The Cambridge Theorem Read Online Free

resented.
    Swedenbank had drawn up against Beecroft’s other shoulder. He was keeping quiet and the scowl was gone. Smailes realized that if he had to nurse an ADC around, he could do a lot worse than Ted.
    Beecroft led them past the ornate fountain in the middle of the court and through a passageway into a second, smaller court. Smailes guessed it was probably eighteenth century, the first court obviously older. Here were simple, three-story buildings, mullioned windows, plenty of ivy. They made their way around the lawn to a staircase where he recognized Bert Ainsworth of the uniform branch through a crowd of students. He was stationed directly in front of the stairs.
    â€œExcuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” said Beecroft, with exaggerated courtesy. “Please go on with your business. The police have work to do.”
    The students backed away slightly, but showed no signs of leaving. There were maybe a dozen, men and women.
    â€œWho is it, Mr. Beecroft? Is it Simon? What’s happened?” asked a young man in a bus driver’s overcoat.
    Beecroft ignored the inquiry and marched up the stairs to the first landing. Smailes was directly behind him.
    â€œTell Bert to let no one up. No one,” he said over his shoulder, and Swedenbank retreated back down the stairs.
    On the landing he could see two men in the familiar black uniform of the ambulance service. Over their shoulders he could see another uniformed policeman whose face he knew, but whose name escaped him.
    The passageway, lit by a single naked bulb, was crowded. Beecroft indicated a door at one end.
    â€œHe’s in there.”
    â€œSmailes, CID,” he said, advancing past the ambulancemen to the constable. He could feel his pulse quicken, and he was short of breath from matching Beecroft’s pace from the lodge and up the stairs. “What we got?”
    â€œHe’s been dead for a while, sir. Hung himself. I’m Dickley, sir. Just transferred from Huntingdon,” said the constable. He seemed embarassed and at a loss.
    â€œHave you called the coroner’s officer?” asked Smailes. The ambulancemen were obviously impatient to leave, but someone had to pronounce the subject dead first. No ambulanceman would touch an obviously dead body. His unit would have to be decontaminated and he would probably lose overtime while it was out of service.
    â€œNo sir. We just checked him and closed up. Just been here five minutes.”
    Dickley was apparently hesitant on his first week with division. It would have been fine for him to get the coroner’s wagon over if the man was obviously dead.
    â€œWho found him?” asked Smailes. He knew he was putting off having to go into the room. Beecroft stepped forward. “The bedder, Mrs. Allen, sir. She’s in the kitchen.” He indicated with a nod a second room down the passageway as a short, bespectacled figure emerged from it.
    â€œOfficer? How do you do?” The man edged sideways past the ambulancemen and held out his right hand. Smailes saw that his left arm hung uselessly at his side, its fingers buckled into a claw.
    â€œI’m Nigel Hawken, senior tutor of this college. I’ve been trying to comfort Mrs. Allen. She’s quite shaken up, I’m afraid.”
    Hawken was a man in his middle or late sixties with steel gray hair, a stubby gray mustache and gold-rimmed spectacles. He was wearing blue pinstripes and a red tie with dogs on it.
    Smailes shook his hand. “Detective Sergeant Derek Smailes, CID,” he said again.
    Hawken looked agitated. He had a florid complexion and an erect, military bearing. Smailes decided he probably smoked a pipe.
    â€œWhen was he found?”
    â€œAbout half an hour ago. We called right away,” said Hawken. His voice sounded like ripe fruit.
    Smailes took the handle of the door and went in, with Hawken on his shoulder.
    The room was a small, dark study-bedroom, lined on two sides with books.