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Giles Allerton and an unidentified young woman. He is attempting to locate them now. Would you care to interview them?”
    Smailes’ attention was distracted by Davies, who had resumed his agitated pacing around the room. He asked Hawken to hold, cupping his hand over the receiver. He told Davies he could leave if he had other commitments, that they might need him to make a statement for the coroner.
    Davies seemed relieved. “Oh certainly. Of course, whenever you need me, whenever at all, you know. My rooms are in Second Court, opposite Simon’s staircase.” He made an awkward bowing movement and turned toward the door.
    â€œExcuse me, just finishing with Dr. Davies,” Smailes said into the receiver. “Of course I would like to speak with them, but perhaps later. I should get back to the station and make sure the reports have been filed correctly. Can we arrange a meeting for two o’clock?”
    â€œI’m sure,” said Hawken.
    â€œMeanwhile, can you ensure that Bowles’ room remains locked and out of bounds to everyone?”
    â€œIndeed,” came the dry response.
    The truth was Hawken’s sherry had whetted his appetite and he realized he was starving for lunch. Death often had this effect on him, it made him ravenous. And it might be prudent to check the paperwork before it went upstairs. It was after all his investigation.
    Nigel Hawken watched the detective from his window as he strode purposefully around the court, his hands thrust deep into his raincoat pockets, leaning slightly into the wind. He stood to the side so he would not be seen if the policeman chanced to look up. He did not entirely trust his ingenuousness. It would be wise to be cautious around him.
    For the twentieth time that morning he rehearsed the possibilities and probabilities that would result from this unforunate development. The phone call had been a gross error in judgement, but it had least given him several extra hours to prepare his response. It was all so stupid and unnecessary, but as he looked at the situation dispassionately, he knew it was unlikely anything could be traced to him. He could count on his friend’s discretion, he was almost sure, and since nothing was known of the association, the rest would hinge on the acuity, or lack of it, of Mr. Smailes. All things being equal, the matter would probably blow over with the inquest.
    Yet he had felt acutely anxious when he saw the second group of policemen arrive with their suitcases and photographic equipment and when he realized that he was powerless now to prevent the police from doing whatever they liked in his college. He hated that feeling. He was also trying to avoid the more painful thought that hovered on the edge of his consciousness, that he was foolish to risk any exposure whatsoever, that his predilection was shameful and weak. Perhaps, but his subterfuge had worked so well for so long, his habits were so ingrained, that he could not believe he could be uncovered now by a provincial policeman, no matter how sharp.
    He looked at his watch. It was time to call Sir Felix, to counter his feeble protests that he should return to Cambridge at once to respond to the crisis. It would not be difficult for Hawken to convince him there was no crisis, that there was no reason for Sir Felix to alarm himself, that everything was under control. Sir Felix had deferred to him ever since he had been told that Hawken worked for the Government. The knowledge had allowed Sir Felix to relax about whether he was really supposed to do anything at Cambridge, and to return to the full-time pursuit of his peerage. The arrangement suited them both admirably, and allowed them to maintain the guise that Hawken was Sir Felix’s subordinate.
    Hawken considered returning to Bowles’ room to take a last look around for himself, but dismissed the idea as too risky. He had examined the premises as thoroughly and as carefully as possible before