Pantheon

Chapter Thirty-two

He looked down at his feet to see that they were in the firm grip of Detective Riley of the Yale Police Department. From above he could see the same white, fleshy features, slightly flushed this time, probably on account of the slight incline of the front lawn the police officer had just climbed to reach him.

‘I’m going to need you to come down, sir.’

‘Oh for God’s sake! Please, this is not what you think-’

‘Just come down, sir.’

James gestured towards his feet, indicating that he couldn’t jump until Riley let go.

Once down, he started again. ‘Detective Riley, please. I was not burgling this house. I came here to speak to the Dean. I need to speak to him urgently, I’ve-’

‘Wrists.’

In the moment James hesitated, Riley produced a pair of handcuffs. Now James understood. He felt a surge of fury and then, like a wave that breaks only to trickle back into the sea, he felt it recede. He was too exhausted for rage. Curiously, too, he felt no anger towards Riley. Instead he blamed himself and his own stupidity.

He had not been seen, he was sure of that. The side path of McAndrew’s house was not overlooked by any neighbours; he had checked left and right, up and down, before he had ventured down here. Yes, he might have been spotted by a vigilant neighbour across the street. They might have suspected a break-in. But he didn’t care how technologically advanced these Americans were, there was no way they could have telephoned the police and brought a police car here that quickly. He had arrived at the house no more than two or three minutes ago and would have struck even the most nervous neighbour as acting suspiciously only in the last minute. Until then, he was just a man ringing on a doorbell.

‘Detective Riley, can I ask a question?’ James said, as Riley and his partner frogmarched him down past the sloping lawn towards their vehicle.

‘You can ask what you like. Don’t mean I’m gonna answer.’

‘Are we still technically under the jurisdiction of the Yale Police Department?’

‘On this property, we sure are. This is the Dean’s residence, part of Yale University territory.’

‘Of course. But this area. This would fall under the New Haven Police Department, surely?’

‘Yeah, but you ain’t in this area. You’re on this property. And you’re trespassing too.’

‘I understand. But if someone was to call the police for help, someone who lived in this street, they wouldn’t get you, would they? Their call would be answered by the New Haven police force, am I right?’

Riley fell silent, pushing James’s head down as he folded him into the backseat of the car. That settled it. He had not been spotted by a neighbour or passer-by out walking their dog. He had been betrayed. Only one person knew he was coming here — and she had betrayed him.

The journey into town was brief; only minutes later they were back in the police station where his day had started yesterday morning, though it felt like weeks ago. He didn’t say anything in the car, just stared out of the window wrestling with a question that spun around him like a whirlpool, trapping him ever deeper and lower: why?

All he wanted was to regain his family. That was all. He did not want to know the truth of the death of George Lund. He did not want to know how Preston McAndrew was caught up in this, nor even why Dorothy Lake had kissed him last night and betrayed him today (though he did wonder, fleetingly, if the two events were connected, whether she had tipped off the police in revenge for his rejection of her). He did not even particularly care why he had been followed earlier. He did not want to know any of that. All he wanted to know was where he could find Florence and Harry. He wanted to find them and hold them, to stroke their hair and smell their skin. That was all he wanted.

Soon they were back, he and Riley, across that blank table in that blank interview room. Wearily, James asked, ‘Do you do everything for your police force, Detective?’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘Well, one minute you’re investigating a murder, the next you just happen to be on call for what must have looked like, at worst, a minor break-in.’

‘Let’s say I like coming out on special occasions.’

‘And why exactly was this a special occasion?’

‘You’re an important man, Dr Zennor.’

‘Ah, so you knew I was involved, did you?’

‘I know now.’

‘I see. So when Dorothy Lake told you to dash over to the Dean’s house on St Ronan Street, you dropped everything and ran.’

Riley’s failure to react, his lack of surprise or puzzlement at the mention of Miss Lake confirmed it: she had made the call. ‘I see you’re not denying it.’

‘It’s not me who’s under arrest for criminal trespass, Dr Zennor. So why don’t we say that I ask the questions and you answer them, OK?’

‘Fine with me, Detective.’

Riley plodded his way through the interrogation, James responding with a simple, straight, if not complete, account of the truth. He had discovered that his post — sorry, his mail — had been intercepted and wanted to take this matter up urgently with the Dean. That was it.

‘Talk to him, eh? Do you break into the houses of all the people you wanna talk to?’

‘I wasn’t breaking in! I was looking into his garden. Just in case he was there.’

They went round and round, Riley trying to make two and two equal five, trying to get James to stumble on an inconsistency, James stubbornly offering a straight bat. Finally the detective, who seemed as weary as James, sighed heavily and said. ‘I’m going to arrest you, which means you have the right to make a telephone call. Most people call their lawyer.’

He led James out of the interview room and into a tiny cubicle which contained nothing but a plain chair and a telephone on a small shelf. ‘I’ll be right here.’

James picked up the receiver and heard his own breath. After no more than a second’s thought, he responded to the operator’s enquiry by asking to be put through to the office of the Yale Daily News. James checked his watch. It was mid-afternoon, it was summer. There was every chance there would be no one there. But the call was answered.

‘The editor, please.’

Another delay, then a second voice. ‘Can I help?’

‘Yes, I hope you can. My name is Dr James Zennor and I’ve been dealing with one of your reporters, a Miss Dorothy Lake.’

‘Yes, I know. Is there a problem?’

‘No problem at all. She’s been extremely diligent. She is keen to have my co-operation on the story she’s working on and I just wanted to check her bona fides, if you will. Do you mind if I ask how she came to you?’

‘She was an undergraduate at Vassar and on the paper there, I think. She comes very highly recommended.’

‘I’m glad to hear that. By whom?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You said she comes very highly recommended. Recommended by whom?’

‘Well, I’m not sure I should say. I don’t want people to think nepotism plays a part in these decisions.’

‘No, no, of course not. This is strictly for my own reassurance. It will stay between us.’ James looked over his shoulder to see Riley pointing at his wristwatch. He could cut off this call at any moment.

‘In that case, I’m glad to reassure you that Miss Lake came with the highest possible recommendation.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes. She was recommended by the Dean, Dr Preston McAndrew. And here I would appreciate your discretion, Dr Zennor. But Dr McAndrew is Miss Lake’s uncle.’

He lay on the hard, narrow bed in the cell. Part of him welcomed the chance to lie down and rest. He was exhausted and needed to think. But the other part was desperate to act, to get back out into the daylight and onto the streets, to see if this new knowledge might somehow lead him to Florence. First, though, he had to think.

He went over and over again the events of the last twenty-four hours, since Dorothy Lake had found him outside the Wolf’s Head tomb, reviewing them in light of the discovery of her family connection to the Dean. Theoretically, it might make no difference: yes, she had got her start with the Yale Daily News through him, but now she was an ambitious young journalist whose sole desire was to get a good story.

But the other possibility was just as likely, that she was, in fact, working for her uncle — doing what he had asked her to do. Perhaps that amounted to no more than a request that she keep an eye on James, letting the Dean know what he was up to. But he had to consider that her duties went far beyond just that.

He thought of the list of names of Wolf’s Head alumni in Miss Lake’s notebook, how it had included everyone except one of the society’s most eminent past members: the current Dean of Yale University himself. He should have become suspicious of her the moment McAndrew had revealed his connection to the Wolf’s Head. But he had not even thought of it.

In the same way, James had accepted that it was just rotten luck that he had been interrupted by the Dean himself as he went through the files in the outer office. But what if Dorothy had tipped her uncle off? She might have recovered from her fall earlier than agreed, then gone to find McAndrew or sent the secretary to get him. It would mean that her telephone call to Riley and the Yale Police Department just now would have been her second betrayal of James in as many days.

So for all his courtesy and promises to help, the Dean had been suspicious of James and had despatched someone, his own niece, to watch him, so that she could sound the alarm if he ever got too close for comfort. But too close to what? What exactly was the Dean hiding? Whatever secret it was, he clearly believed James was getting dangerously close. But why would he believe that? Because James had been in contact with Lund? Or simply because he had been making enquiries about the Oxford children?

James’s head hurt. His shoulder was throbbing, as it always did after strenuous exercise. It would be so easy to fall asleep, to slip into a stolen hour of rest and dreams, where Florence and Harry might visit him. His eyelids were growing heavier. But then he heard the sound of metal scraping against metal. His jailers were unlocking the door.

Without speaking, a junior officer ushered him into the hallway. Preparing himself for release — to sign a form, have his belongings returned to him and be sent on his way — he was instead greeted by Riley, mug of coffee in hand, a curl of steam rising from it. The detective nodded towards the interview room. ‘Shall we?’

James followed him inside, tasting the sourness of his own mouth. The sweat from his earlier run had congealed on his skin, leaving a clammy film on his back; he hadn’t eaten for hours. He wanted to be almost anywhere but this room. Surely the Yale Police Department had better things to do than prosecute an English academic for climbing a garden gate?

‘Detective Riley-’

‘Hold on, Dr Zennor. I need to check something with you.’

‘All right,’ he said, shaking his head at the exasperating endlessness of it all. ‘Fire away.’

‘It’s not a question exactly. I need to look at you. Can you stand up a second?’

‘Look at me? What the devil is this about?’

‘It will only take a moment.’ The detective moved closer, so that he was just a few inches from James, then raised himself on tiptoes — and began looking at James’s hair.

‘What the hell is this?’

‘I’m nearly done.’ Riley began touching James’s hair, probing into the scalp. Instinctively James reached up to push the man off and away, but the detective was strong, grabbing James’s right arm with one hand, using the other to touch James’s hair, repeatedly rubbing a lock of it between finger and thumb.

‘Get off me!’

‘There we are, all done,’ the policeman said, stepping back and wiping his hands on his handkerchief. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘You better have a bloody good explanation, Riley, or I shall be lodging a complaint. I’ve never-’

‘Calm down, Zennor. I’ll decide who’s in trouble here. I caught you engaged in an act of criminal trespass, remember? Take a seat.’ James remained standing, his eyes burning. ‘Now.’

Slowly, James sat down, reining in his temper, bringing the dog to heel.

‘Good. Forgive my little impromptu exam, but this job ain’t always pleasant. Now, I just had a very interesting visitor here.’

James, still struggling to keep the lid on his anger, said nothing.

‘The lady who lives next door to the Lund residence, as a matter of fact. Says she heard some noise late Monday night. Went to her window to check and — guess what — she saw a man leaving the house.’

‘We’ve been through this. You know I was fast asleep at the Elizabethan-’

‘Will you shut the hell up and listen for a moment? Turns out there’s a street lamp right by the Lund house. Lady says the man was tall, roundabout your height. She didn’t see his face, but the lamp did pick out his hair. Very distinct, she said it was. What they call salt-and-pepper. Little bit black, little bit silver.’

There was a pause as James said nothing and sought to ensure his face did the same.

Riley went on. ‘Hence my little poke around up top just now. Wanted to see if you’d dyed your hair, you know, to cover it up.’

‘But I haven’t,’ said James, quietly.

‘No, you haven’t.’

‘Which means someone else killed George Lund.’

Riley leaned back in his chair. ‘I think you’re jumping to conclusions again, Dr Zennor. This could still be what it looked like. Suicide.’

‘Except you said his wife said he was planning for his future. A baby upstairs.’

‘I know what I said.’

‘And how many suicides die with a metal badge in their mouths? Tell me, Detective, there was no sign of a break-in at the house, was there?’

‘No. And that usually means no one else was involved.’

‘Either that,’ said James, ‘or someone who Lund knew well enough to let into his home late at night.’

‘Don’t try to do my job, Dr Zennor.’

‘OK, I won’t.’ James could feel the blood pumping around his brain; he pictured it, different zones lighting up like the pinball machine he had seen at the drugstore on College Street. ‘But could I ask you a favour?’

‘Depends what it is now, doesn’t it?’

‘I’m presuming you’re going to release me. When you do, it would be a great help if you told no one that you have — especially not the editor of the Yale Daily News.’

‘You’re making a lot of presumptions there, Mister. I mean-’

‘Not even your superiors here, if you can help it. I can’t explain why, but if you trust that I’m an honest man — and I suspect you do — then I’d like you to believe me when I say it may help. Not just me, but you too.’

‘Maybe it’s normal to talk to police officers this way in England, but I got to tell you, this is not-’

‘Now, where do I sign?’ James asked with a smile. ‘I have somewhere I need to get to as quickly as possible.’