed beside them. ‘He told her to watch the news and explain it to the police.’

‘Explain it to us?’

‘Fucked-up or what?’

They approached Cambridge from the north, passing the entrance to Girton College then turning left onto Chesterton Road. The ring road slowly brought them around the city, with Dexter zigzagging energetically to avoid cyclists until they swung right at Parker’s Piece and crossed into Lensfield Road. Southwell College was at the southern end of the city, backing onto the river. On instructions from Underwood, Dexter parked outside the Fitzwilliam Museum and the two of them walked up to the Southwell porter’s lodge. Dexter shivered. It was always cold in Cambridge at this time of year, just as it had been in East London.

Southwell College was a mish-mash of architectural styles reflecting the building’s spasmodic evolution through the centuries. The sixteenth-century first quad was lined with flower boxes and was far more attractive than the dark Victorian court that had grown up behind it. Like many of the colleges, the desire to
expand had also encouraged Southwell to build a monstrous, modern accommodation block. It sat uneasily next to the college gardens like an uninvited guest at a family reunion.

The porter directed Underwood and Dexter to Stussman’s rooms in the second quad. Dexter slowed down diplomatically at the foot of the old wooden staircase and allowed Underwood to take the lead. She knew he was more likely to have difficulties with the ascent than her. Stussman heard them approaching and was waiting at the entrance to her rooms on the first-floor landing.

‘Inspector Underwood?’ She held out her hand.

Underwood was impressed. Stussman had thick black shoulder-length hair and brilliant stone-blue eyes. She had a firm handshake, too.

‘Pleased to meet you, Dr Stussman.’ Underwood was trying not to gawp. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Dexter.’

‘Nice to meet you, sergeant,’ said Stussman. No hand was offered this time. Dexter didn’t mind: she was used to that. Stussman led them inside. The living room had the typically chaotic feel of an academic’s office. One wall was entirely dedicated to books, from floor to ceiling. Dexter ran her eye across the titles: lots of poetry books and biographies. She didn’t recognize many of them. On Stussman’s desk was a vast glacier of paper that was threatening to spill onto the carpet. Her computer was an old-fashioned Apple Mac that seemed to be feeling its age. There were two armchairs: Underwood fell gratefully into one. Dexter remained standing.

Stussman was leaning against her desk. Underwood’s eyes moved along the firm lines of her legs. Julia had great legs too. Desire and despair ambushed him again: the double helix burned in his heart. He cleared his throat.

‘Dr Stussman. For Sergeant Dexter’s benefit and my own, could you talk us through yesterday’s events and explain why you called us?’

‘Sure. I received this letter yesterday.’ She handed Underwood the envelope. He held it carefully at the edges. Stussman continued, ‘I didn’t open it at first. I got a call just after six p.m. when I got back from giving a lecture.’ She lit a cigarette. She
seemed shaky. ‘The guy on the phone asked if I had received his letter. I guessed it was this one so I pulled the envelope from my bag and opened it. He asked me if I recognized it. I said I did and that is was a line from “A Valediction: Of Weeping”.’ Stussman looked over at Dexter. ‘That’s a poem by John Donne.’

‘I know,’ Dexter said sharply.

‘He told me that I should watch the news and explain it to the police. Then he hung up.’

‘Did he have an accent?’ asked Underwood.

‘He was English. Beyond that I wouldn’t really know.’

‘What did you do then?’ Dexter asked.

‘Well … nothing, I’m afraid. I thought it was a practical joke. The academic world is a very spiteful one, Sergeant Dexter. My papers have proved pretty controversial. I assumed someone was trying to freak me out. Then, late last night, I saw the news.’

‘About Lucy Harrington?’ Underwood was watching her closely.

‘Yes. Then I panicked. You see, the name Lucy Harrington is significant. In the context of John Donne’s poetry, that is.’

‘How so?’ Dexter had started making notes.

‘Donne was one of a group of English poets writing in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. The group subsequently became known as the Metaphysical Poets.’

‘This is your area of expertise?’ Underwood asked, his gaze drifting.

‘Yes. My doctoral thesis was on the stylistic variations between Donne and his contemporary, George Herbert. I recently published a book on the life of Donne.’

‘What does “metaphysical” mean?’ Dexter was confused.

‘Literally, it means “beyond physics”. The Renaissance was an intellectual revolution that encouraged writers and philosophers to question the accepted principles of scientific and religious thought.’ Stussman noticed that Dexter had stopped writing. ‘The Metaphysical Poets tried to address intellectual issues that were beyond the ability of science to explain.’

‘Such as?’

‘Love, life, spirituality, God, death. Take your pick. The
poems were tightly argued explorations of the ideas surrounding these “metaphysical concepts”. John Donne is the best known and most able of all the metaphysical poets.’

‘You say these poems are arguments?’ Underwood was struggling to understand.

‘Yes, most of them. Remember that during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the written word was less important than the spoken one. Few people could actually read. In fact, Donne’s poems weren’t published until after his death. During his lifetime the poems were generally read aloud to friends, groups of like-minded intellectuals.’

‘You said that the name Lucy Harrington was significant?’ Dexter asked.

‘That’s when I made the connection. You see, Lucy Harrington, or Lucy Harrington, Countess of Bedford, to give her her full title, was one of Donne’s patrons. One of his coterie of intellectual friends, you might say. When I heard the murdered girl was called Lucy Harrington I realized that this was what the guy on the phone wanted me to know about. I got scared and I called you first thing.’

The information sent a shiver of electricity down Underwood’s spine. This was the first indication of why the killer had selected Lucy Harrington. The choice of victim had been troubling Underwood: there were easier targets everywhere – schoolkids, the prostitutes behind New Bolden Station. Why risk attacking such a high-profile target unless it meant something special? He suddenly felt that the balance had shifted slightly in his favour. Or had it? After all, the killer had wanted this to happen.

‘Dr Stussman, I’ll need you to provide us with a list of Donne’s associates. People like Lucy Harrington: patrons, girlfriends, the people who were close to him.’

‘No problem.’

‘The line of poetry that was sent to you was also written on the wall of Lucy Harrington’s bathroom. That isn’t public yet. Keep it to yourself,’ Underwood said.

‘Jesus Christ.’ Stussman shuddered. ‘Do you think this fucked-up bastard is going to come after me?’

‘Let’s not get carried away,’ said Underwood. ‘Is there anyone you can think of – a student, someone who knows you – who might want to do something like this?’

Stussman shook her head. ‘No one. A few dodgy ex-boyfriends …’

‘I’m sure,’ said Dexter unnecessarily. Underwood fired a withering look in her direction. ‘Haven’t we all?’ she added quickly.

‘The man who phoned you, he asked you to explain the poem to us. Could you do that, please? Maybe something you say might be useful. Assume that neither of us knows anything about this,’ said Underwood. Stussman turned and retrieved two pieces of paper from her desk. She handed a piece each to Dexter and Underwood. She tried to collect her thoughts.

‘Here’s a transcription of the poem. I’ll read it to you. Follow along in the text. As I said, Donne intended that the poem should be read aloud.’ Stussman began to recite the poem from memory. Her gaze floated to the window as she spoke and fixed on the spire of the college chapel.

Dexter looked at Underwood and shrugged. Stussman caught the movement out of the corner of her eye. She took a deep breath.

‘A valediction is a poem that is concerned with saying goodbye. In Latin, “vale” means farewell. In this poem, Donne is saying goodbye to someone he is in love with. The poem is constructed around a conceit: an elaborate metaphor. It’s a common device in metaphysical poetry. In this case the conceit is that the tears of each lover bear the image of the other.