A steaming mug of cocoa was waiting on the table when Gold arrived, an indication if he had known it that he was to get a different style of interview from his fellows.
“Unlock the handcuffs, Constable,” ordered Cribb. “I don’t expect any unpleasantness. My word, sir, you
The right-hand lens of Gold’s spectacles had shattered. The fragments of glass were held in the frame, quite uselessly, for the spaces between the cracks were frosted over. There was also an ugly bruise above his right eyebrow. “No complaints, Officer,” he quickly said. “My own fault entirely. Should never have panicked on the houseboat. Got too close to Humberstone, you know, and found his elbow in my eye.”
“Try the cocoa, sir. If you’d like cold milk to take the heat off, say the word. I wouldn’t like to burn your tongue as well. I thought you might have got cold, sitting in the cells in a bathrobe. I’m Sergeant Cribb from Scotland Yard, making inquiries into the death of a man at Hurley last Tuesday night. I met you briefly at the Barley Mow the other evening.”
“So you did!” said Gold. “I say, I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you at once, Sergeant. I thought I knew the voice, but I can’t see too famously like this. I blame nobody, mind. The death of a man, you say. That tramp, I take it. Somebody mentioned him at Clifton Hampden.”
“That’s right, sir. And since we spoke, there’s been another death. A don from Merton College was picked out of the water here in Oxford this morning.”
“You don’t say!”
“They were both murdered, sir.”
“By Jove!”
“You and your friends have been arrested on suspicion of murdering them both.”
“I say, that’s a bit thick. I’ve never heard of either of them.”
“I didn’t mention their names,” said Cribb.
“So you didn’t.” Mr. Gold put the mug of cocoa to his lips and said, “Lord! I’ve done it! Burnt my tongue.”
“Vicious stuff, hot cocoa, if you ain’t used to it,” said Cribb, pouring milk into the mug. “You don’t mind personal questions, do you, sir? What’s your name in full?”
Gold dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief and said, “Samuel Isaac Gold.”
“And your father’s name?”
“Leonard Gold. What’s my father got to do with it?”
“Nothing, I hope. Born in England, was he?”
Gold frowned. “You want to know if I’m Jewish, is that it?”
“I’m asking where your father came from, Mr. Gold.”
Gold spread out his hands. “So he came from Russia. Does that make me a murderer?”
“Russia. What was his name in Russia?”
“What’s this about? I told you my father’s name. Gold is my name. If you want to call me Jewish, I won’t stop you, but leave my father out of it. It’s the same all over the world. If there’s trouble, blame the Jews. Jack the Ripper is a Jew, did you know? That’s what they say in Whitechapel. Who am I to argue, with a name like Sammy Gold?”
“Your father didn’t change his name when he came to England?”
“What is it to you if he did?” Gold bitterly replied. “He was a good man and he died ten years ago. The name on his stone is Leonard Gold.”
“As you say, sir.” Cribb steered the conversation into calmer waters. “I was speaking to Mr. Humberstone not long ago. He paid you a compliment, sir. Said you were a great authority on matters of detail, or something of the sort. We were talking about last Tuesday, the night you stayed in Marlow. The Crown, wasn’t it?”
“The Crown,” Gold repeated flatly.
“You don’t sound quite so positive as you were in the Barley Mow, sir. It
“As you say. Chapter Twelve. The way Jerome puts it, you’d think it was beside the bridge.” Gold took off his spectacles and started polishing the good lens with his handkerchief. “I have a confession, Sergeant. A Jew with a confession-what do you say to that? We didn’t stay at the Crown.”
“What made you say that you did?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Conceit. We
Cribb indicated with a nod that the explanation was plausible. “What prevented you from staying there?”
“The truth of it is that we found a cozy little inn beside the river and by the end of the evening we were in no condition to walk up the hill to the Crown.”
“Where did you put up?”
“Under canvas on our boat.”
“That’s odd,” said Cribb. “Mr. Lucifer told me that you stayed at a private lodging house. He didn’t mention an inn.” “Lucifer wouldn’t,” Gold said with a grin. “He likes to think of himself as a teetotaller, but he lapses, you see, he lapses. I don’t suppose he remembers anything about Tuesday night, the state he was in. Yet to hear him talk, you’d think a drop never passed his lips. Did you question him about this evening? I’d like to have heard his account of that.”
“Never mind this evening,” said Cribb. “Tell me about this morning. You were on the river very early, weren’t you?”
“All night, to be accurate. We slept in the boat, in the backwater above Culham Lock. We were under way before seven this morning. Had breakfast in Oxford. Fried kidneys. Delicious.”
“What time was this?”
“Between half-past eight and nine. We heard Great Tom striking as we finished off the toast. What time was your murder?”
“The doctor who examined the body estimated that death took place shortly after half-past nine. Which hotel served you with breakfast?”
Mr. Gold opened his palms again. “Pity about that. We almost had an alibi, didn’t we? It was the Hotel Humberstone, Sergeant. We cooked the kidneys over an open fire on the edge of Christ Church Meadow.”
CHAPTER 26
As the oldest of Oxford’s colleges, Merton had suffered from the improving zeal of twenty generations of architects. The buildings surrounding its four quadrangles presented an agglomeration of styles that had managed to conserve a sense of dignity until an early Victorian named Blore rede-signed the main gate and the street front, and the notorious Butterfield eclipsed that with his grotesque block at the corner of Merton Grove. Happily, the chapel, conceived on the scale of a cathedral, dominated everything. The choir, dating from the thirteenth century, was in the Decorated style; the tower was Perpendicular. The rough stone on the west wall showed the intended outline of the nave, which had never been built.
So it was in the choir that Harriet sat with Melanie Bonner-Hill for Morning Service. The term not having started, the congregation was sparse. Across the aisle in the front pew was a white-haired, bearded man Mrs. Bonner-Hill pointed out as the Warden. Behind him, at a higher level, were three others-“The Fellows,” she explained in a whisper. “Hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil.”
“Which one is Mr. Fernandez?” Harriet inquired.
“The third one in, with the glossy hair and moustache.”
