For the Sake of Elena (Inspector Lynley, #5)(158)

From the church, they could hear a hymn coming to an end, and rising out of its concluding notes came the high, sweet sound of a trumpet playing “Amazing Grace.” Miranda Webberly, Lynley guessed, giving Elena her own public form of farewell. He felt unaccountably touched by the unadorned melody and he marvelled at the human heart’s capacity to be moved by something as simple as sound.

The church doors opened, and the even-paced procession began to file out, headed by the bronze-coloured coffin which was carried on the shoulders of six young men. One of them was Adam Jenn. The immediate family followed: Anthony Weaver and his former wife, behind them Justine. And then the mourners, a large crowd of University dignitaries, colleagues and friends of both the Cambridge Weavers, and countless junior and senior fellows of St. Stephen’s. Among them, Lynley noted Victor Troughton with a pear-shaped woman leaning on his arm.

Weaver’s face registered neither reaction nor recognition as he passed by Lynley, following the coffin which was draped with a sheet of pale pink roses. Their odour was sweet in the heavy air. As the rear door of the hearse closed upon the coffin and one of the undertakers scuttled inside to rearrange the cave of additional flowers in which the coffin rode, the crowd pressed in round Weaver, Glyn, and Justine, black-garbed men and women with melancholy faces, earnestly offering affection and condolence. Among them was Terence Cuff, and it was to Cuff that the college porter—crossing the lane from the gatehouse—excused his way through the crowd to see. He carried a thick, creamy envelope which he handed to the Master of the College with a quiet word which Cuff bent to hear.

Cuff nodded, tore open the envelope. His eyes scanned the message. His face flashed briefly with a smile. He was not standing far from Anthony Weaver, so it took only a moment for him to reach his side and only another moment for the words he murmured to filter back through the crowd.

Lynley heard it coming from several directions at once.

“Penford Chair.”

“He’s been named…”

“So deserved..”

“…an honour.”

Next to him, Havers said, “What’s going on?”

Lynley watched Weaver lower his head, press a clenched fist to his moustache, then raise his head again, shaking it, perhaps stunned, perhaps touched, perhaps humbled, perhaps disbelieving. He said, “Dr. Weaver has just reached the pinnacle of his career before our very eyes, Sergeant. He’s been awarded the University’s Penford Chair in History.”

To which she replied, “He has? Bloody hell.”

My sentiments exactly, Lynley thought. They stayed for a moment longer, watching the condolences change to quiet congratulations, hearing the murmurs of conversation that spoke of triumph coming upon the heels of tragedy.

Havers said, “If he’s charged, if he goes to trial, will they take the Chair from him?”

“Chairs are for life, Sergeant.”

“But don’t they know—”

“About what he did yesterday? The committee? How could they? The decision was probably made by then anyway. And even if they did know, even if they decided this morning, he was, after all, only a father driven wild by his grief.”

They edged round the crowd and headed in the direction of Trinity Hall. Havers was dragging her feet on the ground, her attention given to the tops of her shoes. She drove her fists into the pockets of her coat.

“Did he do it for the Chair?” she asked abruptly. “Did he want Elena to go to St. Stephen’s because of the Chair? Did he want her to behave because of the Chair? Did he want to stay married to Justine because of it? Did he want to end his affair with Sarah Gordon because of it?”

“We’ll never know, Havers,” Lynley replied. “And I’m not sure Weaver will ever know either.”

“Why?”

“Because he still has to look at himself in the mirror every morning. And how can he do that if he ever starts digging through his life for the truth?”

They rounded the corner into Garret Hostel Lane. Havers stopped abruptly, slapping a hand to her forehead with a loud groan. “Nkata’s book!” she said.

“What?”

“I promised Nkata I’d pop into a few bookshops—they’re supposed to have a decent place called Heffers—and look for…now what was it…where did I put the flipping…” She zipped open her shoulder bag and began mauling her way through its contents, saying, “You go on without me, Inspector.”

“But we’ve left your car—”

“No problem. The station’s not far and I want to have a word with Sheehan before I head back to London.”

“But—”

“It’s okay. Really. Fine. See you. Bye.” And with a wave of her hand, she whipped back round the corner.

He stared after her. Detective Constable Nkata hadn’t read a book in a decade or more, as far as he knew. His idea of an evening’s entertainment was having the senior officer on the bomb squad retell the story of how, as a member of the Met’s PSU, he lost his left eye in a brawl in Brixton which, no doubt, Nkata himself had probably instigated during his salad days as chief battle counsel for the Brixton Warriors. They would talk and argue and laugh over scotch eggs, pickled onions, and beer. And if they moved on to other topics, none of them were likely to be centred round literature. So what was Havers up to?