“They do,” Alice said quickly. “We’re committed to student evaluations of teaching effectiveness.”
“But their positions still aren’t equal,” Gregor said, “unless the grading has equal weight on both sides. Unless student grades can affect a teacher’s future as much as a teacher’s grades can affect a student’s. Is that what you do here, Mrs. Makepeace?”
Alice threw back her shoulders. “I will have to inform you that your continued use of the patriarchal form of my name will be construed by most people here as a collaboration with the white male hegemonic oppression of women and people of color.”
There were no people of color in the library that Gregor could see. He said, “That’s quite all right, Mrs. Makepeace. I’d much rather be convicted of committing white male hegemonic oppression than of dishonesty.”
Around the edge of the magic circle, somebody burst into laughter. It was tension released, but Gregor hoped it was also insight gained. It was extraordinary to listen to this flamboyant creature throw around words like “hegemony” and “oppression.” She used them as if they were incantations. When her beauty failed, this was her ritual of control.
The sounds of sirens were suddenly very close. Gregor realized that he’d been hearing them for a long time. The ambulance would have to come from the hospital, which was on the very edge of town, but he didn’t understand why it had taken the police so long to arrive. Then he remembered that there were no roads on the campus itself, only walkways much too narrow to allow vehicles, even small cars, to pass. The police had to know that. Both the policeand the ambulance would have been called in when Michael Feyre died. The ambulance had been called again, for Mark, only last night. Then, though, they’d only had to go to Hayes House, which fronted Main Street. They hadn’t had to maneuver the campus proper.
There was a commotion in the foyer and then the ambulance men came in, carrying a stretcher, in a hurry. They pushed the groups of students out of the way, and one of them knelt down next to the body. A moment later he stood up and motioned to one of the men behind him. The second man came forward with what Gregor knew was a defibrillator.
A moment later Brian Sheehy came through the crowd himself, along with a younger man in a suit as badly fitting as his own. He saw Gregor and then the body. He came over to watch.
“Think it’s going to work?” he asked.
“No,” Gregor said. “I saw her fall. We were up there.” He pointed to the catwalk. Its railing sagged and twisted where Edith had crashed through it. “I saw her before she fell. I’d bet my life we’re looking at cyanide. You could smell it.”
“Crap,” Brian said. He turned to the man next to him. “This is Danny Kelly. He’s the detective in charge of Mark’s case. I thought it would make sense to put him on this one.”
“I think so too,” Gregor said.
The ambulance men were running electricity through Edith Braxner’s body. Every time they did, the body jumped into the air, hovered, shuddered, and fell again. It was a small body. Edith Braxner had been a small woman, but not as small as Marta Coelho. Now that Gregor thought of it, Cherie at Hayes House had been a small woman, too. The only tall woman he had seen so far at Windsor Academy was Alice Makepeace. Maybe that had been arranged deliberately. It surprised him to realize that he didn’t think that speculation was entirely ridiculous.
“I’ve got a partner,” Danny Kelly said. “His name’s Fitzhugh. He’s getting names in the foyer.”
Edith Braxner’s body jumped again. Gregor felt as if the process had been going on for hours. Surely they must realize the woman was dead, and that nothing could be done for her. He looked away and just caught the arrival of Peter Makepeace, without a coat or hat, hurrying. He looked no more confident on his own turf than he had the night before at the hospital.
Peter Makepeace came up to the magic circle and looked down at Edith Braxner’s body. He did not look at his wife. “Somebody said she was dead,” he said.
“She probably is,” Gregor told him. “I would say definitely, but they’re still trying. You can’t bring back a victim of cyanide poisoning with a defibrillator.”
“He keeps saying somebody gave Edith cyanide,” Alice Makepeace said. “He’s said it a couple of times. But he can’t know. He’s just guessing.”
“But he does know these things.” It was Marta Coelho, her voice high and thin, stretched tight with strain. “He’s an expert on these things. That’s why he’s here. He’s here because Mark DeAvecca knows something, and Michael Feyre didn’t commit suicide.”