The Priory of Finchelsea III.

Dr. Barton, her hair having been subjected to a two-second brushing, came down the stairs of the East Bloomsbury Hotel feeling a great deal less than hospitable. She had thrown on her tweed suit and the now crumpled white blouse that she had worn at the lecture, and looked like what she was - a professor who had been woken in the wee small hours of the morning by a mysterious caller at her hotel.
The night had been a blast. Not. She'd been introduced by an English woman with what had to be the world's most annoying voice. "Ladies and gentlemen," the woman had started. Lil Barton hadn't seen any of either, just a gang of geeky students who she figured were either deeply into comic books (which was sad) or who didn't have anything else to do that night (which was also sad). "Dr. Barton lectures at St. Luke's College, Wymondham," and the annoying female had mispronounced Wymondham. She'd said it phonetically, not as it was actually pronounced, 'Windham'. "Lilian is the author of a number of books on symbology, including Angels and Apostles: The Symbolism of the Catholic Apostolic Church and The Symbolism of your Parish Church," great, Lil had thought. She wants to use my first name. I never gave her permission. And only my Mother ever calls me Lilian, anyhow.
"Right now Lilian's just a face to us, but I found an article about her in her local newspaper," the woman flourished a copy of the Eastern Daily Press, to Lil's further annoyance. That had to be from when she had been involved in a rather public mystery involving the theft of a couple of roof bosses from Norwich Cathedral. "According to the Student Union at St. Luke's, Lilian has the shapeliest legs of all the lecturers. Her male students say that she has a voice like custard..."
That had been the final straw. Not only had the irritating woman called her Lilian three times now, she was trspassing on very personal ground. If Dr. Barton had been feeling better, she would have been able to think of some witty put-down. But she wasn't, so she just screamed into the microphone. It had worked, though.

And now for the mysterious visitor. Dr. Barton made her way carefully down the stairs, into the hotel lobby.
The woman standing by the desk wore a long black raincoat and a pair of dark glasses. Which was kind of odd since it was a warm, dry night, and it was, of course, dark outside. Dr. Barton steeled herself.
"Hello?" Her voice didn't sound like custard now, she thought, or if it did it was shark-infested custard.
"Dr. Barton?" Finally, someone who wasn't going to try to be pally, Lil thought.
"Sure, that's me."
"Detective Constable Raquel Jones, Scotland Yard. So no cracks about the name. You were going to meet Dr. Llewellyn Pryce-Rees-Evans-Jones tonight?"
"Sure, but I felt so mad at life after the UCL lecture that I went out and beat up a couple of juvenile delinquents instead, then came back here and threw myself into bed. Has he reported me as a missing person?"
"No. He's dead," DC Jones took a polaroid from her pocket and showed it to Dr. Barton, who stared at it in horror.
"What sort of sick..." she began.
"He did it to himself." DC Jones explained.