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  "And how did she speak to him?"

  "She was always polite and calm. 'I'm sorry, Martin. I'll pay better attention to it next time.' That was the way to calm him down. If she got upset and cried, it just made him shout louder."

  "So he wasn't what you'd call an easy man to live with?" Bragg asked.

  "No sir, I'd say definitely not."

  "So you'd say it was a difficult marriage then? A strained marriage?"

  She thought for a moment. "I'd say he was fond enough of her in his way. He could be quite affectionate if he was in a good mood. The trick was keeping him in a good mood."

  "Tell me about Mrs. Rogers," Bragg said. "What does she do with herself? Does she go out much?"

  "No sir. Very much the homebody, Mrs. Rogers is. She loves her garden and she's always working on the house-polishing, cleaning, to make sure everything is just perfect. She does do the flowers for the church. She takes great pride in her flowers."

  "What about friends? Do friends drop in often?"

  "Not when I'm there, sir. I can't say what happens on the other days."

  "Has she ever worked outside the home?"

  "Not since I've been going there," Mrs. Ellis said. "I gather she met Professor Rogers when they were both students at the university, and she worked while he was still studying for his higher degrees. But then old Mr. Rogers died, and they inherited a fair bit of money and the house, so I understand, and she didn't need to work after that."

  Evan thought of how many women would love to be in Missy Rogers's shoes-enough money, beautiful house, time to do whatever she wanted. And yet he sensed that Missy Rogers didn't see it as a blessing at all.

  "Don't you want to know how Professor Rogers died, Mrs. Ellis?" Bragg asked.

  "I presumed it would be a heart attack. That kind of man, who gets upset so easily, they always say is prone to heart trouble, don't they?"

  "Actually he was murdered, Mrs. Ellis. Someone shot him while he was eating breakfast this morning."

  "Dear Lord." She put her hand up to her mouth. "Who could have done such a terrible thing?"

  "Any ideas, Mrs. Ellis?" Bragg asked. "You say that Professor Rogers tended to fly off the handle easily. Did he have any particular people he feuded with? Any rows with the neighbors?"

  "He didn't get along with old Colonel Partridge next door, but that was over silly, petty things. The colonel complained if the dog barked or if they played music with the windows open. And, of course, Professor Rogers wasn't going to let the old man get the better of him so he complained right back. The colonel was getting deaf, and he'd started to turn his radio up loud enough to hear. Professor Rogers would telephone him and tell him to turn down the noise." Mrs. Ellis played with the edge of her pinny, twisting the fabric nervously in her fingers. "But you don't go killing somebody for trifling little things like that, do you?"

  "What about his work at the university? Did he clash with any of his colleagues there?"

  "I couldn't tell you that, sir. I only go there one morning a week. I've no idea what the Rogers do with the rest of their lives. Mrs. Rogers is not one to gossip, so I really don't know much about them apart from what I see with my own eyes."

  Inspector Bragg stood up. Evan followed suit, giving the old lady an encouraging smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Ellis. You've been most helpful."

  "I must telephone poor Mrs. Rogers," she said, as she escorted them to the door. "I expect she'll need some help with the cleaning if there have been policemen all over the house. She'll be so upset with all that mess, I shouldn't wonder."

  "This Rogers sounds like a right sod," Bragg commented as they got into the squad car and drove away. "It's looking better by the minute that it was the wife who pulled the trigger. She had enough motive, didn't she? Bad-tempered bastard of a husband and enough money and a nice house if she was rid of him."

  "Yes, but . . ." Evan began. He instinctively liked Mrs. Rogers. He admired the well-bred way she was handling her pain.

  "But what?"

  "If Mrs. Rogers did it, why not set up a better alibi for herself? After all, we've only got her word for it that she took the dog for a walk and her husband was killed while she was away. Why call us so soon? Why not shoot him and then be gone for several hours, or plan an overnight trip to a relative so that it would be harder for us to determine the actual time of death?"

  "Lucky for us, criminals aren't always too bright," Bragg said. "She probably didn't think it through well enough. She may even have thought we'd take her at her word that she was out walking the dog. Well, I suppose we should hear what Wingate has to report on the gardener, and then it's on to the university. If he behaved like that to his wife and his cleaning lady, I don't suppose he was a saint to his colleagues. Someone there might have had an even better motive than his wife for wanting him out of the way."

  The gardener, it turned out, went to the Rogers's once a week. He did all the heavy work; turned over the beds, clipped the hedges, and mowed the lawns.

  "Mowed the lawns, you see." Bragg sounded triumphant. "So why did she decide to get the mower out this morning?"

  "I suppose the noise of a mower would muffle a shot pretty well," Wingate voiced what Evan had been thinking, "especially a temperamental mower that was hard to get started, according to the gardener. It probably coughed and backfired a few times, so that nobody would notice the sound of a shot."

  Bragg nodded as if he agreed with this theory. "So she started the mower, called her husband down to breakfast, shot him, put the mower back in the shed, and then took the dog out for his walk as if nothing had happened," Bragg said. "Cool customer."

  "One more thing," Evan said. "If your scenario is right, she went inside to close the window."

  "And to make sure he was really dead, I should think."

  "But this is all supposition," Evan said. "We've no real evidence. We can't jump to conclusions like this until we know more about Professor Rogers and his life. If Martin Rogers really was that annoying to live with, she could always have left him. She's still young and able-bodied. She could start a new life easily enough, and he'd have to have paid her alimony."

  "I suppose you've got a point there," Bragg said. "As she said herself, you only kill somebody when there is no other way out."

  Chapter 9

  The University of Wales in Bangor was perched on top of a steep hill, with spectacular views toward the Snowdon range in one direction and the Island of Angelsey in the other. The town of Bangor huddled directly below, in its shadow. A fierce wind was blowing off the Menai Strait as Evan emerged from the squad car, and there was promise of rain in the bank of clouds out beyond Anglesey. DI Bragg started up a flight of steps to what was obviously the main building, a tall Victorian monstrosity, complete with towers and turrets.

  University campuses always evoked strange feelings in Evan. He had certainly been bright enough to win a university place, even before universities sprouted up everywhere like mushrooms. But he had been the dutiful son and did what was expected of him by following his father into the police force. In truth, in those days his only passion had been rugby, and he had no great desire to prolong his academic studies. But every time he crossed a quadrangle like this one, and saw young people deep in discussion, clutching armfuls of books, he felt a gnawing sense of regret that he had missed out on that carefree step in his life. He had also missed out on expanding his horizons. Bronwen, who had gone to Cambridge, could talk easily on almost any subject and throw in words like Descartes and Kant, making Evan realize just how well-read she was. He found himself thinking that he should start reading again, maybe even check out night school classes.

  "Lazy lot of unshaven buggers, aren't they?" DI Bragg brought Evan out of his reverie. "It's too bad they did away with conscription. I'd love to get this lot into uniform and shape them up." He shielded his eyes from the sun as he looked around him. "Do you know your way around this place? Any idea where we'd find Rogers's colleagues? Some kind of faculty building?"


  "He was a professor in the History Department," Evan said. "I'm sure one of the students can direct us there."

  He stopped a pair of young girls, who seemed remarkably underdressed for the chill of early autumn, with bare midriffs and low-slung jeans. They pointed to a smaller building set in its own grounds, as the wind whipped their long hair across their faces. One of them gave Evans a flirtatious smile as they continued on their way.

  "History," Bragg commented, setting off in the new direction toward the building that housed the department, "now that's a bloody waste of time for a start. Ten sixty-six and all that. Magna Carta. Lot of useless dates. What's the point in it, Evans? We never seem to learn from history, do we?"

  "We can always hope, sir," Evan said.

  "You're too much of a bloody optimist, boyo," Bragg said, but in not unfriendly fashion.

  Inside the building they located an office and were told they'd probably find Dr. Skinner in his office, if he wasn't in the SCR.

  "SCR?" Bragg asked.

  "Senior common room. Where the professors hang out," the girl said. "But I think I saw him going down the hall to his office, and he's got a lecture at four."

  Evan led the way and passed an office door with Professor Martin Rogers, Ph.D., written on it in neat script. They found the next door half open and a man sitting at a desk.

  "Enter!" he called in theatrical tones, in response to their knock. Then he registered surprise at two strange faces. "Yes, gentlemen? What can I do for you?"

  "North Wales Police." DI Bragg produced a warrant card. "I'm Detective Inspector Bragg, and this is Detective Constable Evans. And your name, sir?"

  "Dr. Skinner."

  "How do you do, Dr. Skinner. We'd like to talk to you about Professor Rogers."

  "Rogers? What's he done?" The look on his face was half astonishment, half joy. He was, Evan thought, a caricature of the absentminded professor-old tweed jacket, frayed cuffs, tartan tie with various things spilled on it, hair not properly combed, and thick-lensed glasses. But a second glance at him made Evan realize that he wasn't quite as old as he had first thought. A relatively young man still, in fact.

  "I'm afraid he was found dead this morning," Bragg said.

  "Good God." Skinner lapsed into silence, staring down at the papers in front of him. "I presume he didn't die of natural causes, or you wouldn't be here," he said at last.

  "You don't think he'd have killed himself?" Bragg asked.

  "Martin Rogers kill himself? Good God, no. Last person on earth to do that. He had a very high opinion of himself, Inspector. No, I'd be most surprised if you told me that Martin had killed himself."

  "But not surprised if I told you that somebody else had killed him?" Bragg asked.

  "Well, yes, actually I would be surprised. We all had our differences with Martin. He wasn't always easy to get along with, but he could be highly entertaining, too. And as for someone killing him-was it some kind of home invasion, some kind of young thug? There have been too many of those around town these days."

  "We can't tell yet, sir. Our forensic team is still working on the crime scene. We're just here asking preliminary questions, trying to get some idea of the man's life and whether anyone might have had a motive for wanting him out of the way. You worked closely with him, did you?"

  "Yes, we're a tightly knit bunch in the History Department. We work closely together."

  "And do I understand correctly that Professor Rogers was head of the department?"

  "Yes, he was. Not to everyone's satisfaction, I might say."

  "Meaning what? He wasn't good at his job?"

  "Oh no, he was a first-rate historian. Meticulous researcher. Really knew his stuff. But our department is now called the School of History and Welsh History. Professor Rogers isn't a native Welsh speaker, you see. He's quite fluent, but it's different if you're not born to it, isn't it?"

  "And you are a native Welsh speaker?" Evan couldn't resist asking.

  "Not me. Good Lord, no. I can barely stammer through Iechyd Da! He pronounced it Yacky da. I'm an archeologist and I'm currently digging up a Roman camp nearby, so luckily language doesn't matter in my case. No, it's Dr. Humphries who really cares. She's been in the department as long as Rogers, you see, and Welsh history is her speciality. She's very bitter that the chair went to Rogers."

  "Bitter enough to want him out of the way?"

  Dr. Skinner gave an embarrassed chuckle. "No, I don't see Gwyneth as the killing sort. How was he killed, by the way?"

  "Shot through an open kitchen window."

  "I see." He paused, considering. "So anyone could have done it. It would be easy enough to slink into that large garden, hide out in the bushes, and wait for the perfect chance. If one believes the papers, some young people do it for sport these days, just for the fun of watching someone die." He looked up as if the thought had just crossed his mind. "Presumably Missy knows he's been killed. How is she taking it?"

  "Very calmly so far," Bragg said.

  "Yes, she would. What a trouper. She's a saint, that woman."

  "What makes you say that, sir?" Bragg was quick to ask.

  "As I said before, Martin wasn't the easiest man in the world. He liked everything his way, all the time, and heaven help the person who upset him. I don't imagine that Missy had an easy life with him. In many ways he was like an overgrown child. Hewas sent off to boarding school at seven, you know. It's my personal belief that they stunt one's emotional growth. Martin was emotionally frozen at seven. If he didn't get his own way, he'd have a temper tantrum. But from what I saw, Missy was quite good at handling him-like an efficient nanny, you know."

  Evan had been watching Skinner's face as he spoke. He was making a supreme attempt to stay calm, casual, and disinterested. He's sweet on her, Evan decided. And if she was secretly sweet on him, they'd have a perfect motive for doing away with Martin Rogers right there in front of them.

  "Did you have much chance to observe Professor Rogers at home?" Bragg was asking.

  "We went round there quite often, as a matter of fact. Martin liked to hold faculty meetings there. Most of the rest of us aren't married, you see, and Rhys Thomas's wife is a God-awful cook, so it made sense. Missy always puts on a wonderful spread for us, and Martin likes to hold court in his own castle. We call him "God" behind his back. You know, God has spoken, let no one contradict. Only joking, you understand, the way one does."

  Bragg nodded. "The way one does. You say that Professor Rogers wasn't easy to get along with, that he wanted his own way. That sort of attitude leads to conflict, doesn't it? Had there been any major clashes recently?"

  "Life with Martin is a series of ups and downs," Skinner said. "The amazing thing is that when everything is going smoothly, he's the most amiable chap in the world. Entertaining, witty. One can go out for a pint with him and have the best of evenings. Then something goes wrong, and you realize that you can't stand the bastard."

  "Where would I find the rest of the History Department faculty?" Bragg asked.

  "The rest of the department? What time is it? Oh my God, quarter to four. I'm due to lecture in fifteen minutes so I'm afraid I have to get going. Dr. Humphries will be coming back to her office from a tutorial. Rhys Thomas has already gone home, I think. The office will have his address. Jenkins and Sloan-they'll probably be having a cup of tea in the common room. And Badger is out with a group of students at a dig."

  "Badger?"

  "Yes. Badger Brock. He's our historical anthropologist. Very dedicated, almost obsessed. He was furious when Martin slashed his budget for-"

  He broke off, realizing what he was saying. "I'm not telling tales out of school," he said. "I'm late for my lecture, and think you'd better talk to them all yourselves."

  Skinner had only just left when Dr. Gwyneth Humphries came flying down the hall, with various loose garments trailing out behind her. She wore a stole of Welsh tartan, clasped with a Celtic knot, and Birkenstocks on her feet. Her hair was twisted i
nto a bun and held in place with a stick pin, also finished with a Celtic knot. She may have been close to fifty but looked younger, with a makeup-free, unlined face and clear blue eyes.

  She expressed horror and shock at the news. She couldn't think of anyone who might want to kill Martin Rogers. He could be damned annoying, she admitted, but every faculty had its academic differences. It was part of living in a closed community like a university. Personally she admired Professor Rogers's dedication to scholarship. Try as Bragg might, he couldn't get her to say anything negative nor to offer any opinions on who might have wanted Rogers dead.

  "Just one last question, Dr. Humphries," Bragg said, as they prepared to leave. "Where were you between seven and nine this morning?"

  "What a ridiculous question," she said, her fair Celtic face flushing red. "If you must know, I was at home, breakfasting with my two cats until seven thirty, then I walked to work because I live here in town only ten minutes away. I was here, in my office, by eight thirty because I had an appointment at eight forty-five with a student who is having academic problems."

  "She would have been cutting it fine if she was in her office by eight thirty," Bragg muttered, as they came out of the dark building into late afternoon sunlight. The bank of clouds had crept in and was threatening to swallow the setting sun at any moment. "But if she had nothing to hide, then why did she go red when I asked her?"

  "Maybe one does not talk to a spinster lady about her morning toilette," Evan said.

  "Breakfast with her cats-you don't think they'd vouch for her, do you?"

  "You should have asked her if she owned a car," Evan said. "The Rogers's house is quite a distance from the town center."

  "Are there really people in the world who don't own cars these days?"

  "There are plenty of old ladies up in the villages where I live who have never learned to drive," Evan said. "Then their husbands die, and they have to rely on public transportation. I just thought that Dr. Humphries looked like the sort of woman who'd get around on a bicycle."