Evanly Bodies (8 page)

He made his way back down the hallway, deep in thought. Wingate was in the small staff room, nursing a cup of instant coffee
with Paul Jenkins and Olive Sloan.

"How did it go?" he asked.

"Interesting," Evan said.

Paul Jenkins looked up from his coffee. "Has Gwyneth been spilling the beans about the rest of us? About David's sordid affair
with Martin and Badger filching the department funds to bet on the horses?" He looked at their faces and laughed. "Just kidding,"
he said.

"Not particularly funny," Wingate said, "given that a man is lying in the morgue with a hole through his head because he represented
such a major threat that somebody had to kill him."

"Sorry." Jenkins made a face. "Actually, I think it's pretty beastly, but I think you're barking up the wrong tree if you're
trying to find some deep, dark secret here. We're just a typical university department, and our biggest squabbles are about
whether a certain document dated from 1257 or 1258."

He stopped talking as Rhys Jones and David Skinner came in to join them. Skinner reacted to the presence of two policemen
again. "Christ, not more interrogations," he said. "Are we to be browbeaten until one of us confesses? I thought I'd told
you everything yesterday."

"One thing we forgot to ask you, sir," Jeremy Wingate said easily. "It's about your movements yesterday morning."

"My movements?" Skinner looked bewildered.

"Yes. Where were you between about seven thirty and eight thirty?"

"That's easy enough. Snoring my head off. I don't have a class on Thursdays until eleven, so I don't surface before nine.
Sinful, I'm sure, but true."

"And you have no one to vouch for that?" Wingate asked.

"He wishes," Jenkins quipped.

"No, no one." Skinner shot him a look.

Suddenly the door burst open, and a young man barged in. He made a dramatic picture with his leather jacket and shoulder-length
black hair that had been blown every which way in the wind. "Have you heard the news, chaps!" he shouted. "Somebody's finally
done it! They've put old Martin Rogers out of his misery!"

"Gwyneth Humphries made it clear that every one of them had clashed with Martin Rogers at one time or another. Maybe that
was to throw us off the scent and not have us focus on one of them."

"Could be. Rhys Thomas said pretty much the same thing to me."

"And Brock seemed to think it wasn't even surprising that Professor Rogers had been murdered," Evan went on. "But then he
was the one who had a perfect alibi for yesterday. He was out at his dig with a bunch of students."

"I'll tell you one thing," Evan added, watching the steady stream of students making their way down the hill like a column
of ants. "Gwyneth Humphries was sweet on Professor Rogers."

"No kidding? Do you think something was going on there? A liaison on the side?"

"I don't think so. She took pains to tell me how morally correct Rogers was."

"So it was unrequited love on her part-pining from afar. Maybe her theory was, if I can't have him then nobody else can. Hell
has no fury, and all that."

"I can't see her shooting somebody," Evan said. "She's a dramatic woman, I grant you, but shooting is too cold and calculated
for her. I can picture her stabbing him with a Celtic dagger, perhaps."

"So what do we tell Bragg?" Wingate asked.

"Let's wait and hear what he's come up with this morning. And we haven't spoken to any students yet."

"I'd imagine there are several hundred students who attend history lectures. Rather a tall order to interview them all. Where
do you suggest we start?"

"I think we're like Mohammed," Evan said, looking down the hill. "I think the mountain is coming to us." And indeed students
were suddenly streaming out of buildings all over the campus, some of them now heading in the direction of the History Department
building. At the same moment there were noises in the hallway behind them, and another group of students was coming down the
stairs.

Jeremy Wingate stepped out to meet them as they came through the doors.

"Excuse me a minute," he said. "Are any of you students of Professor Rogers?"

The young man who was leading the group looked around uneasily. "We all are," he said. "Everybody gets the head of department
at one time or another."

"I know what this is about," a girl said. She had that startlingly red hair found in the true Celt and bright green eyes.
"He's been killed, hasn't he? I saw it on the telly last night."

"That's right, I'm afraid," Wingate said. "We're police officers; and if you've got a moment, we'd like to ask you some questions."

"Fire away," the first boy said. "I'd love a good excuse to be fifteen minutes late for Humphries."

"The 'Black Death'?" Wingate asked with a grin. "I thought that class was supposed to be fascinating."

"The subject is, but she's boring as hell. She drones on and on and on. Half the people who signed up for that class have
already dropped it. So what did you want to know about Professor Rogers?"

Wingate glanced at Evan.

"We wondered whether any of you knew if he might have had a recent run-in with any of his students," Evan said.

"He was a miserable old sod," another boy commented, putting on his anorak hood against the wind. "He was one of the faculty
members on the site council, and he was always vetoing anything he didn't approve of. You know, the gay/lesbian dance, that
kind of thing. Very old-fashioned and prejudiced."

"He was really stodgy," a girl agreed. "Totally behind the times. If you showed up at one of his lectures in a skimpy top,
he'd make you put your jacket on."

"But you don't kill your teacher because he makes you put your jacket on, do you?" Wingate asked.

They looked at him with wide-eyed horror. "Who said anything about killing?" the first girl asked. "He was annoying. My dad's
annoying sometimes, but I don't think about killing him."

"Exactly," Evan said. "It has to be a life-or-death situation to make you want to kill someone in my experience. So I wondered,
has there been a case where Professor Rogers might have pushed a student to the edge. Maybe he had failed somebody or was
going to fail somebody?"

They looked at each other, considering this.

"There was Simon last year," the red-haired girl said at last, checking with her friends for confirmation in voicing this
opinion.

"Simon?" Evan asked quietly.

"Simon Pennington. He graduated in June. He was very bright, probably one of the best students in his year. He thought he
should have got a first, but he only got an upper two. He was really angry, and he thought it was all Professor Rogers's fault.
Apparently Professor Rogers had assessed his special project as competent but not original. His family went to the dean and
demanded a reassessment, but the dean wouldn't do it."

"He came back here to see old Rogers a couple of weeks ago, after term had started," a boy said. "He was yelling that Rogers
had ruined his life, and he was never going to get into the Diplomatic Corps now."

"And where would we find this Simon Pennington?"

They looked at each other and shrugged.

"The registrar would have a contact address. He lived near London, didn't he?"

"I think so. He was definitely not Welsh anyway."

This got a laugh from the Welsh members of the group.

Evan left the university with an address in Surrey for Simon Pennington, but a phone call to that address indicated that Simon
was currently traveling abroad and wouldn't be back for another month.

"Great alibi, don't you think?" Wingate asked Evan, as they headed back to the station. "There's nothing to stop him from
popping back into the country, shooting the professor, and then going back to the Continent again. They never really check
EU passports these days, do they?"

"We should definitely keep him in mind," Evan agreed. "Should we find more students to interview or get back to Bragg?"

"Much as I hate to face him this early in the day, I think he'll probably be expecting to see our keen and eager young faces
sometime soon."

They made their way down the path to the waiting car.

"At least the university meter maids didn't have the nerve to ticket us," Wingate said.

"I bet they don't even set foot outside in this weather." Evan smiled.

A call to Bragg revealed that he was still at the Rogers's house.

"I want you two over here right away," he said. "We're giving the place a thorough search."

"Looking for what in particular, sir?" Evan asked.

"That missing weapon, among other things. I've got nothing new out of Mrs. Rogers. According to her, Martin Roger had no family
nearby. He didn't belong to a golf club. He didn't attend a church, unlike her. No close ties at all or interests outside
of the university. Doesn't she realize if she can't come up with a likely suspect, the suspicion is all going to fall on her?"

"I think Bragg operates rather like the medieval ducking stool," Wingate said dryly, as they sped through deserted wet streets
toward the Rogers's house. "If he holds her underwater long enough, she's going to confess."

Missy Rogers, still accompanied by the same woman police constable, was sitting on the sofa in the drawing room working on
a tapestry. The dog, Lucky, lay at her feet. It rose with a deep growl as they came in.

"It's all right, Lucky." She put a comforting hand on his head. "He knows something isn't right," she said, by way of apology
for his behavior. "He's such a sensitive animal."

"Is Inspector Bragg here?" Wingate asked.

"I think you'll find your inspector in Martin's study," she said. "I can't think what they hope to find. Martin received no
threatening letters, no blackmail, nothing that might be filed away in a study."

"What about a student called Simon Pennington?" Evan asked. "Did your husband mention him to you?"

She frowned, then shook her head. "I can't say that he did. He dealt with hundreds of students, and he rarely discussed his
work at home. His research yes, but not the petty problems of the university. He liked his home to be his haven."

"Evans? Is that you?" boomed the voice down the stairs. "I want you up here right now. And Wingate."

The two men gave Missy Rogers a commiserating smile as they heeded the call from above.

"I don't remember giving you permission to question Mrs. Rogers," Bragg said.

"We were just following up on a lead we'd got at the university," Wingate said quickly. "A student who believed Professor
Rogers was responsible for his failing to get a first-class degree."

"Then he'd already have left the university last summer, wouldn't he?"

"But he came back a couple of weeks ago and had a shouting match with Professor Rogers," Evan said.

"Have you tried to contact him?"

"I called his home in Surrey," Evan said. "Apparently he's gone abroad."

"How convenient."

"That's what we thought."

"Well, I suppose it's the only credible lead we've got so far, apart from the widow," Bragg said. "Right, let's get on with
the job in hand and see what turns up, and Wingate, you can retrace the steps of Mrs. Rogers's dog walk yesterday and see
if anyone can vouch for seeing her. Of course, that proves nothing. It would only take a minute or so to shoot her husband
and then walk the dog as if nothing had happened."

He was speaking in his usual loud, strident voice, and Evan looked at the open study door.

"I don't think you should give her any idea that you suspect her," he said.

"Of course I should. Make her good and nervous. When you've been in the force as long as I have, Evans, then you can start
giving suggestions. Until then you sort through that filing cabinet and keep quiet."

Evan bit back the anger and went over to the filing cabinet. Everything was in meticulous order, ranging from household accounts
to historical papers published. Years and years of receipts, bank statements, letters written to the water board to complain
about water pressure. Martin Rogers's whole life was documented here, neatly filed to be resurrected if needed. Evan flicked
through the household accounts. For every month there was a handwritten sheet stapled to a typewritten sheet. Evan realized
that the writing on the first sheet was not Martin Rogers's. It must therefore be Missy's. Account for the week ending September
21. Then beside some of the items, in Martin's small, neat script, some comments: 'Wasteful. Why not buy larger size?' And
even against one item: 'Not necessary. Amount not allowed.' On the typewritten sheet was a reconciliation-the amount of money
paid into the housekeeping account that year, compared to the previous year. Evan wondered if Martin gave his wife any money
for herself. He certainly vetted what she spent on keeping the house running and queried her over trivialities.

He put the accounts back and went on looking. Under letters he found copies of every letter Martin had written. Evan read
through the last year or two but came up with nothing inflammatory. Then he pulled out a bundle of envelopes, tied with a
string. Old love letters? He wondered and hesitated to open the bundle. Then he noticed that some of the postmarks were quite
recent. He pulled out the first letter and was surprised to see it was addressed to Missy Rogers, not Martin. It was from
her sister in France. "I haven't heard from you in a while so I hope you are well," she wrote. Just a chatty, ordinary letter.
There were more letters from her sister, letters from what appeared to be an old school friend, even from her parents, dated
five or more years ago. Had Missy asked Martin to keep them in the filing cabinet for her? Evan retied the string uneasily.
Now was not the right time to confront her with them. He'd wait and see how things developed.

In the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, he came upon a folder marked WEAPONS. In it was a detailed list of all the antique
weapons Martin Rogers owned, date purchased, from whom, history, when used as a visual aid in a class. Evan read through the
list slowly, then double-checked.

"Have you got something there, Evans?" Inspector Bragg called.

"I think I have." Evan looked up. "This is a list of the weapons in that drawer. There never was a second dueling pistol."

"What exactly are you saying?" Bragg asked.

"That there doesn't appear to be a missing weapon. The ones in the tray downstairs are all accounted for."

"So someone laid the same gun down on the velvet to give the impression of a missing weapon?" Bragg nodded. "Now who would
have had the opportunity to do that?"

"Only the widow, I suppose," Evan had to admit.

"It's looking more and more likely, Evans. And yet she's sitting down there doing her embroidery, not blinking an eyelid,
knowing that we're up here. Pritchard?"