DEATH OF THE TOAD
William McMurray
Copyright 2011 by William McMurray
“The clever men at Oxford
Know all that there is to be knowed.
But they none of them know one half as much
As intelligent Mr. Toad!”
Kenneth Graham, The Wind in the Willows, Ch.10
The mood in the faculty lounge was one of bewilderment and incredulity. Hushed at first into a stunned silence a number of faculty members were by now clustering into small affinity groups. And with increasing calls upon the services of the bartender the gentle buzz of conversation gradually intensified into a fairly noisy hum of conjecture concerning the previous day's convocation ceremony. But despite the many witnesses that had been present there was no general agreement about exactly what had taken place. For all the speculation over the events and causes there was one unarguable fact; by whatever means the Toad was dead and there were few to mourn his passing.
CHAPTER ONE
"How in the world did he acquire that dreadful nickname?" asked Dr. Janet Gordon of her two older colleagues. "With his position and reputation as a scientist he should have commanded more respect"? she continued somewhat indignantly.
Professor John Antwhistle, senior member of the group, leaned back further in his wing-chair and paused to contemplate the pre-prandial sherry that had just arrived on their table. The Professor, a stocky figure of fifty-plus, could be counted upon for a direct, if not outrageously indiscreet, response.
"Respect, my dear, you will learn with experience is a commodity which may not be commanded. Our lately departed Principal may have discovered that fact to his rue in the last analysis." He took a healthy swallow of sherry and smiled benignly at his young colleague. "Like you, at the start of his career he was a highly promising scholar. Clever, remarkably productive as a young man. But driven by unsavoury ambitions. Watch that Janet, you see it can bring you to a bad end," and he chortled producing a ripple in his corpulent midriff as he sipped at the sherry. "I personally thought the sobriquet singularly inapt", he went on. "More of a leap-frog than a toad in my opinion. Certainly leapt over our Dean into the Principality didn't he?" and at that moment the conversation froze as the Dean himself made his way to their table.
Dean Roger Owens, his lean height intensified by his funereal suit exuded the solemnity to be expected more from an ecclesiastical figure than the respected military historian that he was. He had in tow an equally grave gentleman whom he now proceeded to introduce.
“May I present some of our learned biologists? Professor Antwhistle, Head of the Department, Dr. Gordon, and Professor Butler, General Clark Simpson.”
“Retired,” added the General as he joined the group. It was apparent that he needed no formal introduction. A noted participant and chronicler of United Nations truce keeping actions in Cyprus and Palestine the General had been the Dean's nominee for an honorary doctorate at convocation. "Extraordinary and tragic business," he observed.
"Do you really believe so?" rejoined Professor Antwhistle. "You may think life at a small college like Essex University to be pretty risk-free, relative to the Middle East that is."
The General squirmed a little in his chair and attempted to protest.
“No, no, my dear General," continued Antwhistle patting him gently on the knee and leaning forward in a conspiratorial manner. “In point of fact there are many hazards for the chief academic officer at an institution such as ours. Student sit-ins over fees, protests from the faculty about the parking situation, exhortations by disgruntled alumni who despair of our losing ways on the football field, complaints from the Board of Regents about profligate, spending on libraries and such frills. It's only a wonder the old boy didn't pop off half-way through his term instead of so fittingly at the end. And as far as the tragedy is concerned,” and he waved a hand at the far end of the lounge, "don't be misled by the sepulchral atmosphere in here. The Toad did nothing so generally acceptable in his life as the leaving! The only tragic aspect was his timing - keeling over before you were duly capped and doctored eh?"
The Dean forced a little laugh and leaned toward his military colleague as the waiter produced a tray of drinks.
"One of the hazards for visitors here is getting in the line of fire of academic jokes. I can apologize for Professor Antwhistle only as you might for the sniper who fires off an impersonal bullet at one of your truce observers," and he turned toward the Professor. "I felt for some time that the Principal was under considerable strain but seriously, John, you could not have anticipated that his collapse at convocation would lead to his demise could you?" asked the Dean, obviously deciding to concentrate on the extraordinariness of events rather than their tragic nature.
"Not at all," opined Antwhistle. He sat now in his favourite judgmental attitude with arms resting upon his waistcoat, fingertips together, performing miniature push-ups with his wrists while he spoke.
"It is commonplace, if not customary for academics to drop off the platform at convocations, although usually during the address of one of the honorary graduands rather than before, as in this case. Perhaps there is a tragic aspect after all that forestalled your remarks to us."
General Simpson bowed and returned Antwhistle's sardonic
smile to signify that he had abandoned diplomacy for the moment.
"However," he interjected, "the burden of guilt might have been
overwhelming had I been seen as the instrument of the Principal’s fall."
"Again, an accepted hazard of the campus field of combat General," the Dean added. "Antwhistle is quite correct. On occasion the academic procession has been virtually decimated by dropouts, either tripping over their regalia or dozing off during the ceremony. I’m afraid that I for one saw nothing sinister or unusual in the Principal’s fainting spell, although it was obviously necessary for the Chancellor to bring the proceedings to a premature close."
"Did he suffer head injuries when he dropped?" Janet Gordon had been a passive spectator until now. "From my seat it appeared he struck the dais rather forcefully.’’
"Dr. Tower who examined him in the Robing Room reported that he seemed quite lucid shortly after convocation," the Dean replied," so I would doubt any serious injury to the head."
"So we must attribute his subsequent fate to: (a) the heat, (b) the company and ( c) the strains of office," concluded the Professor draining the last drop of sherry from his glass. You will join us for lunch by the way?"
"Thank you," responded the General, "although I must pay my respects to Mrs. Pinkney before I catch my flight."
"Yes. I thought we would drive out directly after lunch," added the Dean." John, you know Hilda as well as any of us. Would you come along?"
A momentary cloud passed over John Antwhistle‘s eyes. "Of course, of course." The sunniness was equally rapid but forced.
"And your colleagues if they wish," added the Dean awkwardly.
Frank Butler immediately declined, but Janet Gordon hesitated long enough to allow the Professor to interject. "Yes, do join us in our morose mission, Janet. The younger Pinkney was a classmate of yours wasn't he?" Janet nodded mutely. "Good, good." He bustled off in the direction of the dining room. "Beautiful afternoon for a visit to Toad Hall!"
It was an exemplary June afternoon that showed off the golden sand-stone neo-gothic towers, porticos and crenellations of the Essex University campus as the quartet wended its way through the twisting lanes which masqueraded as college roads in Professor Antwhistle’s dilapidated auto. To Janet this antique piece of machinery contrasted strangely with the technical expertise of its owner. It seemed inconceivable to her that the man who had perfected such delicate and exacting techniques for cellular transplantation o
f minute organelles by ultramicro surgical manipulations should depend for his transport, not to say his life, on the vagaries of this unreliable vehicle.
"The paradox,” he was saying as he weaved among the student bodies obstructing the roadway, "is that although the straight line distance from the Principal's office in the University Tower to his official Residence is merely 1000 metres it requires a land approach of several kilometres, thus effectively isolating the chief executive from his academic minions."
"Yes indeed," remarked Janet." But the rear of the property is approachable from the riverbank. I and several other minions pass by regularly along the jogging trail. There is a gateway through the fence."
"Strictly a one-way mirror, Janet," her Professor replied. "Have you tried to broach this portal?"
Janet flushed perceptibly. "Well, yes, out of curiosity. It was locked, as you infer."
"Quite." The Professor responded with satisfaction. "Our Principal may join the Rat and his other fluvial friends surreptitiously by this gateway, or observe the more interesting species of road-runners on the bank, but none save he can pass therein. We ordinary creatures have to pass the guard-house and enter by the front portico." And with admirable timing at that moment the car had reached the wrought iron gates at the entrance of the official residence of the Principal.
“Behold, Toad Hall!” cried out the Professor in a loud voice as a security guard approached the driver’s window, and recognizing the Dean in the back seat, directed them down the drive toward the residence.
"Powers of rank are not to be sniffed at even in a university, General,“ the Professor observed, as he careened down the circular drive with little regard for boundaries of lawn and garden.
"There used to be a great ugly, cement urn just about here," he noted as he backed his car into a space alongside the house.
"John's contribution to campus, beautification," explained the Dean. "He found it so esthetically offensive that he had it removed."
"I hesitate to correct an artsman on the use of verbs," rejoined Antwhistle, "but you must not use the passive voice to hide a nasty fact. The proper phrase is not “had it removed”- but baldly stated -“removed it“, or perhaps even more accurately “atomized it”, along with my right rear fender two winters ago.”
The group got out and crunched its way toward the front steps along the gravel drive with the Dean and General Simpson leading the way.
"At what time did the Principal die?" Janet asked the Professor as they followed a few paces behind.
"Haven't the foggiest. Someone found his body this morning, early. Perhaps he went for a dip before breakfast. I suppose the doctor may throw some light on it."
They reached the base of the steps just as the two ahead had broken off speaking with a woman in the doorway.
"John!" she exclaimed. "How very kind of you to drop by. And it is Doctor Gordon now I presume? Please come in." They entered the cool hall-way of the massive house, crossing to a small sun-room; the latter overlooked a terraced garden tumbling down to a high iron fence at the foot of the property near the river-bank.
Like its hostess the sunroom was simple and elegant. Fragile in her slender black gown, Hilda Pinkey evoked a memory of an earlier age of gracious living as she moved from guest to guest among the few pieces of white-painted wicker furniture, glass-topped tables and hanging plants.
"A remarkable woman," observed the General to Janet as they watched the widow receiving condolences from the visitors. Indeed Hilda Pinkney betrayed no emotions of shock or grief. There was something inherently regal in her manner of coping with the tragedy; it was she who was providing reassurance to the awkward mourners by appropriate comments for those who were at a loss for the proper words. They continued around the room while the General and Mrs. Pinkney carried on with their conversation.
"Dr. Gordon," he beckoned to Janet, "I don't know if you have met our other honorary graduand, Dr. Quinn. And may I introduce Mr. Nicholas, Chairman of our Board of Regents. Gentlemen, Dr Gordon, one of our newest academic luminaries."
Jackson Nicholas, President of Raymor Electronics Corporation, was tall and lean. Dr. E.I. Quinn, Scientific Director of the University’s Advanced Physics Institute and founder of the associated commercial concern, Solarcon (which had developed and marketed devices for the conversion of light energy into electricity), by contrast was an ambling, heavy-set man. Neither of these august personages took much notice of academic small-fry such as Janet and after a few awkward moments of overhearing their conversation with the Dean she excused herself and made her way to a corner where John Antwhistle was talking with the genial Dr. Albert Tower, Medical Officer of the University’s Health Clinic.
"You mean to tell me that he didn't drown?" the Professor was saying.
"I should think there‘s no chance of that, John," Dr. Tower answered. "I wish now that I'd persisted in sedating him and putting him to bed after the convocation episode. But you know," and he looked both worried and puzzled, "I felt positive his heart was OK, It was really a typical faint, and he came out of it very quickly."
"No sign of a concussion then? Janet has some idea that the Principal may have struck his head as he fell," explained the Professor.
Dr. Tower shook his head. "Not a sign of any residual effect."
"In fact he seemed in high spirits after," said Professor Antwhistle.
"Yes, and insistent that the convocation should proceed. Was very short with the Chancellor when he realised that he had prematurely adjourned the ceremony. I couldn't induce him to lie down, or forego the reception."
"Well, you did your best Doctor," said Antwhistle, "But why do you rule out a drowning?"
"I haven't ruled it out entirely," corrected the Doctor, "but it seems quite unlikely to me. First of all the Principal was a strong and habitual swimmer. That was why he insisted on having the pool adapted for heating and lights so he was able to extend the season into the cool months and evenings. Second, he was found floating with less water in his lungs than one might have anticipated. It doesn’t prove anything of course, but I imagine that an autopsy would show that he suffered a cardiovascular accident, occlusion of the coronary vessels most probably. Not a typical drowning at all." Dr.Tower shook his head. "A very sad business for Mrs. Pinkney and the children regardless. Where are they by the way?"
"Joyce is en route from the West Coast. Jeremy should be about somewhere. Apparently he had moved out of the house quite recently but is still living in the area," noted the Professor. "I see that there's tea in the corner. Will you join us for a cup?"
But the Doctor demurred, and Janet also excused herself saying, "I really must get back to the lab, No, don't bother to drive me, I'll get the bus out by the gate," and she made her farewells to Mrs. Pinkney, escaping by the front door.
Janet had no intention of taking the bus back to the campus. As she rounded the corner by the Professor's parked car she slipped quickly down the garden path. The end of the house formed an ell along this side and the path which followed close beside terminated at a gate through the hedge that separated the front from back portions of the estate. She lifted the latch, turned back to the left, and found herself at the edge of a tessellated patio surrounding the swimming-pool. It was a large squarish pool over-looked at the far end by a cabana that obscured the view of the river, and a high cedar hedge which blocked observation from the central part of the house. A soft murmur of voices could be heard through the hedge in the
direction of the sunroom.
Janet sat down on a wooden bench in the shade of the overhang of the cabana roof. A summer breeze freshened, ruffling the dark waters of the pool and her fair, straight hair. Behind and below, along the riverbank, a soft whisper arose from the wind in the willows. How ironic she reflected, that the man referred to as the Toad should have met his end here. And what of the other animal characters in the fable? How had the Professor termed those who might have entered, possibly for clandestine reasons, by the b
ack way along the river? “His fluvial friends.” Janet thought of the two former associates of the Principal whom she had just met. The lean-faced Mr. Nicholas could well have portrayed Rattie, while the role of Badger might have been played fittingly by the portly Dr. Quinn. Dr. Pinkney had been the first Director of the Advanced Physics Institute, and no doubt he would have had much to say about the choice of Dr. Quinn, the Badger, his successor. As Chairman of the Regents who controlled the finances of the University, the Rat, Mr. Nicholas, must also have had a close working relationship with the other two men. What plots and subterfuges might Toad and his cronies, Rat and Badger, have concocted at secret midnight assignations by the willow trees? She was lost in rumination, quite unaware of the short figure that now approached.
"Viewing the scene of the crime?"
Janet gasped in surprise. “Jerry!"
The boyish face had matured little in the years since she had seen him last.
"I'm so sorry, about your father, and my barging in like this. I called with Professor Antwhistle to see your mother."
"Yes, poor mother. She has been through one hell of a lot with him and with me. Anyway, part of her troubles are finished now," said Jeremy with sigh. "I'm not trying to shock you Jan, but you must know how things were with him and me. I can't shed any crocodile tears," and he sat on the bench close beside her. There was a long silence between them and then they carried on conversing normally about the events of the past that had intervened since their last meeting.
“I heard you had returned as a member of the Biology
Department," said Jeremy as Janet eventually sprang back to her
feet. "I meant to get in touch with you but -". He left the sentence incomplete. "Well, maybe we could get together sometime after- -". "Sure," replied Janet quickly, "I'd like that. But now I really have to get along and attend to a number of unfinished things in the lab. And since I'm on shank's mare I have to move, or my dinner will be midnight, or later!"
"Still a keener Jan. I guess that's why you made it,” grinned Jerry. "And I - well, I always found other aspects of biology outside the lab to be more interesting at midnight. If you're in a rush I could lend you my bike. Janet shook her head. "Or, why not take the river route? I'll walk you to the gate." He opened a door leading from the back of the cabana to a path which followed the hillside down to the fence at the foot of the estate. The progress of the two young people was observed from the window of the sunroom.
"I see that your assistant and my son are renewing old acquaintances" remarked Hilda Pinkney to John Antwhistle.
"Quite possibly," replied the Professor. "But I must tell you about Janet. Although she may be an Assistant Professor she is no longer my assistant in any sense. Janet returned with my express undertaking that she would be an independent scientist. We work together on some projects on a collaborative basis, but she is very definitely her own person. And if she undertakes a project," and he gazed knowingly after the retreating form of Jeremy Pinkney, "you may rest assured it will be on those terms."
As she strode briskly along the river's edge Janet Gordon grimly recounted the strange and violent events of the previous twenty-four hours. Some time before the household had awakened the Principal took one of his customary swims, never to return. A straight case of drowning, she admitted, seemed improbable. A stroke perhaps, triggered in some manner by his tumble from the convocation platform? Or a heart attack resulting from a combination of stress, overwork, over consumption of food or drink? These questions and the time of his death would presumably be settled at autopsy. Perhaps the strains of his office, dealings with the Regents, disagreements with his faculty members (as witnessed by the ill-will expressed by her Professor and not rebutted by the Dean), or bad feelings in the family (as Jerry had intimated) could have contributed to medical or mental problems. Was it possible that he had overdosed himself while disturbed, by these problems,: and entered the pool deliberately to conceal a suicide attempt? Janet had to admit that she knew too little to make informed guesses among the alternatives.
The river curved at this point in a lazy meander, and, looking back in the direction from which she had come, Janet could see clearly the stark outlines of the Principal's house on the hill top. Jerry had almost reached the rear of the cabana, and as she watched he pushed open the door and passed through out of sight. What did she really know about him or the members of his family? Joshua Pinkney, his father, was a shadowy persona to her. He must have risen rapidly in academic life. She recalled that prior to his appointment as Principal while she and Jerry were undergraduates together Joshua had built his Advanced Physics Institute - the “Pinkstitute”as Essex U wags had dubbed it, into a productive research unit. On the few occasions that she had visited the Pinkney household the only family members she saw much, of besides Jeremy were his mother and his sister, Joyce. The latter had more of her father's drive and: although not a particularly pleasant person she was a respected English scholar and writer. Jeremy had apparently allowed himself to be pushed into science at father's urging but he’d had no aptitude in physics or math and seemed to gravitate by default into biology. His final year was a disaster, Janet remembered. Although fairly good in the laboratory Jerry was too rambunctious and undisciplined academically to meet his course requirements. It had taken him an extra year of part time study to get a mediocre pass degree. Since then he had marked time, taking occasional jobs in restaurants, hotels and ski lodges, playing the odd stint as guitarist-cabaret singer. Hilda Pinkney had been the stabilizing influence in the family, a quiet civilized person who seemed to hold the centrifugal forces of the Pinkneys in check. Beyond that Janet knew little about the Principal's wife or her antecedents, which to judge from her accent and manner were apparently European.
Janet, a strong rapid hiker, had reached the University bridge at a straight stretch of the River Essex where the scrubby bushes along the bank were replaced by taller trees shading tiny pools and bayous. A number of fishermen were wading through the stream for the trout season was well underway on this part of the Essex. It was one of the advantages of the place, thought Janet, that there were several attractive forms of biology surrounding the University other than the academic variety which Jerry Pinkney had shunned. The sight of the fishermen with their shiny, almost metallic lines in the dappled sunlight evoked a memory of a day or two earlier. As she had jogged near the bottom of the Principal’s house, a solitary figure in the river was casting out into the stream, his glistening fishing line flashing brightly against the dark water. The figure had been obscured by the willow branches but although dimly perceived in the early morning sunshine, it seemed in retrospect to be somewhat familiar. Janet frowned at the imperfect recollection and strode up the path toward the Sciences Building.