“Oh, it’s quite silly, really.” Dr. Winslow made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “But university faculties are like any closed microcosm—the least little conflict or difference of opinion gets blown all out of proportion. Darcy didn’t approve of Vic writing a biography intended for popular consumption. He thought it didn’t reflect well on the department, which is more than a bit hypocritical of him, considering the success of his popular criticism.”
“That’s why his name sounded familiar,” said Kincaid. “I’d been trying to place it. My mother’s quite fond of his books, but I’ve never read one myself.”
“They’re very enjoyable—witty and well informed, if not always kind. And I personally have never been able to see why anything which encourages people to read, be it biography or criticism couched in terms a layman can understand, should be considered an embarrassment to the study of English literature.” For a moment, as Iris Winslow spoke, he had seen the truth of the resemblance between this large, plain woman and his former wife.
Then Dr. Winslow rubbed at her forehead with blunt fingers and added wearily, “But the battle against elitism is a losing proposition, and I’m hanging up my sword. I’m going to sit in my garden and learn to enjoy books again —that was, after all, what brought me here in the first place.”
“Are you feeling all right, Professor?” asked Kincaid, as she grimaced and continued to apply pressure to her forehead.
“It’s just this damnable headache.” She lowered her hand and gave him a strained smile. “Since Tuesday. Hasn’t let up.”
“You’ve been too kind to let me take so much of your time, especially when you weren’t well,” he said, preparing to rise. “But if you don’t mind, I have one more question.”
She gave a nod of permission and waited, watching him intently.
“Did you notice anything unusual about Vic on Tuesday?”
Her lips tightened in an expression of regret. “I only saw her in the morning, I’m afraid. We had a brief talk about some faculty business, then I had an appointment for lunch, and afterwards a meeting at Newnham. But she seemed perfectly all right then.” Moving restlessly, she clasped her hands together on her desktop. “Of course now I wish I’d come back here after lunch, as illogical as such a desire is. It wouldn’t have changed anything, and I’d not have had the foreknowledge to say good-bye.”
As Kincaid stood up, he looked round her office. Every available inch of wall space held bookshelves. The volumes overflowed onto desk and table, had even crept onto the extra chairs placed against the far wall, and the room had the faint musty smell of old paper and bindings. He waved a hand in a vague gesture towards the books. “If we humans were ever as logical as we’d like to believe, I doubt literature would have got very far, don’t you, Professor?”
What he didn’t say was that he was just as guilty of human frailty as she—he wished the same futile wish, that he’d seen Vic just once more.
* * *
Alone in the reception area, Kincaid realized he’d forgotten to ask which office belonged to Darcy Eliot. He checked the other ground-floor doors, looking for Eliot’s nameplate, then started up the stairs.
He found it on the second floor, across the corridor from Vic’s.
A knock on the door brought a grumbled, “You’re bloody early, Matthews.” Kincaid opened the door and looked round it. Darcy Eliot sat half turned away from the door, a sheaf of papers in his hand. Without looking up, he said, “Why do you suppose God invented the watch, Matthews? Do you suppose he meant that man should be punctual, which by definition means arriving at a designated place neither early nor late?”
“I’ll be sure to ask him next time we meet,” said Kincaid, amused.
Eliot swiveled round with a start and frowned at Kincaid. “You’re not Matthews. For which you should probably be grateful. He’s a pimply little brute, and not likely to impress the world with his intellectual prowess. But I’m sure I know you—” His face lit in recognition. “You’re Victoria McClellan’s former policeman. Or is it former husband, still a policeman?”
“The latter, I’m afraid.” Kincaid indicated a chair. “May I?”
“Please do,” said Eliot. “And forgive my flippancy. Old habits and all that, but it is rather inappropriate under the circumstances.”
“Dr. Winslow’s just been telling me that you had a habit of disagreeing with Vic,” Kincaid said, deciding on the direct approach.
Eliot laced his fingers over his canary yellow waistcoat and leaned back in his chair. “And took great pleasure in it. In fact, my days seem quite surprisingly empty without the anticipation of our little sparring matches.” He frowned, drawing together his heavy, springing brows. “That may seem odd to you, Mr.—”
“Kincaid.”
“—Mr. Kincaid, but I assure you it meant a great deal to me. Victoria and I were the lone occupants of the aerie, as we liked to call this floor. I could have moved into one of the larger, ground-floor offices years ago, by right of seniority, but I found I’d settled in here, and the very idea of a change became almost as daunting as moving house. But I am not solitary by nature, and the coming of fair Victoria did much to relieve my sense of being incarcerated in the proverbial ivory tower.”
Kincaid thought that if Iris Winslow remained set on retiring, Darcy Eliot might be contemplating a move after all, but he could see why he’d become attached to the space. It was a pleasant room, graced with a dormer window looking north, lined with glass-fronted bookcases, and above the shelves a series of framed satirical prints was arranged on the pale gold walls. A pipe rack filled with several expensive-looking pipes sat atop one of the cases, but Kincaid had noticed no odor of tobacco.
Following his glance, Eliot said, “Had to give it up a few years back—the first intimations of mortality—but I couldn’t quite bring myself to dispose of the pipes. They add quite the professorial touch, don’t you think?”
“Undoubtedly. And your students probably appreciate your
Eliot smiled. “As did Victoria. I still indulged when she first came, and we had no end of rows about it.”
