Free The Cambridge Theorem by Tony Cape

what he had learned about Simon Bowles’ personality, it could be explained.
    During lunch he had found himself ruminating on the note, irked by the knowledge that whereas you could fake a suicide, you couldn’t fake a suicide note in someone else’s handwriting. But you could use a typewriter. Should he have dusted the machine, just to be sure?
    Years of training had made him rehearse these possibilities. What was Bowles’ latest research project? Was it connected to his death? Had a third party been involved in the suicide, by contrivance or coercion? Some of these questions would be answered by the post mortem report, which would show any unusual circumstances in the cause of death.
    But then, if Bowles’ death had been somehow induced, it would be foolish to draw attention by typing a fake note. Just leave no note. After all, Bowles had attempted suicide before. As he stared at Bowles’ meager belongings he was puzzled why these questions still nagged at him. Something about the college—Beecroft, Hawken and Davies—made him uneasy. Had Hawken and Davies insisted on bringing Bowles under the tutor’s wing out of concern for his welfare, or from other motives? Certainly, the suicide was shocking, but the reactions of both men seemed exaggerated. Davies was able to identify the Russell poster, but by his own account had not visited Bowles’ room in almost two years. A good memory, simply? And then his thoughts would turn to the note, the incongruity of it.
    The state of the room had swayed him, finally. No clothes lying around, no dirty ashtrays, no books or papers out of place. Bowles was a fastidious type. He had set the plant down carefully before climbing on to the chair and looping his belt through the plant hook. He was the type who could have rolled a sheet of paper into his type-writer and written his explanation tidily, without an error. What was it Mrs. Allen had said? So quiet and shy and neat… The thought of the stricken boy’s last moments suddenly filled him with anger and disgust, a sense of waste.
    The wallet contained a little paper money, library cards, some book receipts and a dog-eared notecard with telephone numbers on it. Alan, Hugh, Lauren, Alice (work). Two of the numbers had long distance codes he did not recognize. The names were in scrawny capitals and were difficult to read. On the reverse side were a series of doodles around a question that had been overwritten again and again to make it almost illegible. It looked like, “Who flagged the fliers from Bletchley?” Derek Smailes was not sure what the reference to Bletchley meant, although he seemed to think there had been some Government offices there during the War. It was also the site of a well-known race course, which was not far from Cambridge, although a bit further than Newmarket. It seemed peculiar that Bowles might have fancied the horses. Could he have had gambling debts?
    No, it seemed probable that for whatever reason, Bowles’ frightening delusions had returned and he had killed himself in panic. The thought made Smailes shudder.
    He opened the spectacle case and saw a pair of black-framed glasses. The lenses looked fairly strong. Again, it seemed typical. Bowles typing his final note, and putting away his glasses carefully before climbing up on his chair for the last time.
    He turned to the Sudden Death report and was relieved to find that between them Dickley and Swedenbank had got it right. Under “Death pronounced by” Ted had filled in the name of Dr. Maurice Jones, the pathologist at Addenbrookes, and not the name of Detective Sergeant Smailes. Under “Relative informed” he read the name of Alice Wentworth. Must be the sister, he thought. He decided to hand carry the report up to Dearnley, despite its routine nature. He hadn’t spoken to George since The Crowe School case, and was curious to know its disposition.

    â€œWhy’d he do it, Derek?