Jonty, immediately on guard, asked, “Did he specify what these unnatural affections were?”
Robshaw nodded. “That he liked little girls. And not in the way that any normal man might like them. It isn’t true, and Empson was livid. He went storming up the stairs, but Seymour was out. I’d seen the cad go off towards the porters’ lodge, earlier, although I didn’t say, because Empson would have hared after him and knocked his teeth out. I managed to talk some reason into him, and he decided to take the matter to Owens.”
If Robshaw had realised he’d shown Empson to possess both motive and inclination to wallop Seymour, he wasn’t showing it. Jonty continued. “When did this happen?”
“Last week. Rumour has it that Seymour was summoned to see Owens, with a view to being sent down but he was given a final reprieve. Not the first final reprieve, or so the college gossip also goes.” Robshaw rolled his eyes. “And, in the interests of accuracy ,while I can vouch for the incidents with Empson’s letter as I saw it with my own eyes, the rest is nothing other than college conjecture.”
“Thank you for being so scrupulous.” Jonty folded his notepad shut. The young man was clearly flagging and the information he’d provided so far was enough food for thought for the moment. What had happened between in the week leading up to Thursday that had been the final final straw?
Jonty’s stomach began to rumble as he left the sick bay and headed for the chaplain’s rooms, so much so that he advanced from amble to trot. B staircase wasn’t far away, even without taking a shortcut across the grass, and the chaplain’s rooms should turn out to be much more comfortable than an undergraduate’s.
So it proved, Thompstone’s warm greeting matching the homely atmosphere he’d created in his quarters. He settled Jonty at a little table for two and poured both sherry and soup. Small talk consumed them as they consumed the food, chatter about mutual acquaintances in Cambridge soon turning to possible mutual acquaintances during the war years.
“Nobody understands except an old soldier. Or an old padre,” the chaplain said, as he finished his last morsel of bread. He clasped his hands together on the table, fingers twitching. “The terror. The noise. The ridiculous mixture of boredom and constant fear that so many of our lads faced. What we have heard we can never unhear and what we have seen we can never unsee.”
“Indeed. Anyone who spent a night in a foxhole might have stories to relate that those who stayed home would barely credit.” Jonty caught a strange expression appear on Thompstone’s face; a brief flicker of anxiety followed by hope.
“Mrs. Sheridan said yours would be a sympathetic ear.”
“Ariadne, as I think we can safely call her, both of us being old and I’d hope dear friends of that remarkable woman...” Jonty took a breath, having slightly lost the thread of what he was saying, “is usually correct.”
“I spent a night cowering in such a hole, and it changed my life in more ways than one. I’d never been subject to such continual danger, and will admit I was frightened out of my wits, and yet I found hope and courage there too.” The chaplain left the table, going to his desk to fish something out of a draw. A framed photo, of a dark, handsome man in military uniform, as Jonty saw when it was given him to inspect.
“An old colleague?”
“Army surgeon, although he works at Addenbrooke’s Hospital now. He kept my morale up that night in the mud and gore.”
“Then he deserved a medal. Do you keep in touch?” Jonty kept the question light and airy—he’d already guessed at what the answer might be, at why that photograph was stored where it was, but they’d moved onto delicate ground across which he didn’t want to take a false step.
“We do. He has a house in Grantchester and I often visit him there for a spot of rest and recuperation. It makes a pleasant change from the environs of Assumption, this blend of cloister and hurly-burly. He is an excellent host.” The warmth and pride in the chaplain’s voice was unmistakable; so might Jonty talk of Orlando.
Jonty had on occasion heard men say that they could easily spot somebody who was “so”, but he didn’t hold with that theorem. It relied too much on stereotype, on expecting that all men who preferred their own sex were limp wristed, lisping, epicene creatures. None of these things applied to Thompstone—nor, he hoped, to him or Orlando. Jonty phrased his next question as carefully as he had the previous. “I have no doubt his company must provide an excellent haven from the rigours of college life. Professor Coppersmith and I can sit in our garden and feel we are a million miles away from all work and cares. Does that make sense?”
The chaplain nodded. “I envy your situation. On a number of counts. Is it odd to say that I miss the companionship there was in France?”
“Not at all. For all the horrors, there was an intense camaraderie at times.”
“Certainly.” Had Jonty misread the clues? Was Thompstone simply lonely?
“Intense male friendship can be a blessing above all others. David and Jonathan knew it. I have found that with Dr. Daley.” The chaplain studied his hands. “It is a shame that the world as a whole is neither a tolerant nor an understanding place.”
David and Jonathan? The love that was wonderful, passing that of women? Clues read correctly, then. “No, indeed, especially for a man in your profession. Even with such a splendid biblical precedent set.”
Thompstone smiled, wistfully. “How have you managed, Dr. Stewart? To walk together without leaving a set of footprints, if you follow me?”
“We’ve been fortunate. We’ve been careful, too, in terms of how we act and what we say when we’re in public, but we never underestimate the impact of luck.” Jonty would always count that as one of their blessings. “The nature of the university does allow one a degree of hiding in plain sight, although Professor Coppersmith and I have never taken advantage of, for example, the occasional craze for men to walk arm in arm. That would be to tempt fate, I feel.”
The chaplain nodded. “And I suppose that if a man has all he needs at his own fireside, then he does not need to run the risk of seeking it elsewhere. I found all I needed in that foxhole and had I not, I would never have been brave enough to go looking for it.”
“Perhaps it came to find you. A fortuitous serendipity, if that isn’t tautology.” Just as he and Orlando had been blessed with, when Jonty had sat in the wrong chair in the Senior Common Room.
“Tautology definitely, serendipity perhaps.” Thompstone’s wistful smile turned to a frown. “Have you ever come under threat of exposure?”
“We have. Once in particular, although the threat itself was veiled. It pains me to say it, but the perpetrator was Dr. Owens himself.”
“Oh!” The chaplain was clearly horrified. “I won’t ask for the details, although I assume that all was settled amicably? Unless, of course, your being here is as a result of—”
Jonty raised his hand. “No. The matter was resolved long ago, to the satisfaction of this party if not quite to that of Dr. Owens. I have to confess that we applied a little pressure of our own in return. Hardly Christian to fight evil with evil, I know, but we had little choice.”
“We are only human, not angels. Not this side of heaven, anyway,” Thompstone added, with another flash of his charming smile. “Would it be presumptuous for me and my…um, friend to invite you and Professor Coppersmith to dinner, when this business is all resolved?”
“Not presumptuous at all. Why shouldn’t four friends keep bachelors’ hall for an evening?” And if Orlando was annoyed that invitations were being accepted on his behalf, he would surely appreciate that one couldn’t deny a reasonable request from a comrade. “I have another question, although it might seem odd.”
“I have no experience of murder enquiries, so everything seems a touch odd at present.”
“It’s every bit as confusing at times asking the questions.” Jonty concentrated on his notebook, only glancing up sharply as his query came to an end. “Earlier this morning, when I was crossing to J staircase, I h
ad the distinct feeling—or so my mother would have called it—of somebody intently watching my back. Was it you or someone else or did I simply dream the sensation?”
“I confess that it was me.” The chaplain bowed his head penitentially. “There was no reason other than thinking ahead to the conversation we’ve just had. Whether I could risk such candour simply on the promise of somebody being sympathetic, and with no guarantee of what that understanding would encompass.”
“Ah, I see. Thank you.” An entirely plausible explanation, yet Jonty wasn’t sure it was the whole story. Thompstone had definitely seemed apprehensive and despite their frank discussion still appeared to be worried about something, and perhaps with good reason. Unfortunately, the chaplain’s candour had also meant he’d given himself a reason to have been one of Seymour’s victims, and thereby a possible motive to dispose of the lad.
Chapter Four
Orlando watched out of the window with great amusement as his lover came flying across the grass towards the master’s lodge. Jonty, who wasn’t looking where he was going, almost collided with Dr. Panesar who was coming in at right angles. The pair only managed to avert disaster with a last-minute change of course that almost brought them into collision again. On the whole, it was better than watching a pantomime.
The two fellows soon both appeared—breathless and flushed—at the dining room door, apologising to their hostess for both their tardiness and their condition.
“No need to apologise,” Mrs. Sheridan said, indicating chairs for them to take. “I wasn’t expecting you until later, Dr. Stewart, as I know Reverend Thompstone had intended to invite you to luncheon, and so his note on your behalf was no surprise. Were you successful in your endeavours?”
“I was indeed. I hope I—we—haven’t missed any vital part of the discussion or you’ll have to say it all again.”
“We’ve been keeping the conversation merely to college matters, Dr. Stewart,” Orlando said, amused at his lover’s discomfiture. “You have missed nothing pertinent to Owens.”
“I have no excuse as valid as Dr. Stewart’s, madam.” Panesar made an extravagant bow over Ariadne’s hand. “I was simply busy with an experiment that could not be left. I don’t really deserve to gather up the crumbs from under your table.”
“Nonsense!” Ariadne reached over to a silver dish cover, which she lifted with a theatrical flourish to reveal a laden plate. “We’ve simply had a cold collation and yours is waiting here. Sit, eat, and listen.”
Orlando and Dr. Sheridan took it in turns to relate their successes of the morning. The story of the aunt brought a surprised gasp from Jonty, then a gesture of self-deprecation as he explained that this fact made possible sense of something else he’d come across but that he’d not steal their thunder at this point.
“The case is showing every sign of being much more complex than the police believe it to be,” Ariadne observed contentedly.
“I wish the redoubtable Wilson and Cohen were still the officers in charge of such investigations. They’d not have fallen for the simplistic approach, would they Dr. Stewart?” Orlando turned to his lover for agreement.
“Indeed they would not. And this affair is far from simple.” Jonty brought out his notebook. “As I see it, nothing I found this morning contradicts what Owens told you, although I have yet to interview either the student who heard the row or the one who has the room under Seymour’s. I did turn out tales of inter-staircase rivalry and something little short of blackmail.” Clearly relishing the murmurs of interest at the mention of extortion, Jonty launched into a detailed account of his findings.
“Far from simple indeed,” Sheridan observed, after Jonty finished his account with a brief description of the lunch he’d taken with the chaplain, and a simple opinion that he believed Thompstone was still worried about something although he’d not been able to get to the bottom of it.
Orlando felt certain there was further information to be shared on that front, vowing to winkle it out of Jonty when they were alone, but even without whatever it was, there was plenty of food for thought laid on the investigational table. “Do you believe one of the recipients of these letters might have killed Seymour?”
“I think it’s possible. At the very least we will be able to cast some doubt on this being such a cut and dried case.” Jonty turned to Dr. Sheridan. “Do we have to prove him innocent? Isn’t establishing some reasonable doubt the most the vice chancellor can hope for in so short a time?”
“I can better answer that after I see him later today. Alas, uncertainty may not be what he wants to be presented with.”
“It may be what he has to settle for, my dear,” Ariadne said, with the most charming and tender smile Orlando had ever seen on her face. A feminine version of the special smile Jonty kept for him.
“I have to confess,” Dr. Panesar cut in, sheepishly, “I have another dose of ambiguity to offer. I have been asking some questions of my own this morning.”
“Have you? How splendid.” Jonty cuffed Panesar’s arm. “And what have you found out?”
“That some of the fingerprints on the weapon are smudged and that it seems possible the last person who handled it wore gloves.”
“What?” Every voice in the room apart from Panesar’s chorused the word.
“How on earth did you find that out?” Orlando was the first to break the astounded silence.
“From my colleague, Dr. Jardine. We were working on a test together this morning, and as we did so, he told me about what the police know.” Panesar appeared uncharacteristically smug. “He’s an Assumption man himself, so is doubly informed.”
“You collude with an Assumption man in your experiments?” Orlando couldn’t believe his ears. How extraordinary, and how terrifying. Panesar’s scientific research was notorious for putting the university at risk: one day he’d likely produce an explosion which would wipe the university, and perhaps half of East Anglia, clean off the map. Either that or produce an invention as earth shattering as the steam engine or the telephone, and as potentially useful as either a time machine or a medicine to cure the common cold.
“I collaborate indeed. Surely true scholarship should know no boundaries of partisanship?” Trust Panesar to be the only one not to carry on the famous feud. Not a Christian by name or faith, but one in action.
“You’re a seven-day wonder. A seven-year wonder!” Jonty cuffed his colleague’s arm again. “And you said ‘doubly informed’. What did you mean by that?”
“That Jardine doesn’t just rely on Assumption SCR gossip for his information. He helps the police quite often, discovering ways in which science can aid their endeavours. It isn’t only Bernard Spilsbury who performs such services.”
“A seven-decade wonder,” Sheridan averred. “If I was wearing my hat I’d doff it to you. Did Jardine have any other information to share?”
“He did.” Panesar, grinning, was clearly relishing his investigative role. “The blow was right handed, given the direction of the wound, and likely to have been landed when Seymour was sitting and the assailant standing behind and slightly to one side. The blows, I should say, to be accurate.”
“After, or during, which he fell to the floor? Given where he was apparently found?” Orlando sought clarification from what would hopefully be (albeit at second hand) an objective source.
“Possibly. I was able to glean from Jardine the configuration of the room as the police found it. While he couldn’t give me access, he had the good sense to provide me with a diagram.” Panesar produced a sheet of paper, which he laid out on the table.
“I had no idea before today that Assumption had men of such perspicacity in it.” Jonty confessed. “This case will teach us all a thing or two.”
Orlando was presently more concerned with the scene of the murder than with inter-college rivalries which had lasted for, and would no doubt go on lasting, decades. “So where was the body? And where might he have been sitting when first struck?”
&nbs
p; “Seymour had probably been seated at his desk, which as you can see is the other side of the room from the door. That has been deduced from the newspaper and overflowing ash tray on the desk top. Not a lot of evidence of his having work in hand. His body was found a couple of feet towards the centre of the room, so he may have stood up after the first blow to fend off the rest. Jardine says the doctor wasn’t sure. What he does believe,” Panesar added, “is that the first blow wasn’t fatal in itself, which might accord with the ‘standing to defend himself’ theory, because Seymour had a wound to his right forearm, as well.”
“Well, well. Go on, please,” Sheridan encouraged.
“It appears the last blow wasn’t necessary to facilitate death. It was administered post-mortem, for reasons unknown.” Panesar turned to his hostess. “Mrs. Sheridan, I know you have a scientific frame of mind, so I have assumed that I don’t need to temper what I say, but if I have overstepped the bounds of decency, I apologise.”
“No apology needed. I take it as an honour that you should address me as you’d address any of the men gathered here.” Ariadne took in all present with a gracious wave of the hand. “I daresay the ordinary women of England see and hear things which would not only astonish their delicate counterparts but might shock one or two of this august company.”
“I have no doubt that is correct but perhaps,” Sheridan responded, with an affectionate twinkle, “you had better not enlighten our sensitive masculine ears.”
What sounded like a snigger came from Jonty’s direction. It was immediately followed by a more fitting, “The number of blows suggests there was strong emotion—one might say hatred—involved, rather than an act of self-defence in response to an attack from Seymour.”
“And if the victim was sitting when the first blow came, that might appear to eliminate self-defence entirely,” Orlando pointed out.
Jonty nodded. “The fact of the smudges and the gloves throws things wide open. Anybody could have handled that weapon, especially if it had been discarded on the landing as Owens says.”
Lessons in Loving thy Murderous Neighbour: A Cambridge Fellows Mystery novella (Cambridge Fellows Mysteries) Page 5