Too Many Cooks

“Hale was uncompromising in his philosophy, Mr. Goodwin, which is one of the myriad reasons I admired him and was a follower—a disciple, if you will. And do not discount this as mere idle palaver—I think I’m singularly qualified to speak—after all, I had known him nearly half again a score of years. Hale took a position and didn’t back away. He was fiercely combative and outspoken in his convictions.”

“Which were?” I asked after figuring out that half again a score is thirty.

Cortland spread his hands, palms up. “How to begin?” he said, rolling his eyes. “Among other things, that the federal government, with its welfare programs and its intrusions into other areas of the society where it has no business, has steadily—if sometimes unwittingly—been attenuating the moral fiber of the nation, and that government’s size and scope must be curtailed. He had a detailed plan to reduce the government in stages over a twenty-year period. Its fundamental caveat was—”

“I get the general idea. He must have felt pretty good about Reagan.”

“Oh, up to a point.” Cortland fiddled some more with his tie and pushed up his glasses again with a thumb, blinking twice. “But he believed, and I concur, that the President has never truly been committed to substantially reducing the federal government’s scope. The man is far more form than substance.”

That was enough political philosophy to hold me. “Let’s get to Markham’s death,” I suggested. “You say you’re positive his fall down that ravine was no accident. Why?”

Cortland folded his arms and looked at the ceiling again. “Mr. Goodwin, for one thing, Hale walked a great deal.” He took a deep breath as if trying to think what to say next, and he was quiet for so long that I had to stare hard at him to get his engine started again. “In recent years, walking had been his major form of exercise. Claimed it expurgated his mind. Almost every night, he followed the identical course, which he informed me was almost exactly four miles. He started from his house, just off campus, and the route took him past the Student Union and the Central Quadrangle, then around the library and through an area called the Old Oaks and then—have you ever been up to Prescott, Mr. Goodwin?”

“Once, years ago, for a football game, against Rutgers. Your boys kicked a field goal to win, right at the end. It was quite an upset.”

Cortland allowed himself a sliver-thin smile, which was apparently the only kind he had, then nodded absently. “Yes … now that you mention it, I think I remember. Probably the only time we ever beat them. We had a … Rhodes Scholar in the backfield. Extraordinary chap. Name escapes me. Lives in Sri Lanka now, can’t recall why.” He shook his head and blinked. “Where was I? Oh, yes. Anyway, you should recall how hilly the terrain for our campus is, which isn’t surprising, given that we’re so close to the Hudson. Innumerable times, Prescott has been cited as the most picturesque university in the nation. There are several ravines cutting through it, and the biggest one is named Caldwell’s Gash—I believe after one of the first settlers to the area. It’s maybe one hundred fifty feet deep, with fairly steep sides, and the Old Oaks, a grove of trees that looks to me like it’s getting perilously decrepit, is along one side of the Gash. Hale’s walk always took him through the Oaks and fairly close to the edge of the Gash.”

“Is there a fence?”

“A fence?” Another long pause as Cortland reexamined the ceiling. “Yes, yes, there had been—there was … years ago. But at some point, it must have fallen apart, and never got replaced. The paved, uh, bicycle path through the Oaks is quite a distance from the edge—maybe thirty feet—and there are warning signs posted. On his postprandial strolls, though, Hale sometimes left the path—I know, I’ve walked with him many a time—and took a course somewhat closer to the edge.”

“So who’s to say your friend didn’t get a little too close just this once and go over the cliff?”

“Not Hale Markham.” Cortland shook his small head vigorously, sending his glasses halfway down his nose. “This was a dedicated walker. He even wore hiking boots, for instance. And he was very surefooted—his age, which happened to be seventy-three, shouldn’t deceive you. During his younger days, he’d done quite a bit of serious mountain climbing, both out west and, er, in the Alps. No, sir, Hale would not under any circumstances have slipped over the edge of the Gash.”

“Was the ground wet or muddy at the time?”

“It had not rained for days.”

“What about suicide?”

He bristled. “Unconceivable! Hale reveled in life too much. His health was good, remarkably good for his age. No note of any kind was discovered. I should know—I checked through his papers at home. I’m the executor of his estate.”

“What about an autopsy?”