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Authors: Dan Holloway
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afternoon you
could have had some,” he said.
Wife? What
kind of wife has to knock on her husband’s door? she wondered.
Maybe the Shaws weren’t the only weird family in Oxford after all.
“Professor Shaw’s death,” she nudged.
“ What would
you like to know, Chief Inspector?”
This was a
battle of wills she clearly wasn’t going to win. “Do you have any
idea why he might have wanted to kill himself?”
Sansom put his
glass down and steepled his hands. “Nothing springs to mind,” he
said after a pause.
“ Was he
unhappy at all?”
“ Unhappy? I
don’t know that Charles was ever what you could describe as happy.
His home life, well I’m sure you know about his separation from
Haydn and the daughter he never saw, but I’d hardly have said he
was depressed about it; certainly not suicidal.”
“ Was there
anything else?” she asked. “Was there anything more recent that
might have affected him; anything to do with his career
perhaps?”
Sansom’s face
seemed to light up as though he had suddenly remembered something.
“Well, he was moving to Harvard, joining the brain
drain.”
Emily looked
at him questioningly.
“ I’m leaving
too,” he clarified. “I’m not quite sure where I’m going yet, but
Charles knew where he wanted to go. He was heading over the Pond to
the land of free speech.” He chuckled sarcastically. “And large
paycheques.”
That was very
interesting, thought Emily. From what Rosie had told her on the
phone just before she got here the planned move wasn’t as definite
as Charles had made out; anything but, in fact. Clearly the news of
his rejection hadn’t filtered through the grapevine yet, but from
what the Warden said it would certainly have been a blow. To the
Professor’s ego, if nothing else.
“ And Professor
Shaw was excited about going?”
“ Cock-a-hoop
would be a suitable phrase, I would have said.”
“ Thank you, Dr
Sansom,” said Emily, getting up to go.
“ That’s quite
all right. I’m sorry I couldn’t have been more help.”
You’ve been
plenty of help, thought Emily; although I’m sure you didn’t mean to
be.
____
11
The roof of
the top floor study sloped sharply down on one side leaving half of
the room like a burrow-hole. It was both a storeroom for the rarest
and most beautiful things that Tommy put in clients’ homes, and his
own sensual sanctuary. It was everything that the claggy, grey-lit
streets of an English town with its screeching youths, its chugging
engines, and incessant clang of works are not. It was somewhere he
could close his eyes and transport himself to the fragrant smells
of the spice bazaar in Istanbul, run silks and cottons across his
face and his feet that took him back to Calcutta or Shiraz. In its
own way it was as much of a frenetic melee as the roads outside,
obeying no principles of design, exhibiting no one style, having no
distinctive groundnotes, no strong accents. But this room had
nothing to do with fashions or rules. It was a cradle of
sensations, a swaddling gown built on no principle other than the
ability to take him somewhere else. Half the time this sensual
shrine seemed so perfect that most people could never begin to
aspire to it, and he knew how very lucky he was. The rest of the
time he knew it was his prison. He was an invalid, as sure as if he
were missing a leg, and these things, these escape mechanisms, were
the oxygen tank he had to carry everywhere with him just to
survive.
He had lined
one wall, free from Chinese vegetable-dyed embroideries, or African
hangings with their myriad scorched mineral colours, with shelves
made out of planks of ovangkol wood, the edges of which shone like
tiger’s eye in the candlelight. The floor was a black canvas of
wenge wood that was darker than ebony. It had been highlighted
painstakingly and absolutely sparingly with an occasional pool of
hand-enamelled tiles in the delicate geometric patterns of Islamic
art, no two the same.
At the
could have had some,” he said.
Wife? What
kind of wife has to knock on her husband’s door? she wondered.
Maybe the Shaws weren’t the only weird family in Oxford after all.
“Professor Shaw’s death,” she nudged.
“ What would
you like to know, Chief Inspector?”
This was a
battle of wills she clearly wasn’t going to win. “Do you have any
idea why he might have wanted to kill himself?”
Sansom put his
glass down and steepled his hands. “Nothing springs to mind,” he
said after a pause.
“ Was he
unhappy at all?”
“ Unhappy? I
don’t know that Charles was ever what you could describe as happy.
His home life, well I’m sure you know about his separation from
Haydn and the daughter he never saw, but I’d hardly have said he
was depressed about it; certainly not suicidal.”
“ Was there
anything else?” she asked. “Was there anything more recent that
might have affected him; anything to do with his career
perhaps?”
Sansom’s face
seemed to light up as though he had suddenly remembered something.
“Well, he was moving to Harvard, joining the brain
drain.”
Emily looked
at him questioningly.
“ I’m leaving
too,” he clarified. “I’m not quite sure where I’m going yet, but
Charles knew where he wanted to go. He was heading over the Pond to
the land of free speech.” He chuckled sarcastically. “And large
paycheques.”
That was very
interesting, thought Emily. From what Rosie had told her on the
phone just before she got here the planned move wasn’t as definite
as Charles had made out; anything but, in fact. Clearly the news of
his rejection hadn’t filtered through the grapevine yet, but from
what the Warden said it would certainly have been a blow. To the
Professor’s ego, if nothing else.
“ And Professor
Shaw was excited about going?”
“ Cock-a-hoop
would be a suitable phrase, I would have said.”
“ Thank you, Dr
Sansom,” said Emily, getting up to go.
“ That’s quite
all right. I’m sorry I couldn’t have been more help.”
You’ve been
plenty of help, thought Emily; although I’m sure you didn’t mean to
be.
____
11
The roof of
the top floor study sloped sharply down on one side leaving half of
the room like a burrow-hole. It was both a storeroom for the rarest
and most beautiful things that Tommy put in clients’ homes, and his
own sensual sanctuary. It was everything that the claggy, grey-lit
streets of an English town with its screeching youths, its chugging
engines, and incessant clang of works are not. It was somewhere he
could close his eyes and transport himself to the fragrant smells
of the spice bazaar in Istanbul, run silks and cottons across his
face and his feet that took him back to Calcutta or Shiraz. In its
own way it was as much of a frenetic melee as the roads outside,
obeying no principles of design, exhibiting no one style, having no
distinctive groundnotes, no strong accents. But this room had
nothing to do with fashions or rules. It was a cradle of
sensations, a swaddling gown built on no principle other than the
ability to take him somewhere else. Half the time this sensual
shrine seemed so perfect that most people could never begin to
aspire to it, and he knew how very lucky he was. The rest of the
time he knew it was his prison. He was an invalid, as sure as if he
were missing a leg, and these things, these escape mechanisms, were
the oxygen tank he had to carry everywhere with him just to
survive.
He had lined
one wall, free from Chinese vegetable-dyed embroideries, or African
hangings with their myriad scorched mineral colours, with shelves
made out of planks of ovangkol wood, the edges of which shone like
tiger’s eye in the candlelight. The floor was a black canvas of
wenge wood that was darker than ebony. It had been highlighted
painstakingly and absolutely sparingly with an occasional pool of
hand-enamelled tiles in the delicate geometric patterns of Islamic
art, no two the same.
At the
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