set slightly apart from the centre of town. Its Georgian facade lacked the grandeur of the colleges in the city centre, but having passed through its unpromising entrance, she found herself in a cloister that opened onto a large and beautiful sunken quad with buildings on three sides. To the left stood a row of medieval cottages, to the right a four-storey Regency terrace, and at the far end an ancient stone wall beyond which lay a formal garden. She stood and admired the vista for a moment: an age-old secret hidden from the world outside.
‘Can I help you, ma’am?’
She turned to see a college porter emerging from the lodge, a small office set just inside the entrance.
‘I’m here to visit Sonia Blake.’
‘Is she expecting you?’
‘No,’ Jenny answered truthfully.
He shook his head. ‘The college isn’t open to visitors this afternoon. You can’t come in without an appointment.’
‘I’m not a visitor,’ Jenny said, pointedly ignoring his rudeness. ‘I’m the Severn Vale District Coroner. I’m here on business.’
‘Oh.’ He drew back his shoulders, but offered no apology. ‘I’ll call up for you, then.’
Jenny followed him into the lodge, a room which could hardly have changed in a hundred years. As the porter went behind his desk, she cast her eyes over the rows of pigeonholes, the foot-worn flagstones and the thick distemper paint peeling from the walls.
‘Ah . . .’ the porter said, setting down the phone. He was looking past her to someone who had appeared in the doorway behind her. ‘There’s Mrs Blake now.’
Jenny turned to see a bespectacled, dark-haired woman in her late thirties, with the serious, intense look of one with much on her mind.
‘Sonia Blake?’
‘Yes,’ she answered, the single word enough for Jenny to detect her American accent.
‘Jenny Cooper. Severn Vale District Coroner.’ She hesitated. ‘I believe you knew Adam Jordan.’
A look of dismay crossed Sonia Blake’s face. ‘What about him?’
Jenny glanced over at the porter, who had tactfully absorbed himself in his computer. ‘I’m afraid he’s dead, Mrs Blake – last Monday night.’
Sonia Blake spun sharply and stepped out into the cloister. Jenny followed her, uncertain how to proceed.
After a few paces Sonia wheeled round, her eyes welling with tears.
‘How?’
‘It seems he jumped from a motorway bridge, at least that’s what the police have concluded. His wife has no idea why. It seems you were one of the last people to see him. I thought you might be able to cast some light.’
An involuntary sob escaped from Sonia’s lips. She pressed a fist to her mouth. ‘Come to my room.’
Jenny followed her out from under the cloister and along the length of the Regency terrace. Each of its evenly spaced doorways was numbered, and they entered at staircase six. According to a hand-painted sign inside the entrance, Sonia Blake’s room was on the second floor. They climbed four creaking flights of stairs in silence and arrived outside a heavy outer oak door painted black. Sonia fumbled for keys, and unlocked it to reveal a smaller, inner door that led into a spacious study.
She gestured Jenny to an armchair, one of the few pieces of furniture not smothered with books and papers. Too agitated to sit, she stood at one of the two elegantly proportioned sash windows that overlooked the quad.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Blake. I had no idea if you knew or not.’
‘It’s all right. There’s never an easy way.’
‘No.’ Jenny allowed her a moment to collect herself. ‘I don’t mean to be intrusive, but can I ask what the nature of your association with Adam Jordan was?’
‘Purely professional.’ The answer came out a little too defensively to be entirely convincing. ‘We’d only met a couple of times. I write about international development. I was doing some research on Africa and needed to talk to someone with recent first-hand experience.’
‘I see,’ Jenny said. ‘I understand
‘Can I help you, ma’am?’
She turned to see a college porter emerging from the lodge, a small office set just inside the entrance.
‘I’m here to visit Sonia Blake.’
‘Is she expecting you?’
‘No,’ Jenny answered truthfully.
He shook his head. ‘The college isn’t open to visitors this afternoon. You can’t come in without an appointment.’
‘I’m not a visitor,’ Jenny said, pointedly ignoring his rudeness. ‘I’m the Severn Vale District Coroner. I’m here on business.’
‘Oh.’ He drew back his shoulders, but offered no apology. ‘I’ll call up for you, then.’
Jenny followed him into the lodge, a room which could hardly have changed in a hundred years. As the porter went behind his desk, she cast her eyes over the rows of pigeonholes, the foot-worn flagstones and the thick distemper paint peeling from the walls.
‘Ah . . .’ the porter said, setting down the phone. He was looking past her to someone who had appeared in the doorway behind her. ‘There’s Mrs Blake now.’
Jenny turned to see a bespectacled, dark-haired woman in her late thirties, with the serious, intense look of one with much on her mind.
‘Sonia Blake?’
‘Yes,’ she answered, the single word enough for Jenny to detect her American accent.
‘Jenny Cooper. Severn Vale District Coroner.’ She hesitated. ‘I believe you knew Adam Jordan.’
A look of dismay crossed Sonia Blake’s face. ‘What about him?’
Jenny glanced over at the porter, who had tactfully absorbed himself in his computer. ‘I’m afraid he’s dead, Mrs Blake – last Monday night.’
Sonia Blake spun sharply and stepped out into the cloister. Jenny followed her, uncertain how to proceed.
After a few paces Sonia wheeled round, her eyes welling with tears.
‘How?’
‘It seems he jumped from a motorway bridge, at least that’s what the police have concluded. His wife has no idea why. It seems you were one of the last people to see him. I thought you might be able to cast some light.’
An involuntary sob escaped from Sonia’s lips. She pressed a fist to her mouth. ‘Come to my room.’
Jenny followed her out from under the cloister and along the length of the Regency terrace. Each of its evenly spaced doorways was numbered, and they entered at staircase six. According to a hand-painted sign inside the entrance, Sonia Blake’s room was on the second floor. They climbed four creaking flights of stairs in silence and arrived outside a heavy outer oak door painted black. Sonia fumbled for keys, and unlocked it to reveal a smaller, inner door that led into a spacious study.
She gestured Jenny to an armchair, one of the few pieces of furniture not smothered with books and papers. Too agitated to sit, she stood at one of the two elegantly proportioned sash windows that overlooked the quad.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Blake. I had no idea if you knew or not.’
‘It’s all right. There’s never an easy way.’
‘No.’ Jenny allowed her a moment to collect herself. ‘I don’t mean to be intrusive, but can I ask what the nature of your association with Adam Jordan was?’
‘Purely professional.’ The answer came out a little too defensively to be entirely convincing. ‘We’d only met a couple of times. I write about international development. I was doing some research on Africa and needed to talk to someone with recent first-hand experience.’
‘I see,’ Jenny said. ‘I understand
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