Futures - Peter Crowther (ed.) v1.0 Read online

  I didn’t have a long wait in the lobby before Francis’s big black car rolled up outside, crunching the slushy remnants of last week’s snowfall. The old man waited patiently while I buckled the safety restraint straps around my chest and shoulders before switching on the batteries and engaging the gearing toggle. We slipped quietly out onto the cobbled street, powerful yellow headlamps casting a wide fan of illumination.

  The apartment which Myriam and I rent is in the city’s Botley district, a pleasant area of residential blocks and well-tended parks, where small businesses and shops occupy the ground floors of most buildings. The younger, professional members of the better families had taken to the district, their nannies filling the daytime streets with prams and clusters of small excitable children. At night it seemed bleaker somehow, lacking vitality.

  Francis twisted the motor potentiometer, propelling the car up to a full twenty-five miles an hour. “You know, it’s at times like this I wish the Roman Congress hadn’t banned combustion engines last year,” he grumbled. “We could be there in half a minute.”

  “Batteries will improve,” I told him patiently. “And petroleum was dangerous stuff. It could explode if there were an accident.”

  “I know, I know. Lusting after speed is a Shorts way of thinking. But I sometimes wonder if we’re not being too timid these days. The average citizen is a responsible fellow. It’s not as if he’ll take a car out looking to do damage with it. Nobody ever complains about horseriding.”

  “There’s the pollution factor as well. And we can’t afford to squander our resources. There’s only a finite amount of crude oil on the planet, and you know the population projections. We must safeguard the future, we’re going to spend the rest of our lives there.”

  Francis sighed theatrically. “Well recited. So full of earnest promise, you youngsters.”

  “I’m thirty-eight,” I reminded him. “I have three accredited children already.” One of which I had to fight to gain family registration for. The outcome of a youthful indiscretion with a girl at college. We all have them.

  “A child,” Francis said dismissively. “You know, when I was young, in my teens in fact, I met an old man who claimed he could remember the last of the Roman Legionaries withdrawing from Britain when he was a boy.”

  I performed the math quickly in my head. It could be possible, given how old Francis was. “That’s interesting.”

  “Don’t patronize, my boy. The point is, progress brings its own problems. The world that old man lived in changed very little in his lifetime—it was almost the same as the Second Imperial Era. While today, our whole mindset, the way we look at our existence, is transformed every time a new scientific discovery drops into our lap. He had stability. We don’t. We have to work harder because of that, be on our guard more. It’s painful for someone of my age.”

  “Are you saying today’s world makes murder more likely?”

  “No. Not yet. But the possibility is there. Change is always a domino effect. And the likes of you and I must be conscious of that, above all else. We are the appointed guardians, after all.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “And you’ll need to keep remembering it as well, not just for now, but for centuries.”

  I managed to prevent my head from shaking in amusement. The old man was always going on about the uncertainties and dangers of the future. Given the degree of social and technological evolution he’d witnessed in the last four hundred years, it’s a quirk which I readily excuse. When he was my age the world had yet to see electricity and water mains; medicine then consisted of herbs boiled up by old women in accordance with lore already ancient in the First Imperial Era. “So what do we know about this possible murder?”

  “Very little. The police phoned the local family office, who got straight on to me. The gentleman we’re talking about is Justin Ascham Raleigh; he’s from the Nottingham Raleighs. Apparently, his neighbor heard sounds coming from his room, and thought there was some kind of fight or struggle going on. He alerted the lodgekeepers. They opened the room up and found him, or at least a body.”

  “Suspicious circumstances?”

  “Very definitely yes.”

  We drove into the center of Oxford. Half past midnight was hardly late by the city’s standards. There were students thronging the tree-lined streets, just starting to leave the cafes and taverns. Boisterous, yes; I could remember my own time here as a student, first studying science, then later law. They shouted as they made their way back to their residences and colleges; quoting obscure verse, drinking from the neck of bottles, throwing books and bags about…one group was even having a scrum down, slithering about on the icy pavement. Police and lodgekeepers looked on benignly at such activity, for it never gets any worse than this.

  Francis slowed the car to a mere crawl as a bunch of revelers ran across the road ahead. One young man mooned us before rushing off to merge with his laughing friends. Many of them were girls, about half of whom were visibly pregnant.

  “Thinks we’re the civic authorities, no doubt,” Francis muttered around a small smile. “I could show him a thing or two about misbehaving.”

  We drew up outside the main entrance to Dunbar College. I hadn’t been inside for well over a decade, and had few memories of the place. It was a six-story building of pale yellow stone, with great mullioned windows overlooking the broad boulevard. Snow had been cleared from the road and piled up in big mounds on either side of the archway which led into the quad. A police constable and a junior lodgekeeper were waiting for us in the lodgekeeper’s office just inside the entranceway, keeping warm by the iron barrel stove. They greeted us briskly, and led us inside.

  Students were milling uneasily in the long corridors, dressed in pajamas, or wrapped in blankets to protect themselves from the cool air. They knew something was wrong, but not what. Lodgekeepers dressed in black suits patrolled the passages and cloisters, urging patience and restraint. Everyone fell silent as we strode past.

  We went up two flights of spiraling stone stairs, and along another corridor. The chief lodgekeeper was standing outside a sturdy wooden door, no different to the twenty other lodgings on that floor. His ancient creased face registered the most profound sadness. He nodded as the constable announced who we were, and ushered us inside.

  Justin Ascham Raleigh’s accommodation was typical of a final year student—three private rooms: bedroom, parlor and study. They had high ceilings, wood paneled walls dark with age, long once-grand curtains hanging across the windows. All the interconnecting doors had been opened, allowing us to see the comer of a bed at the far end of the little suite. A fire had been lit in the small iron grate of the study, its embers still glowing, holding off the night’s chill air.

  Quite a little group of people were waiting for us. I glanced at them quickly: three student-types, two young men and a girl, obviously very distressed; and an older man in a jade-green police uniform, with the five gold stars of a senior detective. He introduced himself as Gareth Alan Pitchford, his tone somber and quiet. “And I’ve heard of you, sir. Your reputation is well established in this city.”

  “Why thank you,” Francis said graciously. “This is my deputy, Edward Bucahanan Raleigh.”

  Gareth Alan Pitchford bestowed a polite smile, as courteous as the situation required, but not really interested. I bore it stoically.

  “So what have we got here?” Francis asked.

  Detective Pitchford led us into the study. Shelving filled with a mixture of academic reference books and classic fiction covered two walls. I was drawn to the wonderfully detailed star charts which hung upon the other walls, alternating with large photographs of extravagant astronomical objects. A bulky electrically powered typewriter took pride of place on a broad oak desk, surrounded by a litter of paper and open scientific journals. An ordinary metal and leather office chair with castors stood behind the desk, a gray sports jacket hanging on its back.

  The body was crumpled in a comer, covere
d with a navy-blue nylon sheet. A considerable quantity of blood had soaked into the threadbare Turkish carpet. It started with a big splash in the middle of the room, laying a trail of splotches to the stain around the corpse.

  “This isn’t pretty,” the detective warned as he turned down the sheet.

  I freely admit no exercise in self control could prevent me from wincing at what I saw that moment. Revulsion gripped me, making my head turn away. A knife was sticking out of Justin Ascham Raleigh’s right eye; it was buried almost up to the hilt.

  The detective continued to pull the sheet away. I forced myself to resume my examination. There was a deep cut across Justin Ascham Raleigh’s abdomen, and his ripped shirt was stained scarlet. “You can see that the attacker went for the belly first,” the detective said. “That was a disabling blow, which must have taken place about here.” He pointed to the glistening splash of blood in the middle of the study. “I’m assuming Mr. Raleigh would have staggered back into this comer and fallen.”

  “At which point he was finished off,” Francis said matter-of-factly. “I would have thought he was dying anyway from the amount of blood lost from the first wound, but his assailant was obviously very determined he should die.”

  “That’s my belief,” the detective said.

  Francis gave me an inquiring look.

  “I agree,” I stuttered.

  Francis gestured weakly, his face flush with distaste. The sheet was pulled back up. Without any spoken agreement, the three of us moved away from the corpse to cluster in the doorway leading to the parlor.

  “Can we have the full sequence of events, please?” Francis asked.

  “We don’t have much yet,” the detective said. “Mr. Raleigh and five of his friends had supper together at the Orange Grove restaurant earlier this evening. It lasted from half past seven to about ten o’clock, at which point they left and separated. Mr. Raleigh came back here to Dunbar by himself around twenty past ten—the lodgekeepers confirm that Then at approximately half past eleven, his neighbor heard an altercation, then a scream. He telephoned down to the lodgekeeper’s office.”

  I looked from the body to the door which led back out into the corridor. “Was no one seen or heard to leave?”

  “Apparently not, sir,” the detective said. “The neighbor came straight out into the corridor and waited for the lodge-keepers. He didn’t come in here himself, but he swears no one came out while he was watching.”

  “There would be a short interval,” I said. “After the scream he’d spend some time calling the lodgekeepers—a minute or so.”

  “People must have been using the corridor at that time,” the detective said. “And our murderer would have some blood on their clothes. He’d be running too.”

  “And looking panicked, I’ll warrant,” Francis said. “Someone would have seen them and remembered.”

  “Unless it was the neighbor himself who is the killer,” I observed.

  “Hey!” one of the students barked. “Don’t talk about me as if I’m a piece of furniture. I called the lodgekeepers as soon as I heard the scream. I didn’t bloody well kill Justin. I liked him. He was a top chap.”

  “Peter Samuel Griffith,” the detective said. “Mr. Raleigh’s neighbor.”

  “I do apologize,” Francis said smoothly. “My colleague and I were simply eliminating possibilities. This has left all of us rather flustered, I’m afraid.”

  Peter Samuel Griffith grunted in acknowledgment.

  I looked straight at the detective. “So if the murderer didn’t leave by the front door…”

  Francis and I pulled the curtains back. Justin Ascham Raleigh’s rooms looked inward over the quad. They were in a comer, where little light ventured from the illuminated pathway crossing the snow-cloaked lawn. Mindful of possible evidence, I opened my case and took out a pair of tight-fitting rubber gloves. The latch on the window was open. When I gave the iron frame a tentative push it swung out easily. We poked our heads out like a pair of curious children at a fairground attraction. The wall directly outside was covered with wisteria creeper, its ancient gnarled branches twisted together underneath a thick layer of white ice crystals; it extended upwards for at least another two floors.

  “As good as any ladder,” Francis said quietly. “And I’ll warrant there’s at least a dozen routes in and out of Dunbar that avoid the lodgekeepers.”

  The detective took a look at the ancient creeper encircling the window. “I’ve heard that the gentlemen of Dunbar College do have several methods of allowing their lady friends to visit their rooms after the gates are locked.”

  “And as the gates weren’t locked at the time of the murder, no one would have been using those alternative routes. The murderer would have got out cleanly,” Francis said.

  “If we’re right, then this was a well planned crime,” I said. If anything, that made it worse.

  Francis locked his fingers together, as if wringing his hands.

  He glanced back at the sheet-covered corpse. “And yet, the nature of the attack speaks more of a crime passionelle than of some cold plot. I wonder.” He gazed back at the students. “Mr. Griffith we now know of. How do the rest of these bedraggled souls come to be here, Detective Pitch-ford?”

  “They’re Mr. Raleigh’s closest friends. I believe Mr. Griffith phoned one as soon as he’d called the lodgekeeper.”

  “That was me,” the other young man said. He had his arm thrown protectively round the girl, who was sobbing wretchedly.

  “And you are?” Francis asked.

  “Carter Osborne Kenyon. I was a good friend of Justin’s; we had dinner together tonight.”

  “I see. And so you phoned the young lady here?”

  “Yes. This is Bethany Maria Caesar, Justin’s girlfriend. I knew she’d be concerned about him, of course.”

  “Naturally. So do any of you recall threats being made against Mr. Raleigh? Does he have an equivalent group of enemies, perhaps?”

  “Nobody’s ever threatened Justin. That’s preposterous. And what’s this to you, anyway? The police should be asking these questions.”

  The change in Francis’s attitude was small but immediate, still calm but no longer so tolerant. And it showed. Even Carter Osborne Kenyon realized he’d made a big gaffe. It was the kind of switch that I knew I would have to perfect

  1M O futures for myself if I ever hoped to advance through the family hierarchy.

  “I am the Raleigh family’s senior representative in Oxford,” Francis said lightly. “While that might seem like an enviable sinecure from your perspective, I can assure you it’s not all lunches and cocktail parties with my fellow fat old men doing deals that make sure the young work harder. I am here to observe the official investigation, and make available any resource our family might have that will enable the police to catch the murderer. But first, in order to offer that assistance I have to understand what happened, because we will never let this rest until that barbarian is brought to justice. And I promise that if it was you under that sheet, your family would have been equally swift in dispatching a representative. It’s the way the world works, and you’re old enough and educated enough to know that.”

  “Yeah, right,” Carter Osborne Kenyon said sullenly.

  “You will catch them, won’t you?” Bethany Maria Caesar asked urgently.

  Francis became the perfect gentleman again. “Of course we will, my dear. If anything in this world is a certainty, it’s that. I will never rest until this is solved.”

  “Nor me,” I assured her.

  She gave both of us a small smile. A pretty girl, even through her tears and streaked make up; tall and lean, with blonde hair falling just below her shoulders. Justin had been a lucky man. I could well imagine them hand in hand walking along some riverbank on a summer’s eve. It made me even more angry that so much decency had been lost to so many young lives by this vile act.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “I really loved him. We’ve been talking about a long
term marriage after we left Oxford. I can’t believe this…any of this.”

  Carter Osborne Kenyon hugged her tighter.

  I made an effort to focus on the task in hand. “We’d like samples of every specimen the forensic team collects from here, fibers, hair, whatever,” I told the detective. The basic procedures which had been reiterated time and again during my investigator courses at the family institute. Other strategies were invoked by what I saw. I lowered my voice, turning slightly away from the students so I could speak my mind freely, and spare them any further distress at this time. “And it might be a good idea to take blood samples from people in the immediate vicinity as well as any suspects you might determine. They should all be tested for alcohol or narcotics. Whoever did this was way off balance.”

  “Yes, sir,” the detective said. “My team’s already on its way. They know what they’re doing.”

  “That’s fine,” Francis said. His look rebuked me. “If we could also sit in on the interviews, please.”

  “Certainly.”

  The Oxford City police station was less than a mile from Dunbar College. When Francis and I reached it at one o’clock there were few officers on duty. That changed over the next hour as Gareth Alan Pitchford assembled his investigator team with impressive competence. Officers and constables began to arrive, dressed in mussed uniforms, bleary-eyed, switching on the central heating in unused offices, calling down to stores for equipment. A couple of canteen staff came in and started brewing tea and coffee.

  The building’s Major Crime Operations Center swung into action as Gareth Alan Pitchford made near continuous briefings to each new batch of his recruits. Secretaries began clacking away on typewriters; detectives pinned large scale maps of Oxford on the wall; names were hurriedly chalked up on the blackboard, a confusing trail of lines linking them in various ways; and telephones built to a perpetual chorus of whistles.

  People were brought in and asked to wait in holding rooms. The chief suspects, though no one was impolite enough to say it to their faces. Gareth Alan Pitchford soon had over thirty young men and women worrying away in isolation.