"Generations of shepherds survived perfectly well," Evan said.

"Yes, but they didn't have to get down the hill to catch the bus, did they? If it goes on like this, I'll have to wear my anorak and hiking boots to school. There's no way I'd make it down that hill in ordinary shoes and not lose them in the mud."

"I'll run you to school in the car," Evan said. "That way you can change out of your boots and look presentable when you get to school."

"Are you sure it won't make you late? I don't want you to start off on the wrong foot with your dictator."

"He wants us to meet at the Bangor Police Station at eight thirty. I can do that easily. Come on. We'll slither together."

Hand in hand, they picked their way down the track, while the wind whipped at their raincoats and sheep scattered in alarm at the sight of them. By the time Evan arrived in Bangor, the storm had subsided to a steady, unrelenting rain. Evan had dried off and was making a cup of tea when the other officers came in, looking windblown and miserable.

"God-awful weather," Bragg complained. "I forgot how much worse it gets the further west you go, but I expect you're used to it, aren't you, Evans."

"Born with webbed feet, sir," Evan said.

Wingate and Pritchard chuckled, and even Bragg managed a smile. "Right. I stopped by HQ on my way in, and they should have a forensics report for us by the end of the day. I hope they took all the pictures and casts they needed of the footprints because any evidence in that garden will be washed away by now."

"So what's on the agenda for today?" Wingate asked.

"We go back to the university and have another chat with those history professors," Bragg said. "We need to find one of them who is ready to dish the dirt. They were all far too polite and well mannered yesterday, didn't you think, Evans?"

"Absolutely," Evan said. "I got the feeling they might have been ready to tell us a whole lot more if there had been more time to chat."

It was the closest he could come to letting Bragg know that his rapid-fire approach might not always be the best. Bragg nodded.

"Right, especially that Humphries woman. Evans, I'd like you to go back and speak to her in Welsh. She may say things to you that she'd not say to the rest of us. And I think I'll go and speak to the widow again. There's a lot more we need to find out about the rest of Rogers's life: what relatives he had living close by; whether there might have been any disputes with family members-over a will, for example; whether he belonged to the darts club or the golf club or the County Council."

"Whether he had a mistress," Wingate suggested.

"Oh yes, and you think Mrs. Rogers would tell me that, even if she knew?" Bragg chuckled. "She's definitely a proud woman, Wingate. I get the feeling she's not going to tell us anything she doesn't want us to know. And if she did it, I reckon she's going to be a tough nut to crack."

"You don't really think she did it, do you, sir?" Pritchard asked. Then he flushed as Bragg stared up at him. He had fair, sandy hair and a boyish face that made him look even younger than he was, and he was clearly still ill at ease with his new boss.

"Why do you think that, Pritchard? I'd say she was still the most obvious suspect."

"If you were going to kill someone, would you call the police right afterward?"

"If I thought I could get away with it, I would. An innocent person would obviously call the police immediately, and she'd want to appear innocent, wouldn't she? I'll take another crack at her today, see if I can rattle her at all."

"Vee have vays of making you talk," Wingate said, in a fake German accent. "So what do you want Pritchard and me to do?"

"Let's see. What else should we be doing right away?" Bragg looked around the group.

"If I may make a suggestion about something we shouldn't overlook, sir?" Evan began.

"Oh, and what is Hercule Poirot going to tell us to do now?" He grinned, then realized that Wingate and Pritchard weren't smiling. "Okay, Evans. What is it?"

"The students, sir. I don't think we should overlook them. They'd know if one of their professors was not acting normally yesterday. And if one of them carried a grudge, felt that Professor Rogers had failed him unfairly perhaps, or was going to fail him, he might have taken matters into his own hands."

"That's a good point, Evan," Jeremy Wingate said. "I was thinking along the same lines."

"Of course. That goes without saying." Bragg waved a dismissive hand. "We were always planning to get to the students in good time. But what do they teach you in basic training-always start with the most likely suspects, and they are the people closest to the victim. His wife, his colleagues, his relatives, if he has any. So Wingate, why don't you go with Evans and you can chat to your students and professors, then Pritchard can come with me to see how the widow is holding up today."

The storm might have died down in the middle of the town, but up on the hilltop where the university was perched, it was a different story. Rain buffeted the car windows and wind whipped the bare trees into a crazy dance as Evan drove up the steep road. He parked on a double line as close as possible to the History Department building.

"For once it's good to be on official business," He commented to Jeremy Wingate, "but we've still got a good hike. The students here must be tough."

The full force of wind hit them as they opened the car doors, and it drove them up the hill as if an invisible hand was pushing them. They were drenched and out of breath as they stepped into the warmth and quiet of the building foyer. From the receptionist in the office they learned that Dr. Skinner was giving an early lecture until ten, but nobody else would be teaching until that hour. If they'd already come in, they'd be in their offices or making a cup of coffee in the staff common room.

They went along the hall and found Dr. Gwyneth Humphries in residence in her office, Dr. Rhys Thomas in his.

"You have your chat in Welsh with the Celtic witch lady," Wingate said in a low voice, "and I'll talk to Rhys Thomas. I don't see why we should waste time by having two of us present at each of these interviews, do you?"

"Of course not," Evan said. "I think Bragg only wanted to have one of us standing behind him to make him seem more important. He asked me to take notes, but he's never once asked to see what I've written. It was just to keep me in my place."

"Yes, he's got a thing about you, I've noticed," Wingate said. "He perceives you as a threat. Why is that, do you think?"

Evan shrugged. "I got some publicity for a couple of cases I helped solve, I suppose. Not that I've ever sought out publicity."

"Of course not. No, I've already spotted that our Bragg has a very fragile ego. One has to tread carefully around him. And you know damned well that we'll do the spade work on the case, and he'll take all the credit."

"Probably." Evan chuckled. "Well, it's good for the soul, isn't it?"

"I've no particular wish to improve my soul." Wingate slapped him on the shoulder. "Meet you in that little staff common room in half an hour then."

Gwyneth Humphries looked startled to see Evans at her door and even more taken aback when he spoke to her in Welsh.

"I suppose I can manage to spare you a few minutes," she said, hastily tidying up papers on her desk, "but I can't think what else I can possibly tell you that hasn't already come out. And why didn't you tell me you spoke Welsh yesterday? I much prefer using my own language in my own country, if you please."

"Inspector Bragg, who is my boss, isn't fluent enough to conduct his interviews in Welsh," Evan said.

"He's not that effective in English either, is he?" There was a twinkle in her eye as she sought to guage whether Evans was on her side or not. "Rather a rude and unpleasant man, I felt."

"Not the greatest social skills in the world, I'm afraid; but I'm sure he's a good policeman, or he'd never have been given the job," Evan said.

"No? In our world, inadequacy on the job results in being shoved upstairs," she said dryly.

"In your particular department?" Evan asked.

"Well, no, I wasn't trying to infer . . ." She was flustered now, playing with the long, knitted scarf she wore today. "Martin Rogers-well, he knew his subject all right. He was quite a lively lecturer. But he only got the professorship because he was a man, and it's all old-boys together, as usual. He was at school with members of the board, you know. But he knew nothing about Welsh history, which, after all, is what the department should be all about."

Evan let her trail off into silence. After a moment she shifted uncomfortably and said, "That doesn't imply that I resented him enough to want him dead. I was actually quite fond of Martin in my way."

And she blushed again.

"You must have had time to think about his death by now," Evan said. "And maybe you've come up with your own suspicions. Can you think of anybody at all who might have wanted Martin Rogers dead?"

She hesitated for a while. "Martin wasn't always an easy man," she said slowly. "We've each had our little run-ins with him over the years. I've had to fight for increased visibility for the Welsh side of the department. Paul Jenkins clashed with him immediately upon his arrival over politics. Paul's a rabid socialist you see, and Martin was staunchly conservative. Martin sat in on Paul's first lectures and accused him of coloring history with his own brand of politics. Hot words were exchanged over freedom of speech."

"And the others?" Evan asked. "Dr. Rhys Thomas? Sloan?"

"Olive has managed to glide under Martin's radar so far. She's definitely the type of person who avoids conflict at all costs. But Rhys Thomas-Martin accused him of plagiarism in an article he published. Sparks flew about that."

"How long ago was that?"

"Last academic year."

"And David Skinner?"

"Poor old David. He's too meek and mild to stand up to anybody. Martin walked all over him-swapped his classes around, downplayed the findings at his dig."

"And what about the other chap out at the dig? Badger something?"

"Brock. Dr. Ernest Brock. They nicknamed him Badger. Well yes, Martin couldn't stand him and, in fact, has been trying to get rid of him. Dr. Brock's a good man actually. Enthusiastic. The students like him. But he's hopelessly messy and undisciplined. He has cardboard boxes stacked with potentially valuable finds. His records are so fuzzy that nobody but he can understand them. Martin was the world's neatest human being, so naturally Brock drove him mad."

"If he was trying to get rid of Brock, might that not have provided a good motive for murder?"

She burst out laughing. "Dear me, no. If you knew Badger . . . he took great delight in baiting Martin. If anything it would have been the other way around. I'd have believed that Martin might have taken a potshot at Badger." Then she shook her head violently so that her long earrings danced. "This is all ridiculous. Of course we argued from time to time. Of course there were hurt feelings and thoughtless things said. But nobody decides to murder another human being for those reasons."

Evan nodded. "I tend to agree with you," he said.

Dr. Humphries started to gather up papers. "I really have to go," she said, "I lecture on the Black Death at ten. It's one of my most popular classes. Amazing how ghoulish the young are, isn't it?"

"Speaking of the young"-Evan followed her out into the hall-"what about students? Can you think of one of them who might have had a particular grievance against Professor Rogers?"

"Not that I know of. Students have always got some kind of grievance, but I'd have heard if it was anything big. They are not shy about expressing their opinions these days, you know."

"Tell me one more thing." They were almost at the front door now. "Was Professor Rogers one for the ladies? What did the female students think of him?"

"Martin was-could be-very charming." She paused to toss her scarf over her shoulder. "He was, however, devoted to his wife. And you'd never have found him making a grab for a female student. Such behavior was just not in his character. I really have to go now." And she fled.

Again there was just the hint of embarrassment. Had she and Martin Rogers ever had an affair? Evan wondered. And what about the meek and mild Dr. Skinner over whom Rogers habitually walked? Didn't such people eventually snap?

He made his way back down the hallway, deep in thought. Wingate was in the small staff room, nursing a cup of instant coffee with Paul Jenkins and Olive Sloan.

"How did it go?" he asked.

"Interesting," Evan said.

Paul Jenkins looked up from his coffee. "Has Gwyneth been spilling the beans about the rest of us? About David's sordid affair with Martin and Badger filching the department funds to bet on the horses?" He looked at their faces and laughed. "Just kidding," he said.

"Not particularly funny," Wingate said, "given that a man is lying in the morgue with a hole through his head because he represented such a major threat that somebody had to kill him."

"Sorry." Jenkins made a face. "Actually, I think it's pretty beastly, but I think you're barking up the wrong tree if you're trying to find some deep, dark secret here. We're just a typical university department, and our biggest squabbles are about whether a certain document dated from 1257 or 1258."

He stopped talking as Rhys Jones and David Skinner came in to join them. Skinner reacted to the presence of two policemen again. "Christ, not more interrogations," he said. "Are we to be browbeaten until one of us confesses? I thought I'd told you everything yesterday."

"One thing we forgot to ask you, sir," Jeremy Wingate said easily. "It's about your movements yesterday morning."

"My movements?" Skinner looked bewildered.

"Yes. Where were you between about seven thirty and eight thirty?"

"That's easy enough. Snoring my head off. I don't have a class on Thursdays until eleven, so I don't surface before nine. Sinful, I'm sure, but true."

"And you have no one to vouch for that?" Wingate asked.

"He wishes," Jenkins quipped.

"No, no one." Skinner shot him a look.

Suddenly the door burst open, and a young man barged in. He made a dramatic picture with his leather jacket and shoulder-length black hair that had been blown every which way in the wind. "Have you heard the news, chaps!" he shouted. "Somebody's finally done it! They've put old Martin Rogers out of his misery!"