‘I have two boys, Mr Browne, but they go to a private school.’
‘A cop-out, if I may make a play on words, Inspector. You’ve never had to deal with the system. However, let me go on. All the subjects were revamped: in English, Creative Writing replaced the study of grammar; in the universities, the explosion in the student population coincided with the activist movement and the students demanded the right to study what they liked. This was instantly granted, as were all other student demands. But back to numbers. To satisfy the hordes of potential voters demanding access to higher education, or further education as it was more and more called, dozens of new colleges and quasi-colleges were created, granting new kinds of degrees, diplomas and certificates in a variety of new ‘disciplines’, such as Photographic Arts, Horsemanship, and Gardening. The older universities welcomed these new institutions at first. As one professor at our rival across the street—’ Browne pointed an elaborate finger in the direction he meant ‘—said to me at the time I took this job, “We are hoping you will take all the students we don’t want.” But inevitably the baby boom died down and all of the institutions of further education, new and old, started scrambling for students. The older institutions got frightened, for many of the students of the next generation actually chose us even though they would have been welcome across the street. The establishment rushed to protect itself. First, they lowered their entrance standards, though they will deny this violently, then they organized to prevent the upstarts from offering any further competition with their own programmes. But it was too late. In the struggle that followed seme cf the new institutions did suffer, but most survived and a few prospered. Their enrolment increased, against the trend, and in some areas they became established as the equal of their older sister institutions. They became, in a word, respectable.
‘Douglas College—to come to my subject —is an outstanding example. We were among the first of the new colleges, and we were blessed by an ambitious president, a downtown location, and enough time to get our feet under the table before anyone noticed. We now have ten thousand students, some programmes which take only one of four qualified applicants, our own degrees, a faculty club, and an alumni association. And we have professors with tenure, of whom David Summers was one.’
Browne was finished. Salter felt like clapping, but he had work to do. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Now about Professor Summers. If you weren’t close to him, who was?’
Browne threw all his limbs into the air and arranged himself in thought. ‘Good question. Pollock, of course. After that, two of the people he was in Montreal with—Carrier and Usher, and, oh yes, Marika, Marika Tils. They were all together the evening before.’
‘And his enemies?’
‘No one who would kill him, Inspector, Just academic squabbles.’
‘I didn’t expect you to give me the name of the killer, Professor—sorry, Mister—Browne. But an enemy might tell me something a friend would not see.’
‘You can tell a man by his friends, but his enemies can save you the trouble, eh, Inspector? There are a few people who resented David. I didn’t warm to him myself, although lately he’s been more relaxed, more fun to be with.’
‘Does anyone detest him?’
‘This conversation is entirely confidential? Then Dunkley is your man. He was in Montreal, too. They couldn’t bear each other. There was an ancient coolness between them, so that you would never put them on the same committee. They got on each others tits.’ Browne leaned forward, smiling roundly, as he descended into argot.
‘This ancient coolness. What was it about?’
‘It started before my time. I’ve been here ten years, but Summers and Dunkley and several others go back twenty. Back then, those two were on opposite sides of the fence on some issue and they never forgave each other. I’ve heard it talked of often enough but I’ve never got to the bottom of it. I doubt if anyone could tell you now what happened, if anything did. It’s like a neighbour thing that turns into a feud. So we kept them apart and the two of them never mentioned each other, even to their cronies. It was as if they knew some dreadful secret that kept them apart while it linked them in silent bondage, if you know what I mean. Like a theme for a Conrad story.’ Browne pointed to one of the huge portraits, that of a bearded, middle-aged man.
‘Conrad?’
‘Joseph Conrad, the novelist, Inspector. That’s his picture.’
‘I know who Joseph Conrad is, Mr Browne. I meant which Conrad story. I’ve read some.’ One, anyway, about someone on a boat.
‘Have you? Not too many, I hope. They have a very bad effect. No. I meant it was like a Conrad story. One thought of Mallow and Kurtz, or “The Secret Sharer”— one of those “he - and - I - shared - a - knowledge - that -was - never - to - be - divulged - between - us” themes.’
‘I see. A story Conrad never wrote.’
‘No, no. The one he wrote interminably. Please don’t take me too literally. I doubt the presence of a ghastly secret. One just thinks in these ways after years of trying to find useful analogies for first-year students.’
The phone rang and Browne answered it. ‘Yes, my dear. I hadn’t forgotten. Yes, my dear. I’ll buy one at the Cakemaster.’ He put the phone down. ‘My wife,’ he said. ‘Reminding me that it is my daughter’s birthday. I have to buy the cake. You thought I was a bachelor? I wallow in uxorious delight, Inspector. I have six daughters, one better than Mr Bennet. You assumed I was a bachelor because I still polish my shoes? It is possible to maintain one’s standards within the nuptial bonds, you know. Conrad taught me that.’ Browne was having a wonderful time.
Salter said, ‘Nothing surprises me any more, Mr Browne. See? Another cliché. Now, where can I find these people? Carrier or Usher first, I think.’
‘They are waiting for you. I’ve arranged interviews with everyone who was with David in Montreal. They are upset, but you are used to that I expect. Marika is in misery.’
‘And his buddy,—Hillock?’
‘Pollock. He’s here, too.’ Browne stood up with a little jump and started to bustle. ‘Now I can’t ask you for lunch because I always bring my own.’
‘Diet, sir?’ Salter asked rudely, curious to know what kept this shining beauty in trim.
‘Wrong again. I like myself the way I am. So does my wife. See?’ He opened the brown paper bag. Inside were four jelly doughnuts and a pint of chocolate milk. ‘I pick them up on the way to work and I look forward to them all morning. I’m in my office all the time if you need me.’
‘Will you be at the funeral?’
‘Yes. Will you be there?’
‘I expect so, sir. The killer always turns up, doesn’t he? I read that somewhere.’
‘Ha, ha, ha. I get it. Another cliché.’
‘Would you keep our conversation confidential, sir? And try to stop any speculation around the office.’
‘Mum’s the word, Inspector. Good luck.’ He looked forlorn for a moment. ‘I hope it turns out to be a passing thug and not someone we know.’ His voice was quavering slightly. Through the sparkle, Browne was keeping the horror at bay.
‘It usually does, sir,’ Salter said, resisting a mild impulse to give Browne a pat. ‘Goodbye.’
Carrier was next. He sat behind his desk without speaking as Salter sat down in a chair opposite him. A tidy man in his early forties with fair, thinning hair, he was wearing a neat checked sports shirt and khaki trousers. He had his own teapot and cup beside him on a little table, and a packet of Peek Frean’s biscuits. On the wall, three posters under glass gave the appearance of a matched set, although their subjects didn’t seem connected as far as Salter could see. One was a portrait of a delicate young man with lace around his wrists, probably Shelley