Lyall?”
Forrester stared at him, relief welling up in him. Academic jealousy! The man had been talking about academic jealousy. Which meant he, Forrester, was back on firm ground.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. I had no idea about who was going to get the Rotherfield. I did know both men were in the running, but I didn’t know Lyall had been awarded it. I’m pretty sure Gordon Clark didn’t either, because he didn’t mention it to me. Who told you about this?”
“That’s really none of your business, sir,” said Barber. But Forrester knew he had the upper hand again, because Barber had expected him to know.
Why had he expected him to know? For the moment it didn’t matter: Barber’s blunder allowed Forrester to be honest and co-operative and to move away from any discussion of Margaret Clark’s love life.
“Listen, Inspector. I think someone has misled you. It may well be that Lyall was going to be awarded the Rotherfield rather than Gordon Clark, but it was not public knowledge and I’m as certain as I can be that Gordon hadn’t heard because, as you imply, he would almost certainly have confided in me. It may seem to be a motive to you, but I think you’re probably quite mistaken.”
“So what
was
the motive, then?” said Barber, as though completely at sea, and Forrester was almost tempted to supply one until he caught himself in time. “There wasn’t one!” he said. “Gordon didn’t do it.”
“So who did?” asked Barber.
“I have no idea,” said Forrester.
“Come, come,” said Barber. “You’re a Fellow of this college; you’ve been associated with it since 1936, you were present at High Table when the altercation broke out between Clark and the victim, you were one of those who found the body. And you’re trying to tell me you have no idea what was going on?”
“The date 1936 is correct,” said Forrester. “But I joined up in 1940 and only came back to Oxford this year. There’s plenty about what goes on in this college I simply don’t know.” He stood up. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I have a tutorial to give. If you need to continue this, can we do it at another time?”
There was a beat, and Barber apparently came to a decision and stood up too. “I look forward to doing just that,” he said, picked up his hat, and left the room.
Forrester heaved a long, silent sigh of relief and went back to the window to watch the detective disappear across the quad, leaving a trail of footprints in the snow.
6
DISCUSSION BY AN UNLIT FIRE
Forrester conducted his tutorial and several more afterwards with half his mind on ancient history and the other half on Gordon Clark. Part of him hated suppressing evidence which pointed to his friend’s guilt; part of him hated the fact that he had jumped to the conclusion that his friend was guilty.
And yet what other explanation was there? Clark had hated Lyall, with good reason; their antagonism had reached boiling point at High Table, and Lyall had been killed in Clark’s rooms. If he were in Barber’s shoes, Forrester had to admit, he too would have reached the same conclusion. By mid-afternoon Forrester’s unease had reached a point where he knew he had to speak to his friend direct. The police had released him after questioning and no arrest warrant had yet been issued. Minutes later Forrester was bicycling through Oxford to Clark’s house.
It was late afternoon and the winter darkness had already arrived, but none of the lights were on. Margaret was at her job at the Bodleian Library, and when Forrester entered he found Gordon sitting in an armchair in the front room staring into an empty grate. His only acknowledgement as Forrester came in was a slight tilt of the head.
“This is a bit of a nuisance, isn’t it?” said Forrester, as lightly as he could.
“A bloody nuisance,” said Clark listlessly.
And then they sat in silence for a while.
“The police interviewed me this morning,” said
Forrester stared at him, relief welling up in him. Academic jealousy! The man had been talking about academic jealousy. Which meant he, Forrester, was back on firm ground.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. I had no idea about who was going to get the Rotherfield. I did know both men were in the running, but I didn’t know Lyall had been awarded it. I’m pretty sure Gordon Clark didn’t either, because he didn’t mention it to me. Who told you about this?”
“That’s really none of your business, sir,” said Barber. But Forrester knew he had the upper hand again, because Barber had expected him to know.
Why had he expected him to know? For the moment it didn’t matter: Barber’s blunder allowed Forrester to be honest and co-operative and to move away from any discussion of Margaret Clark’s love life.
“Listen, Inspector. I think someone has misled you. It may well be that Lyall was going to be awarded the Rotherfield rather than Gordon Clark, but it was not public knowledge and I’m as certain as I can be that Gordon hadn’t heard because, as you imply, he would almost certainly have confided in me. It may seem to be a motive to you, but I think you’re probably quite mistaken.”
“So what
was
the motive, then?” said Barber, as though completely at sea, and Forrester was almost tempted to supply one until he caught himself in time. “There wasn’t one!” he said. “Gordon didn’t do it.”
“So who did?” asked Barber.
“I have no idea,” said Forrester.
“Come, come,” said Barber. “You’re a Fellow of this college; you’ve been associated with it since 1936, you were present at High Table when the altercation broke out between Clark and the victim, you were one of those who found the body. And you’re trying to tell me you have no idea what was going on?”
“The date 1936 is correct,” said Forrester. “But I joined up in 1940 and only came back to Oxford this year. There’s plenty about what goes on in this college I simply don’t know.” He stood up. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I have a tutorial to give. If you need to continue this, can we do it at another time?”
There was a beat, and Barber apparently came to a decision and stood up too. “I look forward to doing just that,” he said, picked up his hat, and left the room.
Forrester heaved a long, silent sigh of relief and went back to the window to watch the detective disappear across the quad, leaving a trail of footprints in the snow.
6
DISCUSSION BY AN UNLIT FIRE
Forrester conducted his tutorial and several more afterwards with half his mind on ancient history and the other half on Gordon Clark. Part of him hated suppressing evidence which pointed to his friend’s guilt; part of him hated the fact that he had jumped to the conclusion that his friend was guilty.
And yet what other explanation was there? Clark had hated Lyall, with good reason; their antagonism had reached boiling point at High Table, and Lyall had been killed in Clark’s rooms. If he were in Barber’s shoes, Forrester had to admit, he too would have reached the same conclusion. By mid-afternoon Forrester’s unease had reached a point where he knew he had to speak to his friend direct. The police had released him after questioning and no arrest warrant had yet been issued. Minutes later Forrester was bicycling through Oxford to Clark’s house.
It was late afternoon and the winter darkness had already arrived, but none of the lights were on. Margaret was at her job at the Bodleian Library, and when Forrester entered he found Gordon sitting in an armchair in the front room staring into an empty grate. His only acknowledgement as Forrester came in was a slight tilt of the head.
“This is a bit of a nuisance, isn’t it?” said Forrester, as lightly as he could.
“A bloody nuisance,” said Clark listlessly.
And then they sat in silence for a while.
“The police interviewed me this morning,” said
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