Chapter Seven
The porter Johnson didn't have a list of Gervase's tutees, but at least recalled the one who'd alerted the staff to his absence, so Jack and Phryne headed round to the lodgings of Aubrey Smith, rather than alert the more informed staff in the office to their interest. They caught him just as he was leaving the house.
"Mr Smith?" asked Jack, showing his badge. The young man stiffened, and glanced around for a means of escape. Phryne hastily intervened, stepping in front of the Inspector.
"It's Aubrey, isn't it? I'm Phryne Fisher. Aren't first names a nightmare?" she grinned.
He relaxed back off the balls of his toes and gave her a half-smile. "Phryne? Really?"
"Oh, indeed," she said proudly. "I was supposed to have been Psyche but my father was drunk, so I was a famous courtesan with a social mission instead of the beauty murderously envied by Venus. How about you?"
"My mother was to blame. She thought that with a surname like Smith I should have a first name that was romantic, and she was a big Beardsley fan." The smile became wry. "She doesn't know that I use my last name exclusively now, rather than have anyone find out my first one."
She grinned understandingly. "Can you spare us a few minutes, Mr Smith? We'd very much like to know more about the death of Professor Carstairs, and we were hoping you might be able to give us some … background colour?"
He hesitated, and then his shoulders drooped and he turned back to the front door. Letting them in, he took them up to a small bedroom which was as scrupulously tidy as a student study could be – in other words, the bed was made and there were no empty food receptacles anywhere, but every surface was covered with books and scribbled notes. Hastily sweeping some from the sole chair, he indicated Phryne should sit, which she graciously did and looked up at him; Jack closed the door and propped himself against it.
"I don't really know what I can possibly tell you," Aubrey said, slightly sulkily.
"How long had you been in the Professor's tutor group?" asked Phryne. "Who else was in it?
"Just since the start of this term. I was really pleased – he's been doing some interesting stuff on bubbles and I was hoping to get to understand his thinking."
"I'm guessing we're not talking about the kind of thing I put in my bath," laughed Phryne.
"No," he agreed. "We were studying the ways in which people will, in certain circumstances, buy investments only because they think they're going to go up in value, and for no other reason."
Jack's brow furrowed at this. "Surely that's the case for every investment?"
Aubrey raised his hands, "Sorry. I'm explaining it badly. Usually, when someone makes an investment, they think there's something about it that will become worth more later – maybe a company with a new product, or a new trade route, or something. Where there's a bubble, the only thinking is 'I don't know what it is, or what it might be worth, but it's going up, so I want some.'"
He looked out the window and heaved a sigh. "I'd actually been going to ask the Professor about it that morning. One of the classic examples of a bubble is the tulip bulb trade in the seventeenth century. People were spending ridiculous amounts of money – more than a good annual income – on tulip bulbs as investments. I wanted to ask whether there couldn't have been a rational explanation too – maybe there was a new market for these bulbs that hadn't existed before."
He turned back to her. "But now the Professor's dead, so there's no-one to ask."
"Isn't there, though?" Jack saw the opportunity and grasped it. "Wasn't he working with one of the doctoral students on something like that?"
Aubrey snorted dismissively. "You mean Chorley? Inspector, Anthony Chorley is immensely decorative but my father's spaniel is too, and will probably contribute more than Chorley to the world's knowledge of basic supply and demand – especially for biscuits," he finished cuttingly.
Ouch, though Phryne. There's something there. "Well, if not Chorley, who else is there? Anyone particularly smart in the tutor group?"
Aubrey considered. "Not really. I think the smartest is probably Henry Conway, but he's not really academic, just a canny operator. His father's a very successful businessman, and Henry wants to impress him."
He reflected. "I actually feel quite sorry for Conway, even though he's appalling company. At least I don't have to go home every night to be asked if I've made my fortune yet."
He snorted. "Not a problem Chorley's going to have."
"Oh?" asked Phryne mildly. Aubrey shot a resigned look.
"Chorley has a trust fund. He can remain a student for the rest of his life if he wants to, and no-one would bat an eyelid. In fact," warming to his subject and revealing hitherto hidden capacity for cattiness, "he could even stay in education long enough to learn some basic economics."
Jack's lips twisted in appreciation. He decided to test his theory – delicately.
"Were Carstairs and Chorley ... good friends?"
Aubrey looked at him sharply. "I was one of the Professor's biggest fans, Inspector, and it won't do anything for his memory to bring up spurious speculation of that kind." Phryne was already picking up the baton, though – Jack knew a moment's satisfaction in the way his wife his wife see almost no double take at all Oh Lord Almighty, HIS WIFE, how can two words create such an adrenaline rush? was so attuned to the direction of his thoughts. An idea nagged, but had to be shelved for the task at hand.
"Only spurious if it has nothing to do with his death, Aubrey," she pointed out and, academic that he was, he couldn't deny the logic. "We're really not interested in finding lesser crimes to prosecute."
He nodded reluctantly.
"Actually, I think they had been. Chorley used to be a pretty regular fixture in the Prof's rooms, and he would hang around for tutorials quite often. No-one really minded. It's always good to know there's someone there who will ask a stupider question." The claws, once unsheathed, were being relished in company that appreciated their edge.
"Something must have happened, though, because although he was a fixture for the first few weeks, he didn't come to either of our last tutes."
Phryne nodded in a businesslike fashion. "So we can check up on the stage of his research, and whether he'd moved on from Professor Carstairs' work. That's enormously helpful, thank you, Aubrey."
He was privileged to receive the 100-watt Phryne smile, and they were therefore almost back at the Hispano before he'd noticed they'd left.
"Are we dealing with some sort of academic Black Widow?" asked Phryne conversationally. "Finish with the provider of the current progeny of research feedback and then … kill it?"
It was a flippant question, but Jack was already on another track.
"No … it's not that, I think I'd like a word with young Conway. I could be wrong, but I've a gut feel about the root cause of the problem. If I'm right," he met her eye, "I've never known love to look so cold. Or, come to that, capitalism to look so ugly."