Lessons for Suspicious Minds

by Charlie Cochrane

  “What about getting your teeth into Tuffnell’s link to Livingstone?”

  “I have a horrible feeling that’s simply our old friend coincidence.” Jonty fiddled with his cufflinks. “Orlando’s just been upbraiding me for mentioning my old friend intuition rather than his staunch ally logic, but something doesn’t add up here. As the footman might say, I’ve got a feeling in my bones that one of these horses won’t run. Anyway, how did your interview go?”

  “Not as well as I hoped, even though I won the game.” Mr. Stewart gave a précis of what he and Derek had discussed. “That bit about the girlfriend was intriguing. He started to say the chap’s name, then stopped himself. Archibald, I thought. Arch-something.”

  Orlando looked up. “Could it have been a title rather than a name? Archdeacon?”

  “Gray?” both the Stewarts said in unison.

  “Oh, use your brain, Orlando. You must be tired,” Jonty continued. “This mystery man’s dead, so it couldn’t be our friend who didn’t ring in the night.”

  “You’re right.” Orlando rubbed his eyes, like a little boy. “I should get to bed. Good night, Jonty, Mr. Stewart.”

  “Good night, old man.” Mr. Stewart turned his back and moved slowly to the door, just in case anything was in the offing. But Jonty was hard on his heels, after an affectionate “Good night” and what might have been a cuff to Orlando’s arm.

  “Solicitors!” Mr. Stewart boomed out. “Of all the addlepated idiots, I’m the worst. He said ‘solicitors.’”

  “What do you mean, Papa?”

  Mr. Stewart ushered them both back into Orlando’s room and shut the door behind them. “Sorry to disturb you again.”

  “Not at all. This sounds interesting.” Orlando looked suddenly much perkier—amazing, the reinvigorating effect of a clue.

  “When I asked if he knew Livingstone, he said no because the family didn’t use that firm of solicitors. I hadn’t mentioned Livingstone’s job at that point.” Mr. Stewart paused, triumphantly.

  “That sounds promising. Let me be devil’s advocate.” Jonty had settled himself at Orlando’s feet. “Perhaps he read it in the paper, at the time of the inquest? Maybe he noticed Tuffnell’s name to do with the case.”

  “Perhaps. He does have a good memory. Although why not just say that in the first place?” Mr. Stewart felt his triumph starting to crumble.

  “More likely the dowager mentioned something after we briefed her,” Orlando said, demolishing the triumph completely.

  “She’d have had precious little time to do so.” Jonty tapped his friend’s knee, then used it to lever himself to his feet. “I think it’s worth following up. Well done, Papa.”

  They left again, but Mr. Stewart lingered at his son’s door, reluctant to say good night just yet.

  “Do you want to talk about something, Papa? Can’t it keep till morning?”

  “If you had a moment, I’d be obliged. It’s about . . .” He inclined his head in the direction of Orlando’s room.

  “In that case, come in. He has remarkably sharp hearing when he wants,” Jonty added, as he closed the bedroom door behind them.

  “Is he all right? Seems a bit down. Your mother’s concerned.”

  “He’s brooding a bit. Over the unknown grandfather. Desperately wants to find out about him but keeps saying it’d be pointless to try.” Jonty slipped his jacket onto the back of a chair. “You know how he gets if he can’t complete every little bit of a puzzle.”

  Mr. Stewart sighed. “I hope we don’t have a repeat of last year’s nonsense.”

  “Amen to that.” Jonty winced at the memory of Orlando going off on his own in search of his unknown family. “I don’t think he’d be so daft. He may have scared us witless when he disappeared, but I suspect he scared himself even more. He won’t go off on a wild-goose chase, but the fact that it is a wild-goose chase will eat at him. I may have made things worse.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Tried to see if I could get anywhere with his grandmother’s solicitor. I had this mad idea that I could lay the solution to the mystery at Orlando’s feet.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Sweet Fanny Adams, as they say. And he suspected I was up to something and I had to confess so it all came out.” Jonty looked unusually depressed. “It pains me to say so, but I think I’d rather he did go walkabout than suffer nobly. At least the case helps.”

  “We’ll see what turns up tomorrow. I’ll try to get hold of Rodgers, and you can thrash the truth out of Ronnie . . .”

  “I hope you don’t mean that literally. If any thrashing’s to be done, it should be Mama in charge. I can still feel some of the whacks she ladled onto my backside.” Good old Jonty, always trying to play a scene lightly even when he was feeling low.

  “Orlando’s right. You do exaggerate.” Mr. Stewart decided to leave before parental pride swamped him. “Good night, my boy.”

  “Good night, Papa. Thank you for . . . everything.”

  “My pleasure.” Mr. Stewart cuffed his son’s shoulder and left. Now he’d have to make a further report, although he wouldn’t be telling his wife about Orlando’s state of mind. She might end up handcuffing the man to the banisters so he couldn’t run off again as he’d done before.

  Jonty regretted having to go solo to Ronnie Tuffnell’s house in deepest Berkshire, with Orlando having been so low the day before. The bloke still seemed out of sorts over breakfast, to the point that Jonty nearly insisted on them sleuthing together, but making a fuss wouldn’t work—he’d dig his heels in and become even more introspected. Better to pretend nothing was wrong.

  Jonty also regretted not having his motorcar to hand, as he had to endure the slow ride in the carriage to the station, the train journey and then another carriage ride at the other end, so he arrived at Ronnie Tuffnell’s house in less good a mood than he might have been.

  The property was small but respectable, and a swift glance through the window indicated that somebody was carefully packing up the contents. Getting ready to run?

  Jonty knocked on the door.

  A thin, spiteful-looking woman answered. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so. I’m Dr. Stewart. I’m looking for Ronnie Tuffnell.” Jonty tried his most winning smile. “It’s very important.”

  “Oh.” The smile didn’t actually seem to be winning. “I shall see if he’s available. Wait here.”

  “Tell him I’m a friend of Derek Temple.” Jonty frowned as she retreated down the hall. “And maybe you could find a please and a thank you en route,” he added sotto voce, before remembering that Orlando wasn’t at his side so the sarcasm would be lost on thin air.

  Ronnie Tuffnell was the antithesis of his housekeeper—assuming that’s who the thin woman was, as opposed to an unusual choice of mistress. He came bounding along the hallway, dextrously avoiding a pair of packing crates. “Come in, please do. And be careful of this mess. I’m on the verge of moving.”

  “To somewhere bigger?” Jonty eyed the evidence of clutter.

  “Absolutely.” Ronnie beamed. “My poor old uncle died a couple of months ago. Will’s still in probate, but his trustee has asked me to move into his place and keep it going while everything clears. It’ll be mine eventually.” He stopped. “But I’m guessing you know all this, if you’re a pal of Derek’s?”

  “Most of it, yes,” Jonty said, as he was ushered into the conservatory and offered a seat.

  “Mrs. Morfew’s getting us some coffee.” Ronnie slumped into a chair. “You’re a godsend. I needed a rest from all the sorting, but I felt too guilty to take it. You’ll be here about Reggie, of course.”

  “That’s right.” Jonty tried to hide his surprise at Ronnie’s candour.

  “The dowager has got a bee in her bonnet about it not really being suicide. Bless her, she didn’t know what a pickle he’d got into.”

  So much for any thoughts of catching this witness unawares. “We’ve heard about his debts.” No point in
pussyfooting, now. “We’ve also heard that if he’d faced things out and deferred payment, he might well have been covered. Your uncle’s estate.”

  “I know. Ironic, isn’t it? I told him to try to negotiate, but he was too proud by half. He was going to have one last fling at the tables and see if he struck lucky. He clearly didn’t.” Ronnie looked suddenly very tired. “I hate the thought of him being in such a corner that he couldn’t even talk to me about it, and then to take his life in that manner. Awful.”

  “Indeed. Although you didn’t see fit to mention that to the coroner? Your brother’s likelihood of being able to clear his debts if he could have bought some time?”

  “No, I didn’t. It felt like kicking a man when he was down and not able to defend himself. I hated every moment of that inquest. Please God I’ll never have to attend another.”

  Jonty wasn’t sure he believed a word of that, although Ronnie was a credible witness. Matter-of-fact, as Strevens had said. “I believe he’d become upset about another young lad who’d killed himself. Someone from his club in London?”

  “Oh. Oh, yes.” Ronnie seemed a touch flustered, fiddling with some papers he must have been sorting earlier. “Nasty business. Life cut short. Terrible.”

  “Did Reggie feel responsible?”

  The papers went flying. “Yes,” he said, scooping them up again. “Sorry, I’m all fingers and thumbs. He was cut up that he hadn’t been able to do anything to prevent it. Terrible business. Chap called Harroway. Cut his throat with a razor.”

  “Shocking.” Jonty would have to check up on that case himself. “Forgive me asking awkward questions, but I’m surprised, like you, at the method your brother chose. Why not shoot himself? That would have the advantage of being quick.”

  “I know. I’ve asked myself that a dozen times. There’s an obvious answer—he hated guns, always had since he was little—but that shouldn’t have made a difference as a last resort, should it?”

  The pragmatism that Strevens had remarked upon; here it was again. And it felt like Ronnie was telling the truth, no matter how much Jonty wished to catch him out. Although . . .

  “I suspect I’m being obtuse, but this makes no sense to me.” Captain Tuffnell, that’s what Reggie had been addressed as. “How could he have progressed in the navy if he hated guns?”

  “Merchant marine, old man. Not that the family particularly approved, but he’d had his heart set on it from a boy. Our old uncle was a seafaring man, though, which is why he wanted us to have the money, as he’d no children of his own.”

  “You’re a sailor too?” Jonty’s mind raced wildly, thinking of stories he’d heard about sailors and why the uncle might not have been the marrying kind.

  “Tried to be. Gammy leg did for my glorious career.” Ronnie smiled and slapped a shin that might just have been wooden.

  Jonty ploughed on. “At the inquest it was said that Reggie might have got himself into difficulties before. About a woman.”

  “Claudette. Yes.” Ronnie smiled. “Dr. Stewart, I’ll assume you’re man of the world enough to know that some ladies are happy to share their favours with gentlemen for fiscal reward. She was one such, but Reggie was very fond of her and she looked after him well when he was home on leave.”

  “Couldn’t he have married her?” For all that Jonty’s domestic situation wasn’t a traditional one, he was his father’s son, and old-fashioned when it came to his expectations of other people’s morality. “Wouldn’t that have been less scandalous? And cheaper?”

  Ronnie chuckled. “Have you no sense of romance?”

  “I’ve always assumed I did.” Jonty forced out a laugh. “I have a friend who constantly has logic and mathematics whizzing about his skull. Maybe he’s infected me.”

  “Reggie was in love with Claudette, but she couldn’t marry him. She’d already been married, when young, in the Catholic Church. They had no chance of a respectable liaison so had to try their luck in a disreputable one. It worked for them, even if it cost Reggie dearly in his pocket. He wouldn’t have begrudged a penny.”

  “And where is the lady now?” Jonty asked, but was thwarted of an immediate answer by the arrival of another lady, with the coffee.

  “Ah, thank you. I’ll pour, Mrs. Morfew.” Ronnie gently dismissed the housekeeper and set about his duties. “With milk?”

  “Please. I was asking about Claudette, and where she is now.”

  “Dead, I’m afraid. Of consumption, which is a Dumas type of touch.” Ronnie sighed, slowly stirring some sugar into his coffee in the same contemplative way Orlando did. “Don’t you find life is full of extraordinary coincidences?”

  “I do.” Annoying ones, too, if that meant another potential avenue of investigation had been closed. At least the coffee was good.

  “That’s the first time I ever heard Reggie talk about ending it all. He was in a terrible slough of despond, insisting that he didn’t want to carry on when she’d gone.”

  “We were told his first intimation at suicide was to do with money worries.” Which was a downright lie, but Jonty had to try something to puncture Ronnie’s composure.

  “Really? Well, that just shows what a load of old rot some people speak.”

  “We’ll tell the duke that you think he speaks a lot of rot, shall we?” Jonty wasn’t entirely joking. Somehow, he couldn’t warm to Tuffnell, not in the way he’d warmed to Hayes and Covington. Please God I’m not developing a taste for the equivalent of telegraph boys.

  “Tell him whatever you like. Derek wouldn’t be surprised. I’ve told him something similar to his face plenty of times.” Ronnie grinned. “You probably think I’m a heartless old buffer, but you should get this clear: I thought the world of my brother. I’d give half my fortune to get the old Reggie back again.”

  “I’m sure you would.” Jonty hoped the fact he didn’t mean a word of it wouldn’t be obvious. “Was he as popular with the rest of the Ambrosians?”

  “But of course. Why shouldn’t he have been?

  “The girl. At Oxford. The one he stole and who died in a boating accident.” Jonty was pleased Orlando wasn’t there to hear him give such a mangled description.

  Ronnie nodded. “Oh, yes. Tragic. Reggie was terribly cut up about it. Such a soft-hearted man, as he showed with Claudette.”

  “Whose girlfriend was she?”

  “Bobby Robbins’s. Or, to give him his correct title, the Reverend Robert Robbins. Top up?” Ronnie proffered the coffeepot.

  “Not just at the moment, thank you.” Not an Archibald, then? “Was he ever made archdeacon?”

  “No. That’s . . . that’s young Gray you’re thinking of.” Ronnie poured himself another cup of coffee, leaving Jonty with the distinct impression he’d been about to say something slightly different. The next part of the interview held little of value, except to corroborate Strevens’s account of the inquest.

  “Had your brother been unwell at all? Physically, I mean?” Jonty turned a fresh page in his pad.

  “Not that I’m aware of. Ah,” Ronnie said, wagging his finger, “you’re thinking he might have had something wrong with him, something he couldn’t bear? I hate to disappoint you, but he was as fit as a flea.”

  “But you did take a holiday? To buck up his spirits?”

  “Oh yes. He’d always promised himself a trip back to the haunts of our youth. So he planned it for February.” Ronnie winked. “A bit too long in the tooth for Valentine’s Day we may have been, but Paris is always lovely and we still enjoyed ourselves.”

  “And one final point to clarify. Have you come across a chap called Charles Livingstone? I believe his father and yours were friends.” Jonty referred to his notes; the two cases had become slightly muddled in his head, although he’d never admit that to Orlando.

  “I remember the old man . . .” Ronnie seemed a touch either vague or evasive. “I don’t think I ever met the son. I hear he was in business locally?”

  “He was. He too took his life in equivoca
l circumstances. Around the time you’d have been in France. We’ve been asked to investigate his death along with your brother’s.”

  Ronnie hovered over his cup, raising it to his lips but giving no indication that he’d actually drink from it. “Really? You’ve got your work cut out, then. Do you believe there’s some connection between the cases?”

  “We know there is. Your brother gave evidence at Livingstone’s inquest.”

  “Oh, I know who you mean, now. We’d barely got back when we had word, and he insisted on rushing down to say his piece.”

  “Was he upset?”

  “He was, although Reggie was never easy to read. Still waters run deep and all that.”

  “It seems an odd time of year to be visiting Paris.” Jonty slowly turned a page in his notebook. There was something about that trip that bothered him, for no logical reason.

  “Claudette,” Ronnie said quietly, as if that explained it all.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Claudette had been born in Paris, on Valentine’s Day. He wanted to visit the city then in remembrance of her.” Ronnie finally drank his coffee, then laid the cup down. “I have a favour to ask of you. Is there any chance you can leave these cases be?”

  “That wouldn’t be easy. We hate letting down our clients.”

  “I understand that, but given the circumstances, couldn’t you persuade the dowager to let matters drop? It isn’t helping Derek, you know. He was upset about it enough at the time. It’ll continue being a blight on Fyfield until it’s allowed to rest.”

  Jonty drew himself up to his full sitting height, ramrod straight. “When we’re given a commission, we pursue it to the end. We’ve been threatened before, and it made no odds.”

  “I’m hardly threatening you.” Ronnie smiled. “Just asking you to exercise a touch of compassion. Derek wouldn’t have wished this—any of it—on his worst enemy.”

  “Mr. Tuffnell.” Jonty squared up to his host, as he’d squared up to many a towering forward in his time. “I have a favour to ask you. Will you tell me where you were when your brother died?”