Free Honest Doubt by Amanda Cross

had told me about; his name was Daniel Wanamaker, and his field was more or less Nineteenth Century, and Comparative, meaning Germany and France. Those were the full professors. The assistant professors were David Lermann, Eighteenth Century, and Eileen Janeer, Romantic; she also covered Seventeenth Century this year, since the third assistant professor was away on a fellowship; she had been in England the whole time, visiting holy places where seventeenth-century divines sermonized. Well, as my mom used to say, it takes all sorts.
    I made a list of the professors and held it out to Dawn for verification. She nodded affirmation. The list read:
    VICTORIAN— CHARLES HAYCOCK
(DECEASED)
AMERICAN—DONALD GOLDBERG
MODERN—ANTONIA LANSBURY
MEDIEVAL—LARRY PETRILLO
RENAISSANCE—DAVID LONGWORTH
COMPARATIVE—DANIEL WANAMAKER
ROMANTIC—EILEEN JANEER,
ASSISTANT PROF.
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY—DAVID
LERMANN, ASSISTANT PROF.
NOVEL—JANET GRAHAM
WRITING—KEVIN OAKWOOD
(ONE ASSISTANT PROF. ON LEAVE)
    Â 
    â€œSo who’s around?” I asked. I thought I might as well get started; after all, I had to begin sometime.
    â€œAt this hour, most of them are teaching,” Dawn said. “But David Longworth’s in his office.” She pointed me in the right direction.
    I knocked on the door of Professor Longworth’s office, even though it was open. I didn’t like to barge right in. He looked up and waved me in. I had the feeling he would have been glad to see anyone. He looked kind of expectant, sitting there, and I felt sorry for him.
    â€œCome in, come in,” he shouted, waving even more vigorously. I walked up to his desk and introduced myself.
    â€œI’m a private investigator,” I said. I always pause there for some expression of amazement, curiosity, or dismay.
    â€œSurely you have a name,” he said. “Even Shakespeare’s fools had names, most of them.”
    â€œWoodhaven,” I said. “People call me Woody Woodhaven.”
    â€œNicely alliterative,” he said. “Sit down. I suppose you’re the one they hired to find out who rushed Chuck Haycock into shuffling off his mortal coil.
Hamlet,
” he added as I looked a trifle puzzled.
    â€œYes, that’s me.” Or is it I? I wondered. Talking with professors always makes me nervous. On the one hand, I think most of them haven’t the wit to come in out of the rain; on the other hand, they make me feel stupid. Not a good combination, if you want the truth.
    Professor Longworth didn’t seem bothered by my grammar, right or wrong. These days he was probably used to anything; no doubt he considered himself lucky if anyone read Shakespeare, let alone talked like him.
    â€œAsk away,” he said. “You will want to know where I was on the afternoon Chuck met his Maker. Well, I was with Chuck, as was everyone else in the department, so you’d better consider me a prime suspect.” He seemed pleased with the idea.
    â€œAt the moment I’m trying to get a picture of the department, how it works, and how the professors relate to each other, that kind of thing. I came to you first because you’ve been here the longest and probably have the most measured view.” This was also a crock, but flattery always works.
    â€œThat’s very sensible of you,” he said. “Most people think the longer one has been here, the less one knows. We older faculty may not be as familiar with rock stars as we ought, but we’ve seen all the cycles come and go, and we have some sense of what works and what doesn’t. Not that anyone wants to hear it. Or anything else, for that matter. Can you imagine teaching
Lear
to a classroom of sophomores these days?”
    â€œThey must be interested if they take it.”
    â€œIt’s required,” he said. “I’d be a very lonely man otherwise. Lear complained about ungrateful children; he should have met