Injury Time by Catherine Aird Page A

called out a deep voice from behind him, ‘let them in.’
    â€˜It is,’ said Sloan.
    â€˜Good, good,’ boomed the voice, its owner still unseen. ‘No point in hanging about at this stage, is there?’ There was a movement inside the room and a stout, untidily dressed figure hove into view. ‘Besides, his people will have to be told as soon as possible, won’t they?’
    The college room was a very beautiful one, the walls panelled in oak and lined with books. Its largest piece of furniture was a great Knole sofa facing the fireplace. It was tastefully upholstered in a material and design that owed more than something to the great medieval tapestry workshops of the Low Countries. What was less appealing was the body of a young man lying on it with much of his head covered in blood.
    On an elegant sofa-table set behind this piece of furniture lay—on top of an academic journal—a blood-stained poker. On the floor, almost hidden by the frill of the sofa, was a lady’s handbag.
    â€˜I’m sorry about the mess,’ said the stout man, as if reading Sloan’s thoughts. ‘I’ve never killed a man before.’ He seemed to collect himself. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. This is Professor Arthur Maple, who is Calle Professor of Moral Law here at the University. He happened to come round just er—afterwards.’
    â€˜And you are …?’ said Sloan, concentrating on the stout figure. He was wearing a flowery-patterned shirt without a tie. There was something odd about his shirt, but Sloan wasn’t sure quite what.
    â€˜Professor Linthwaite, Inspector. Edward Francis …’
    â€˜Mainprice Linthwaite,’ finished Detective Constable Crosby for him.
    â€˜And who,’ enquired Sloan frostily, ‘is the dead man?’ The edge of the coloured silk shirt was peeping out untidily from under one of the professor’s cuffs.
    â€˜Good question,’ said Linthwaite as one encouraging a backward pupil.
    â€˜You don’t know?’ asked Crosby in spite of himself.
    â€˜I know his surname naturally, officer. It’s Carstairs. But not his Christian names.’ Linthwaite waved a hand. ‘The Dean will know, though, won’t he, Arthur? The Dean’s very good about that sort of thing—besides, he’ll have a list. Bound to.’
    â€˜So the dead man is a student here,’ said Sloan, half-expecting the Mad Hatter to drop in at any minute to join the throng. Or perhaps, in view of the handbag, Mrs Linthwaite. If there was a Mrs Linthwaite. He was beginning to doubt it.
    â€˜Oh, yes, Inspector.’ Linthwaite looked surprised. ‘That’s the whole trouble. Didn’t you know?’
    â€˜Not quite the whole trouble,’ said Sloan with a touch of acerbity. ‘Suppose you start at the beginning …’
    Linthwaite beamed. ‘Good, good. Primary sources are so important … I always tell my students to go back to first things.’
    â€˜Edward,’ warned Professor Maple, ‘this is not a lecture.’ He glanced at the body of the dead man and then averted his eyes. ‘Nor even a demonstration.’
    â€˜I know that,’ said the stout man indignantly. ‘Well, the whole business began, Inspector, at the beginning of the academic year when a University Senate Sub-Committee decided to institute a series of inter-disciplinary lectures and meetings.’
    â€˜Leading, it was hoped,’ augmented Arthur Maple, rolling his eyes heavenwards, ‘to some cross-faculty thinking.’
    Detective Constable Crosby, who had had to have cross-dressing explained to him very carefully indeed, looked totally bewildered.
    â€˜Not, though, surely,’ said Detective Inspector Sloan with some irritation, ‘Professor Linthwaite, leading to a dead man on your sofa.’
    â€˜Oh, yes it did,’ retorted Professor Linthwaite vigorously. ‘You see, these lectures were