Commended: Fiction, Kel Robertson
Kel Robertson’s second crime novel, Smoke and Mirrors, featured the Chinese-Australian police detective Brad Chen and shared the 2006 Ned Kelly award for best Australian Crime Novel with Peter Corris’s Deep Water. The much funnier Chen follow-up, Rip Off, passed without trace. Robertson’s most recent novel, The Final Trials of Alan Mewling, written under the pen name Adam Clarke Bland, is a shameless, politically incorrect, bureaucratic black comedy: essential reading for members of the public who’ve been scarred by interactions with the public service, and a guilty pleasure for mandarins and clerical factotums of all castes.
Unjust Desserts
According to her statement, Ms Montaigne, Professor Edwards’ Personal Assistant, had opened the door to his office a couple of minutes after 7:30. At the same time Ms Gill, the School Secretary, was filling the drip filter machine in the kitchenette across the corridor.
On any other morning Miss Montaigne would then have arranged the day’s newspapers and turned the required number of leaves on the professor’s desk calendar. On this occasion, however, she made it just two or three steps inside before observing the Professor’s corpse, face up, on the carpet.
Her screams caused Ms Gill to drop the Pyrex filter jug and then cut herself picking up the largest shards, before rushing to Ms Montaigne’s aid. That was how there came to be blood on the linoleum in the outer office. That was also how rumours spread that the deceased had been stabbed, when it was obvious to anyone of modest forensic intelligence that he’d been poisoned. The agonised look on his face said it all.
I was sniffing the dead man’s mouth - thinking about Miss Marple and battalions of dead colonels in country house libraries - when I heard raised voices in the outer office.
In the doorway, a short fat man with a goatee beard and half-framed reading glasses was poking my detective sergeant in the chest. He clearly had no idea how dangerous a habit this could yet be.
“Can I assist you?” I asked.
The fat man turned his attention to me.
“Why? Who are you?”
“Detective Inspector Tran. I’m in charge of this crime scene. You?”
He did the usual round-eye double take; white men of his generation like their detectives burly, badly dressed and indisputably Anglo.
“Dr Swarbrick,” he said. “Head of English Literature and Performance Studies. I require the cadaver to be removed from my office at the earliest time. Gross incompetence has prevailed here in recent months and not a moment is to be lost in setting things aright.”
I looked pointedly at the nameplate on the door.
“You say that this is your office?”
“Edwards was a dullard and a Philistine, and the Vice-Chancellor realised how foolish she’d been, entrusting him with the management of such a prestigious intellectual confluence. Guilt and shame have doubtless prompted the wretched man to do the honourable thing and dispatch himself. I will be moving in as soon as you’ve made egress with his mortal remains.”
“As for you,” he continued, pointing to Ms Montaigne, pale and teary sitting next to her desk. “As the treacherous handmaiden of that accursed usurper, your services will no longer be required.”
“You’ll occupy that office over my dead body” said a nuggetty red-headed man in a tweed jacket, entering in the company of a flustered constable. “The Vice-Chancellor is well aware of your peccadilloes and managerial shortcomings, Swarbrick. As the only other professorial contender is little more than a boy, I am Edwards’ logical successor as Head of School.”
“And who might you be?” I asked
“Dr Babbage,” he replied, “Head of History and Political Science. How long before I can move my things in?”
“Negate that non-mandatory enquiry,” said a new voice from the hall doorway.
Its owner was a young blond man in a high collared suit and an open necked, striped shirt; he was doubtless the boyish third contender.
“The fact that I don’t need anything other than my laptop to be immediately effective says Gen X will be getting the nod from the babe in charge.”
“And you are?”
“Phoenix Bluck, Multi-media and Creative Learnings.”
He held out his hand before noticing that mine was gloved.
He blushed and made a window-washing gesture that said “hi”.
“People will expect me to use the office, even though I could do the job just as well from London or L.A. When will you dudes be finished?”
“Is there anyone else who’d like to stake a claim to the deceased’s office?” I asked, projecting into the corridor. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Silence.
“Good,” I said, “because I want to make it clear to all of you that this office is a crime scene. Until further notice it will be forbidden territory. If I find that any of you have entered without my authorisation, prosecution will be swift and certain. Have I made myself clear?”
I looked from one cordon breaker to the next. I’d been understood … perfectly.
“As individuals likely to have benefited from the death of Professor Edwards, statements from you are a matter of priority. Leave your contact details with Detective Sergeant Harris and, in the mean time, don’t leave the campus, don’t confer and don’t even think about your frequent flyer options.”
“That’s outrageous,” said the red-headed historian.
“I have been a senior academic at this institution for nearly thirty-five years,” said the bearded litterateur.
“Whatever,” said the e-prodigy.
I pulled off my gloves, hair net and paper boots.
“Contact details with the sergeant,” I said, “I have an appointment with the Vice-Chancellor.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Swarbrick. “I have to speak to her.”
“Me, too”, said Babbage.
“Hey, we’ll all go”, said Bluck.
“Contact details with the sergeant before leaving.”
At the entrance to the building a crowd of between forty and fifty students were waiting patiently in the sunshine for something – anything – momentous to happen.
Walking along the concourse, approaching the Students’ Union, I observed an obese, pale middle-aged male with dyed black hair, place a bundle of newspapers in a grab bin. He cut the plastic tie and slipped a copy into my waiting hands.
“Impropaganda, hot off the press.”
“I’ll read every last bit of it,” I lied.
With the paper tucked under my arm I continued on my way until the overhead signage turned me left and an arrow sent me up two wide flights of wooden stairs.
I’d met the Vice-Chancellor a few years earlier when a couple of industrial design students had been distributed in bite-sized pieces around the pine plantation opposite the halls of residence. I recalled her as a classy, plain-speaking brunette in her early forties; despite the demands of perpetual schmoozing and managerial bastardry in the intervening years, she was still looking good.
“There’s no possibility it was suicide?” she asked.
“Cyanide – no matter what you’re seen at the movies - is an awful way to go. Besides, Edwards was writing something before he was poisoned and it wasn’t a suicide note.”
“What was it?”
“Some sort of funding submission.”
“Do you have suspects?”
“The three department heads all seem keen to move into his office.”
“Delusions of”, she said. “But if they really believe they’re contenders, I suppose you’ve got to take them seriously.”
“Are there other people I should be looking at?”
“Who found the body? On TV they’re always under suspicion, aren’t they?”
“His PA is on my reserve list but she’s pretty shook up.”
“You won’t be short of suspects, I’m afraid. I had Edwards amalgamate three existing schools; they were millions over budget. He cut subjects, ceased a couple of courses, increased class sizes, abolished most tutorials and retired the academic deadwood. All of that made him unpopular enough with students and faculty, but the clincher was that he wasn’t much interested in the social sciences. He was a mathematician.”
She took a packet of cigarettes from the top drawer of her desk.
“Want to sin with me?”
“Sure.”
We squeezed into the ensuite to the left of her office and lit up under the extractor fan.
“It’s a filthy habit,” she said, “but there’s an awful lot about this job that disgusts me.”
“Likewise,” I said ashing into the bowl and feeling my head spin.
“It’s the arse kissing I hate the most.”
“I get through a bit of lip balm, myself.”
We both stared into the brilliant blue depths, imagining a world in which self-abasement wasn’t a daily requirement.
“Anyway,” she continued, “it was almost as though, as the School recovered, the campaign against Edwards got stronger. He kept his lawyers busy with defamation actions against his critics, including, most recently, the Students’ Association. The only thing that prevented the campaign against him from turning into a popular uprising was the fact that his most determined opponent was Swarbrick.”
“English Literature and Performance Studies?”
“Uh huh. And a thoroughly nasty piece of work he is, with a long history of sexual harassment, staff bullying and appropriation of the work of others.”
“Charming.”
“And one of the least competent managers to ever set foot on an Australian campus.”
“But a man with an undiminished estimation of his own abilities.”
“You’ve met him, then.”
“I have. What’s his problem with Alice Montaigne?”
“History. She was his PA before the three Schools were amalgamated. Swarbrick expected her to resign, rather than work for Edwards.”
“And she didn’t?”
“No and to make matters worse, she and Edwards were a brilliant team. Swarbrick tormented her at every opportunity.”
“How do you know all of this lower level stuff?”
“Impropaganda,” she answered. “You wouldn’t wipe your backside with most of it but the Campus Dirt column is mandatory reading. It’s frightening how much they know. Sometimes I wonder if I talk in my sleep.”
“What about the legal action by Edwards against the Students’ Union?”
“Satire that overstepped the mark. The Union President, Dan Grabowsky, will be delighted to hear he’s dead.”
“Pallid fat guy with dyed black hair?
“That’s him.”
She dropped her cigarette butt into the water and I let mine follow. At the basin she raised a container of mouthwash to her lips, before offering me a swig.
“Not while I’m on duty.”
She gargled and spat the green liquid into the basin.
“What about Edwards’ personal life?”
She sprayed air freshener into the tiny space and we moved back into her office.
“A loving grandfather and model husband.”
“No vices?’
“Does camellia breeding count?”
“Not in the current context.”
She shrugged. “If I hear any posthumous dirt, I’ll let you know.”
In the waiting room I wasn’t surprised to see the three professors. Swarbrick gave me his best theatrical sneer, Babbage glanced away and Bluck gave me the cue sign.
I’d left my copy of Impropaganda inside but reckoned the Vice-Chancellor would make good use of it, so walked to the Student’s Union for a replacement. Alcho-pop fuelled revelry had spilled onto the concourse since my earlier visit. News had obviously reached “the oppressed” that Edwards wasn’t going to be collecting his superannuation.
I walked, to the cafeteria, and took my replacement copy of the paper into the lavatories. Someone was smoking a joint a couple of cubicles down from me. I sat back and enjoyed the ambience.
Under the heading “Big Stink on Mahogany Row” the author of the Campus Dirt column asked why the extractor fan in the Vice-Chancellor’s ensuite needed an annual overhaul when similar fans in other facilities around the campus needed reconditioning every three years.
Spooky.
Under “Let Them Eat Cake” in the same column there was an account of a morning tea organised by Professor Edwards as an inducement to Humanities staff to attend a school meeting:
Sure enough, the renegades turned up to bury their snouts in the trough. But not even La Montaigne’s famous pear and walnut cake could tempt Sam “the Slasher” Edwards from the path of diabetic righteousness. The old guard tucked in but the comestibles did nothing to sweeten their disposition. They chanted and ranted over the top of the “the Slasher”, led by the Chief Hypocrite, Bernard “Blameless” Swarbrick. Eventually the Slasher had no option but to close the meeting. Kiddies, kiddies, kiddies!!!!
And rumours continue to circulate about the identity of the nocturnal Humanities chocolate thief. We reckon la Montaigne knows but she aint tellin’ no one.
It was interesting enough but chocolate theft and bad meeting behaviour were a long way from murder. I washed my hands and walked out into the cafeteria.
Ms Montaigne was sitting at a table with Ms Gill and two older women. They all had smudged eye makeup and pale faces. Ms Gill did the introductions and I responded appropriately to the customary hopes of a speedy and successful investigation.
“You’re a bit of a baker, then,” I said to Alice Montaigne, trying to put her at her ease. Her hand flew to her mouth and she fled from the table, leaving her coffee untouched. One of the older women went after her.
“I’m sorry”, I said to the remaining two. “I didn’t mean to cause distress.”
“You’ll have to excuse her,” said Ms Gill, “she thought the world of the Professor.”
My phone rang. I took the call a few tables away. It was Dr Nick.
“Your corpse was more rigid than he should have been,” he said.
“Everything on-site pointed to cyanide.”
“It wasn’t Viagra.”
“What if I told you I’m thinking murder?’
“There were soft, golden crumbs down his front. I’ll probably find the remains of an almond torte when I open him up.”
“He was a diabetic,” I said.
“Which proves what?” said Nick.
I ended the call.
Since the advent of the packet mix, nearly anyone can manage a kitchen miracle … but the “fatal cake possibility” increased my interest in just one individual. Ms Montaigne could easily have whipped up something deadly for the prof. And my remark about her baking prowess had certainly touched a nerve. But what was her motive? Had something extra-curricular turned sour? Or had they fallen out for a less scandalous reason?
“So how was the relationship between Ms Montagne and Professor Edwards?” I asked the two women still sitting at the table.
“Harmonious and entirely professional,” said the first.
“And he was genuinely grateful for her hard work,” said the second, “unlike that revolting creature”.
She nodded in the direction of the cash registers. Bernard Swarbrick. I excused myself and followed him to his table.
“Everybody is saying Edwards was murdered,” he said. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”
On his tray was a jam doughnut, a brownie and a slice of pavlova.
“We are looking at all of the options,” I conceded, fixed on his morning tea but recalling his earlier nastiness towards Ms Montaigne.
“In which case, I have information for you about likely suspects, without which, I wouldn’t rate your prospects of solving the case.”
Suddenly, staring at the pavlova, everything was clear. The murderer, renowned for her cooking, had left the deadly cake out for her tormenter, Swarbrick, the Humanities chocolate thief … and had never expected the man she revered – the supposedly self-disciplined diabetic, Edwards - to take the bait.
“Of course, if you feel that you can solve this crime, relying on your own resources ….”
“I won’t be needing your assistance.” I said, without any satisfaction. “I rather think I’ve solved it without you.”
Really?” he asked.
“A piece of cake,” I said, without any sense that good had triumphed over evil.
On any other morning Miss Montaigne would then have arranged the day’s newspapers and turned the required number of leaves on the professor’s desk calendar. On this occasion, however, she made it just two or three steps inside before observing the Professor’s corpse, face up, on the carpet.
Her screams caused Ms Gill to drop the Pyrex filter jug and then cut herself picking up the largest shards, before rushing to Ms Montaigne’s aid. That was how there came to be blood on the linoleum in the outer office. That was also how rumours spread that the deceased had been stabbed, when it was obvious to anyone of modest forensic intelligence that he’d been poisoned. The agonised look on his face said it all.
I was sniffing the dead man’s mouth - thinking about Miss Marple and battalions of dead colonels in country house libraries - when I heard raised voices in the outer office.
In the doorway, a short fat man with a goatee beard and half-framed reading glasses was poking my detective sergeant in the chest. He clearly had no idea how dangerous a habit this could yet be.
“Can I assist you?” I asked.
The fat man turned his attention to me.
“Why? Who are you?”
“Detective Inspector Tran. I’m in charge of this crime scene. You?”
He did the usual round-eye double take; white men of his generation like their detectives burly, badly dressed and indisputably Anglo.
“Dr Swarbrick,” he said. “Head of English Literature and Performance Studies. I require the cadaver to be removed from my office at the earliest time. Gross incompetence has prevailed here in recent months and not a moment is to be lost in setting things aright.”
I looked pointedly at the nameplate on the door.
“You say that this is your office?”
“Edwards was a dullard and a Philistine, and the Vice-Chancellor realised how foolish she’d been, entrusting him with the management of such a prestigious intellectual confluence. Guilt and shame have doubtless prompted the wretched man to do the honourable thing and dispatch himself. I will be moving in as soon as you’ve made egress with his mortal remains.”
“As for you,” he continued, pointing to Ms Montaigne, pale and teary sitting next to her desk. “As the treacherous handmaiden of that accursed usurper, your services will no longer be required.”
“You’ll occupy that office over my dead body” said a nuggetty red-headed man in a tweed jacket, entering in the company of a flustered constable. “The Vice-Chancellor is well aware of your peccadilloes and managerial shortcomings, Swarbrick. As the only other professorial contender is little more than a boy, I am Edwards’ logical successor as Head of School.”
“And who might you be?” I asked
“Dr Babbage,” he replied, “Head of History and Political Science. How long before I can move my things in?”
“Negate that non-mandatory enquiry,” said a new voice from the hall doorway.
Its owner was a young blond man in a high collared suit and an open necked, striped shirt; he was doubtless the boyish third contender.
“The fact that I don’t need anything other than my laptop to be immediately effective says Gen X will be getting the nod from the babe in charge.”
“And you are?”
“Phoenix Bluck, Multi-media and Creative Learnings.”
He held out his hand before noticing that mine was gloved.
He blushed and made a window-washing gesture that said “hi”.
“People will expect me to use the office, even though I could do the job just as well from London or L.A. When will you dudes be finished?”
“Is there anyone else who’d like to stake a claim to the deceased’s office?” I asked, projecting into the corridor. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Silence.
“Good,” I said, “because I want to make it clear to all of you that this office is a crime scene. Until further notice it will be forbidden territory. If I find that any of you have entered without my authorisation, prosecution will be swift and certain. Have I made myself clear?”
I looked from one cordon breaker to the next. I’d been understood … perfectly.
“As individuals likely to have benefited from the death of Professor Edwards, statements from you are a matter of priority. Leave your contact details with Detective Sergeant Harris and, in the mean time, don’t leave the campus, don’t confer and don’t even think about your frequent flyer options.”
“That’s outrageous,” said the red-headed historian.
“I have been a senior academic at this institution for nearly thirty-five years,” said the bearded litterateur.
“Whatever,” said the e-prodigy.
I pulled off my gloves, hair net and paper boots.
“Contact details with the sergeant,” I said, “I have an appointment with the Vice-Chancellor.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Swarbrick. “I have to speak to her.”
“Me, too”, said Babbage.
“Hey, we’ll all go”, said Bluck.
“Contact details with the sergeant before leaving.”
At the entrance to the building a crowd of between forty and fifty students were waiting patiently in the sunshine for something – anything – momentous to happen.
Walking along the concourse, approaching the Students’ Union, I observed an obese, pale middle-aged male with dyed black hair, place a bundle of newspapers in a grab bin. He cut the plastic tie and slipped a copy into my waiting hands.
“Impropaganda, hot off the press.”
“I’ll read every last bit of it,” I lied.
With the paper tucked under my arm I continued on my way until the overhead signage turned me left and an arrow sent me up two wide flights of wooden stairs.
I’d met the Vice-Chancellor a few years earlier when a couple of industrial design students had been distributed in bite-sized pieces around the pine plantation opposite the halls of residence. I recalled her as a classy, plain-speaking brunette in her early forties; despite the demands of perpetual schmoozing and managerial bastardry in the intervening years, she was still looking good.
“There’s no possibility it was suicide?” she asked.
“Cyanide – no matter what you’re seen at the movies - is an awful way to go. Besides, Edwards was writing something before he was poisoned and it wasn’t a suicide note.”
“What was it?”
“Some sort of funding submission.”
“Do you have suspects?”
“The three department heads all seem keen to move into his office.”
“Delusions of”, she said. “But if they really believe they’re contenders, I suppose you’ve got to take them seriously.”
“Are there other people I should be looking at?”
“Who found the body? On TV they’re always under suspicion, aren’t they?”
“His PA is on my reserve list but she’s pretty shook up.”
“You won’t be short of suspects, I’m afraid. I had Edwards amalgamate three existing schools; they were millions over budget. He cut subjects, ceased a couple of courses, increased class sizes, abolished most tutorials and retired the academic deadwood. All of that made him unpopular enough with students and faculty, but the clincher was that he wasn’t much interested in the social sciences. He was a mathematician.”
She took a packet of cigarettes from the top drawer of her desk.
“Want to sin with me?”
“Sure.”
We squeezed into the ensuite to the left of her office and lit up under the extractor fan.
“It’s a filthy habit,” she said, “but there’s an awful lot about this job that disgusts me.”
“Likewise,” I said ashing into the bowl and feeling my head spin.
“It’s the arse kissing I hate the most.”
“I get through a bit of lip balm, myself.”
We both stared into the brilliant blue depths, imagining a world in which self-abasement wasn’t a daily requirement.
“Anyway,” she continued, “it was almost as though, as the School recovered, the campaign against Edwards got stronger. He kept his lawyers busy with defamation actions against his critics, including, most recently, the Students’ Association. The only thing that prevented the campaign against him from turning into a popular uprising was the fact that his most determined opponent was Swarbrick.”
“English Literature and Performance Studies?”
“Uh huh. And a thoroughly nasty piece of work he is, with a long history of sexual harassment, staff bullying and appropriation of the work of others.”
“Charming.”
“And one of the least competent managers to ever set foot on an Australian campus.”
“But a man with an undiminished estimation of his own abilities.”
“You’ve met him, then.”
“I have. What’s his problem with Alice Montaigne?”
“History. She was his PA before the three Schools were amalgamated. Swarbrick expected her to resign, rather than work for Edwards.”
“And she didn’t?”
“No and to make matters worse, she and Edwards were a brilliant team. Swarbrick tormented her at every opportunity.”
“How do you know all of this lower level stuff?”
“Impropaganda,” she answered. “You wouldn’t wipe your backside with most of it but the Campus Dirt column is mandatory reading. It’s frightening how much they know. Sometimes I wonder if I talk in my sleep.”
“What about the legal action by Edwards against the Students’ Union?”
“Satire that overstepped the mark. The Union President, Dan Grabowsky, will be delighted to hear he’s dead.”
“Pallid fat guy with dyed black hair?
“That’s him.”
She dropped her cigarette butt into the water and I let mine follow. At the basin she raised a container of mouthwash to her lips, before offering me a swig.
“Not while I’m on duty.”
She gargled and spat the green liquid into the basin.
“What about Edwards’ personal life?”
She sprayed air freshener into the tiny space and we moved back into her office.
“A loving grandfather and model husband.”
“No vices?’
“Does camellia breeding count?”
“Not in the current context.”
She shrugged. “If I hear any posthumous dirt, I’ll let you know.”
In the waiting room I wasn’t surprised to see the three professors. Swarbrick gave me his best theatrical sneer, Babbage glanced away and Bluck gave me the cue sign.
I’d left my copy of Impropaganda inside but reckoned the Vice-Chancellor would make good use of it, so walked to the Student’s Union for a replacement. Alcho-pop fuelled revelry had spilled onto the concourse since my earlier visit. News had obviously reached “the oppressed” that Edwards wasn’t going to be collecting his superannuation.
I walked, to the cafeteria, and took my replacement copy of the paper into the lavatories. Someone was smoking a joint a couple of cubicles down from me. I sat back and enjoyed the ambience.
Under the heading “Big Stink on Mahogany Row” the author of the Campus Dirt column asked why the extractor fan in the Vice-Chancellor’s ensuite needed an annual overhaul when similar fans in other facilities around the campus needed reconditioning every three years.
Spooky.
Under “Let Them Eat Cake” in the same column there was an account of a morning tea organised by Professor Edwards as an inducement to Humanities staff to attend a school meeting:
Sure enough, the renegades turned up to bury their snouts in the trough. But not even La Montaigne’s famous pear and walnut cake could tempt Sam “the Slasher” Edwards from the path of diabetic righteousness. The old guard tucked in but the comestibles did nothing to sweeten their disposition. They chanted and ranted over the top of the “the Slasher”, led by the Chief Hypocrite, Bernard “Blameless” Swarbrick. Eventually the Slasher had no option but to close the meeting. Kiddies, kiddies, kiddies!!!!
And rumours continue to circulate about the identity of the nocturnal Humanities chocolate thief. We reckon la Montaigne knows but she aint tellin’ no one.
It was interesting enough but chocolate theft and bad meeting behaviour were a long way from murder. I washed my hands and walked out into the cafeteria.
Ms Montaigne was sitting at a table with Ms Gill and two older women. They all had smudged eye makeup and pale faces. Ms Gill did the introductions and I responded appropriately to the customary hopes of a speedy and successful investigation.
“You’re a bit of a baker, then,” I said to Alice Montaigne, trying to put her at her ease. Her hand flew to her mouth and she fled from the table, leaving her coffee untouched. One of the older women went after her.
“I’m sorry”, I said to the remaining two. “I didn’t mean to cause distress.”
“You’ll have to excuse her,” said Ms Gill, “she thought the world of the Professor.”
My phone rang. I took the call a few tables away. It was Dr Nick.
“Your corpse was more rigid than he should have been,” he said.
“Everything on-site pointed to cyanide.”
“It wasn’t Viagra.”
“What if I told you I’m thinking murder?’
“There were soft, golden crumbs down his front. I’ll probably find the remains of an almond torte when I open him up.”
“He was a diabetic,” I said.
“Which proves what?” said Nick.
I ended the call.
Since the advent of the packet mix, nearly anyone can manage a kitchen miracle … but the “fatal cake possibility” increased my interest in just one individual. Ms Montaigne could easily have whipped up something deadly for the prof. And my remark about her baking prowess had certainly touched a nerve. But what was her motive? Had something extra-curricular turned sour? Or had they fallen out for a less scandalous reason?
“So how was the relationship between Ms Montagne and Professor Edwards?” I asked the two women still sitting at the table.
“Harmonious and entirely professional,” said the first.
“And he was genuinely grateful for her hard work,” said the second, “unlike that revolting creature”.
She nodded in the direction of the cash registers. Bernard Swarbrick. I excused myself and followed him to his table.
“Everybody is saying Edwards was murdered,” he said. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”
On his tray was a jam doughnut, a brownie and a slice of pavlova.
“We are looking at all of the options,” I conceded, fixed on his morning tea but recalling his earlier nastiness towards Ms Montaigne.
“In which case, I have information for you about likely suspects, without which, I wouldn’t rate your prospects of solving the case.”
Suddenly, staring at the pavlova, everything was clear. The murderer, renowned for her cooking, had left the deadly cake out for her tormenter, Swarbrick, the Humanities chocolate thief … and had never expected the man she revered – the supposedly self-disciplined diabetic, Edwards - to take the bait.
“Of course, if you feel that you can solve this crime, relying on your own resources ….”
“I won’t be needing your assistance.” I said, without any satisfaction. “I rather think I’ve solved it without you.”
Really?” he asked.
“A piece of cake,” I said, without any sense that good had triumphed over evil.
