The Cambridge Theorem (9 page)

St. Margaret's porters' lodge felt like the waiting room of a Victorian railway station. The heat was oppressive, and there were expanses of polished wood and linoleum, and a long wooden bench against the wall where people sat with bags next to them. There was a smell of floor wax and shaving soap. Grave men in shirtsleeves and waistcoats stood behind an enormous oak counter that ran down the center of the room. From behind these men emerged Paul Beecroft, wearing his suit jacket, his face flushed and shining.

“Ah, officer, good afternoon,” he said, rounding the counter. “Let me introduce Mr. Giles Allerton and Miss Lauren Greenwald. They were with young Mr. Bowles last night in the college bar. I believe Dr. Hawken informed you.”

Beecroft indicated the bench behind Smailes. He turned to notice for the first time the two students who were waiting for him. He was struck immediately by how alike they looked, like twins. The man was twenty-one or two, slightly built with long dark hair. Allerton wore a black blazer with a faded school badge on the breast pocket and yellow piping around the lapels and collar. Inside an open-necked white shirt he wore a white silk scarf which heightened the pallor of his face and accentuated the heavy shadow across his upper lip and chin. He had a strong brow and nose, and looked handsome and vaguely famous. He was staring blankly ahead, and glanced mutely up at Smailes when the detective sergeant turned to face him.

The woman was a few years older. She was also dressed in black with a white, open-throated shirt, and her hair fell in untidy curls onto her forehead and the collar of a black jacket. She was of similar height and build to Allerton, but her complexion was darker and her features Jewish rather than aristocratic. She wore small, round glasses like the old National Health type, and was slumped almost diagonally across the wooden bench, her hands thrust into the pockets of her jacket, staring sullenly at her black leather boots. She did not look up.

The two of them looked numb with shock, and Smailes was reminded once again that a real person, with friends, lovers and family, was dead.

He considered interviewing them both at once, to save time, but decided to stick with strict procedures. Always interview witnesses separately, he reminded himself. It was important that the stories match independently, no matter what the situation. He turned to Beecroft and asked whether Poole's rooms were unlocked. Beecroft nodded and signalled with his eyes that he wanted a word with him privately. Smailes stepped towards him and Beecroft murmured discreetly, “Please go up and see Dr. Hawken when you have the opportunity, officer. I think he has heard from young Mr. Bowles' sister, and needs your advice.” Smailes acknowledged the request, and turned to follow Allerton who was already leaving the lodge.

By the time they were seated, Allerton had emerged from his daze, and needed no prompting.

“He didn't do it, Mr. Smailes. Simon. He didn't kill himself. He had no reason,” he began immediately.

“Why do you say that?” said Smailes evenly, reaching for his notebook.

“He was fine. He was okay last night. A bit quiet, that's all. Wouldn't he have told us if he was freaking out?” Smailes noticed the uncertainty in his voice, the contrast to the vehemence of his first statement.

“What happened, please? Last night?”

Allerton's story emerged in spurts, as the young man's mood modulated between indignation and disbelief. He would occasionally tug at his long hair and wind it round a forefinger. He avoided looking at Smailes, as if uncomfortable and embarrassed to be talking candidly to a policeman. It was an attitude Smailes had long gotten used to.

Allerton and Lauren Greenwald had met by chance at dinner at the college. He and Lauren were “friends,” he explained. They decided to go to an early movie, a Woody Allen film at the Arts. They had returned to the college around nine thirty, and had decided to look up Simon Bowles, a mutual friend, and get him to go for a drink. It had been Lauren's idea. She liked to tease Simon, draw him out of his shell.

“How long had you known Simon Bowles?” asked Smailes.

“Oh, years and years. You see, he was a contemporary of my elder brother Hugh at Oundel. They're both three years older than me. So when I came up to Cambridge, Simon was already here at Meg's. I've known him since I was eight years old.”

“How long have you been a student here?”

“I'm in my third year. Modern languages. German and Russian.”

“And Miss Greenwald. How long have you known her?”

“Lauren? Just this year. She came over from Columbia in September on a Fulbright. She's American, you know. From New York. That's where Columbia is. I met her in Simon's room actually.”

“What is the relationship between the three of you? You say you were friends.”

“That's right.”

“What was your sexual interrelationship?” He felt Allerton was being obtuse.

“Lauren and I are lovers, off and on. We were both just friends with Simon.” There was no edge in his voice.

“Please go on with your story.”

Giles Allerton seemed to remember the details of the previous night quite vividly. They had stopped in at Simon's room. He was working at his typewriter when they entered, and seemed annoyed at their intrusion. This was predictable. Simon always liked to pretend that he didn't like company. But both Allerton and Lauren knew that Simon liked the attention they gave him, the glimpses they brought him of a world outside his books and research.

“Was he an anti-social type? Few friends? How would you describe him?”

“No, no, Simon wasn't anti-social. He was just shy, and tended to live in his own world. He was really brilliant, you know. Everyone knew it, but he was never condescending or patronizing, and I'm sure he often held back from joining in discussions, you know, because he didn't want to utterly demolish people's arguments and make them feel stupid. He could do that quite easily though. I've seen it happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if he was in the bar, or there were people in his room, and some topic came up that he felt really strongly about, then he wouldn't hold back.

“He had this really pure, almost shocking intellect. He could take some murky issue and turn his high beam on it, and it would appear completely obvious. I remember him once turning on a guy who was spouting some theory of reincarnation and Simon just let him have it. Quite awesome. Something about the physical laws of continuity and discontinuity. But the interesting thing was, you could tell he really didn't like doing it. That's what made him so special. He was basically so modest and kind. He would always rather give you the benefit of the doubt than submit your ideas to his own flawless analysis. I think he valued logic above everything else. But he allowed others to be sloppy about it.”

Allerton returned to his description of the previous night. Bowles had put away the documents he had been working on into a manila folder, and then into his desk drawer. He remained seated at his desk, and Allerton and Lauren sat on the bed. Simon asked them to leave because he was working. He seemed quite serious about it. But Lauren had gotten him to laugh, and he eventually agreed to go for a drink with them.

“Did anything seem unusual about his behavior when you arrived in his room?”

“Not at all. Simon worked all the time. His only recreation was the occasional drink.”

“What about his annoyance when you showed up?”

“Oh, that was real enough. He got quite agitated at first. But then, we'd been through the same scene so many times, we didn't take him seriously. And then Lauren started him laughing. He really did have a good sense of humor. Then he couldn't put on the pious scholar act again, so he agreed to come out with us.”

“Did he lock anything—his desk, his files, his room—when you left?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“Go on. What happened in the bar?”

“Well, he did seem a bit quiet. I remember a couple of other people joined us and Simon seemed sort of left out of the conversation.”

“You mean he seemed depressed.”

“No, not depressed. Sort of preoccupied. I think he only had a half, maybe two, and then he said he had to go. He left before Lauren and me. Maybe a quarter past ten.”

“Did you think that was strange?”

“A bit. But then, I'm used to Simon. I remember Lauren and I sort of shrugged at each other. Didn't seem like a big deal.”

Allerton paused and looked blank for a moment, then rounded on the detective in an animated way.

“You see, officer, I know what Simon's like when he's depressed. I was here during that dreadful time two years ago, when he ended up in the hospital. His mood last night was nothing like that. Nothing like that.”

“No one said anything to him that might have upset him?”

“No, we were arguing about Woody Allen, mostly, I think. He just seemed disinterested.”

“The former suicide attempt. Did he talk to you about it at the time?”

“A bit, when he was better. I suppose it was his exams, mostly, and his father dying like that. But Simon always maintained that he wasn't really trying to kill himself. He had these hallucinations, you see, and they scared the hell out of him. He had to jump out of the window because he saw snakes coming in the door.”

“Really?” said Smailes.

Allerton thought for a moment. “Yes. You know, he said to me at the time, that if he really meant to kill himself, he wouldn't have made a mess of it. He told my brother later—he was closer friends with Hugh than he was with me—that he wouldn't be able to take it again. That if that kind of delusion ever recurred, he wouldn't be able to take it. I think to someone with such an impeccably logical mind as Simon, such irrationality was completely terrifying, and utterly shameful. At least, that's what Hugh told me.”

“Where is your brother now?”

“He's at Merton College, Oxford, studying divinity. We're not really very alike, Hugh and I. I called him this morning, when I found out about Simon. He's terribly upset. You see, Simon had just been over to see him, at the end of last week. Hugh was probably his best friend.”

“Did you know what frame of mind Simon Bowles was in during the period immediately before his death? Had you spent much time with him?”

“No. I hadn't seen him much, although I ran into him in hall on Saturday. He'd just got back from visiting Hugh. He seemed in good spirits, in fact. A bit mischievous. Simon could be like that. Said he had been sharpening his wits on the whetstone of my brother's faith. Something like that. See, Simon was a committed atheist, and my brother is quite high church. It's a wonder they stayed so friendly, because they would argue all the time.”

“How about the research he had been doing? Had he discussed that with you?”

“The latest stuff? No, he didn't talk to me much about that kind of thing. I don't think he saw me quite as an equal, which I'm not, really. I'm not much of an intellectual. Be lucky if I get a degree at all this year, unless I change my ways.” Allerton failed to suppress a smirk.

Smailes remembered the Bletchley note he had found in Bowles' wallet. “Do you know if Simon Bowles liked to gamble? Did he follow the horses, for instance?”

Allerton snorted. “Good Lord, no. That's something I would certainly have known about. I'm a bit of a fanatic myself. Like to go over to Newmarket whenever I get the chance. It's sort of a standing joke that I'm a better student of racing form than any modern language. It must be in my blood, I think. No, in fact, I tried to get Simon to go with me couple of times, but he only laughed. I don't think Simon would be seen dead at a race course.”

Allerton realized the unwitting poor taste of his remark, and fell silent. Smailes asked casually, “Ever been to Bletchley?”

“Yes, I've seen some races there, but not during term time. It's a bit of a slog over there, when Newmarket's so close.”

“Mr. Bowles left a typed note. Does that seem unusual to you?”

“A note? I hadn't thought of that. Does it say why he did it?”

Smailes looked at the young man, but did not respond. A note seemed the first, most obvious thing to expect.

“No, not at all. Simon had terrible, childish handwriting, and was very embarrassed by it. He used his typewriter for everything. That's exactly what he'd do. What did the note say, officer? Can't you tell me?”

“It said: ‘They came back. I couldn't take it. Simon.'”

Allerton looked stunned and passed a hand in front of his eyes. “My God. It must have happened. I can't believe it,” he whispered. He gave Smailes a look of mute anguish.

“Mr. Allerton, you began by saying that Simon Bowles did not kill himself. Why do you think that, and what do you think caused his death?”

“That must have been it. He must have got frightened by something that recalled that awful time. I suppose that's why he did it. He used a belt, didn't he? From a plant hook? God, and we had just been there an hour or two before. Maybe if we'd gone back, after the bar, Simon would still be…”

“How did you know he had hanged himself with a belt? There has been no official report released.”

“Oh, come on, officer. It's all around the college. The porters, the bedders, everyone's talking about it. You don't think… What are you trying to imply?”

“You have not answered my question. You began by saying Simon Bowles did not kill himself. Now you seem to believe he did.”

“Well, I didn't know about the note, and I thought that he didn't seem in that frame of mind, that extreme frame of mind. But something must have been going on with him that I didn't know about, obviously. But look, I'm serious. What do you mean by asking me how I know how he died? You don't mean…I mean…Jesus Christ…”

Allerton flushed a deep red and tears welled up in his eyes. He put his hand to the bridge of his nose and looked away. Smailes had to admit that if he was dissimulating, he was doing a bloody good job. But he did not counter Allerton's protestations.