Lessons in Loving thy Murderous Neighbour: A Cambridge Fellows Mystery novella (Cambridge Fellows Mysteries)

by Charlie Cochrane

  “You’ll not need to move now.”

  “No, although I hope you’re not implying that I’d have caused the man’s death on those grounds. I didn’t like him but I’d not have harmed him, beyond a single punch. And I even managed to restrain myself from that.” Empson laid down his glass. “In all conscience, I couldn’t harm anyone. My brother fought in France, Professor Coppersmith, as I believe you did. This country has seen enough senseless killing, has it not?”

  Orlando couldn’t help but agree with that, too. “You were here on Thursday morning?”

  “I was. I heard Owens stomp past my room just before ten—I clearly didn’t realise it was him at the time—then he went up the stairs and knocked on Seymour’s door. I wondered if the master was here to give an ultimatum for him to move rooms.”

  “Could you hear whether the argument concerned that issue?”

  “No. I couldn’t hear the content, just voices that became louder as the conversation turned increasingly heated and descended into shouting. Then the door slammed, Owens came down the stairs like a herd of elephants, and I saw him go out into the court. Then I got back to my reading.”

  “Did you hear any other sound upstairs after the door banged?”

  Empson rubbed his fingers across his brow. “I thought I did but then I realised I couldn’t have. What I mean is that I thought I heard something get knocked over on the staircase, but there isn’t anything there to be knocked over. I went and checked later that day, when all the commotion had died down, but the landing was quite clear so I suspected I imagined it. Is it important?”

  “It might verify something we’ve been told.” Orlando made a note, but didn’t give further elucidation. No leading of the witness. “Did you hear anything else later on?”

  “Well, there were the usual comings and goings downstairs. Fitzpatrick—that’s our gyp—was pottering around as usual, cleaning the windows at one point and whistling some Scottish air. He whistles quite well, not the usual tuneless drone Seymour used to inflict on people.” The student rubbed his chin this time, contact with his face perhaps some adjunct to thought. “Then I saw the chaplain come along later—I’m not sure when, exactly, and he has such a quiet tread you can hardly hear him. It wasn’t long after that I heard footsteps overhead, and then a shout and a bit of commotion, then Reverend Thompstone came flying down the stairs shouting at Fitzpatrick to say that Seymour had been murdered. No words minced or trying to cover things up for the sake of our tender ears.”

  Was the chaplain’s action the natural response of an innocent man? Or the overreaction of somebody trying to cover up the facts? Although if he’d been the murderer, who had been hiding in Robshaw’s room? Back to the facts. “In the interests of precision, I must establish one or two things. Would there have been time enough for the chaplain to have hit Seymour with the knobkerrie?”

  “I suppose so, had he got it to hand when he’d walked through the door, and if he’d taken Seymour by surprise so not had to encounter resistance.” That concurred with what Panesar’s friend Jardine had said. Empson looked up at the ceiling, turning his head from side to side as though measuring. “Although I suppose in that case the weapon would have had to be out of its normal place, which is on the wall furthest from the door, above the desk.”

  Which it was, if Owens was to be believed. The notion of someone picking the knobkerrie up from its place on the staircase, on the spur of the moment, then walking in, striking the student and walking out again was tenable, notwithstanding they’d relied on luck for the execution. But weren’t many successful murderers blessed—if that was the right word—with good fortune?

  “And did you hear any noise from upstairs, or on the stairs, between Owens crossing the court and the chaplain arriving?”

  “Alas, not. I had to go to G staircase to use the toilet. Some idiot’s blocked ours.” Empson briefly glanced up at the ceiling again. “I left not long after the master went and came back a little before the chaplain arrived. I’d been chatting to the captain of the cricket eleven. Trying to wangle my way into the team, although I’m afraid I don’t have the natural all-round talent of somebody like Poulton-Brown.”

  A parade of thoughts trotted through Orlando’s mind, the first being that Empson’s glance at the ceiling might have signified he thought Seymour had been responsible for blocking the plumbing system. The notion that somebody had deliberately caused the facilities to be out of action followed hard on its heels; had the murderer himself tried to minimise the number of people who might be present that day? In which case was the murder premeditated rather than spur-of-the-moment? Empson seemed to be over egging his alibi for the time in question, although the cricket captain should be able to confirm his statement. Although perhaps the lad was simply embarrassed at seeming to have spent so long in his toilet cubicle.

  “Do you entertain any theories as to who might have killed him?”

  “If I knew, I’m not sure I’d tell you. I’d rather send the man a bottle of champagne and half a dozen cigars.” Empson spread his hands. “Yes, I so sound callous, but I’m sure you’d rather hear the truth than fabrication. I genuinely can’t make the first guess as to the killer. Most people disliked Seymour, but I know of no-one who would have taken that dislike as far as murder.”

  “And did you see anyone present that morning who was out of place? A stranger to the college, perhaps, who shouldn’t have been here in the normal run of things?”

  “No. And it would have been highly unlikely for that to have happened, anyway.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  Empson leaned forward, conspiratorially. “Because there are only two gates to the college, front and back, and the porters have been watching both of them like hawks for the past week. It pains me to confess this, but chaps have been inviting in unsuitable guests, so Owens and the bursar have stamped down on casual comings and goings. Everyone has to sign in; if they can’t pass scrutiny they’re chucked out.”

  “Thank you. I’d better have a peek at that visitors’ book as soon as possible.”

  Which he did, although suspicious entries for Thursday morning found he none. As Ariadne had predicted, the mystery had indeed proved to be a “locked college” one.

  Chapter Six

  Dinner at Forsythia Cottage may only have been a simple dish of cottage pie, albeit one cooked to perfection, but the conversation over it was as full of spice as any curry.

  Jonty shared what Owens had told him, Orlando followed suit with the products of his afternoon interviews, then Jonty capped it all with the information he hadn’t dared to share at the master’s table, no matter how broad minded the company had been. The story of the chaplain and the handsome surgeon, the wary discussion about avoiding blackmail: the only thing he omitted was the likely invitation to dinner. That could be saved for another day.

  Orlando whistled at the revelations. “Well, well. That confession about his private life puts him as much in the frame as anyone for receiving nasty letters, if not more so for the murder, given that he reportedly found the body. All assuming he’d actually got one of those letters. Why didn’t you ask him that, by the way?”

  “I felt it would have been a question too far. We can get Ariadne to broach it if need be, if she hasn’t already done so.” Jonty stretched, wearily. “That’s not the only thing continuing to puzzle me, though. Including why he watched me cross the court. I know the explanation he gave, but I’m certain he’s holding back something.”

  “Perhaps he knows who did the murder and can’t reveal it because he heard it under the sanctity of confession? And he watched you in that idle sort of ‘staring into vacancy’ manner you adopt when you’re puzzling over what Shakespeare actually got up to with his beautiful boy.” Orlando chuckled.

  “That’s certainly a possibility. However, I’d like to point out, in the interests of accuracy, that you ‘stare into vacancy’ too. In your case, though, I can see the numbers streaming out of your ears, accompanied b
y integral signs and whatever it is that looks like a capital ‘e’ and means you’re totalling something.”

  “Summation.” Orlando pushed away his plate. “That was truly delicious. Is there pudding?”

  “You know there is, seeing as it’s sitting not two yards away, on the sideboard, so stop playing coy.” They helped themselves to cold fruit tart and cream, taking it through to their drawing room to eat by the fireside. “You implied there were other things bothering you. What precisely?”

  “What Fitzpatrick said about Robshaw’s illness. I may have got this wrong but I remember when I was a little boy, Lavinia came over all spotty and Mama knew straight away it was chicken pox. She said that you couldn’t mistake the disease for measles.” Jonty licked his spoon, which was as bespattered with red as his sister had been. “It stuck in my brain, as we all had to be inspected every day for signs of it appearing.”

  “Hm.” Orlando took a fortifying spoonful of tart. “But Robshaw told you the nurse was being overcautious. Because of what had happened to her daughter.”

  Jonty conceded the point with an inclination of his head. “True. What if somebody used that knowledge about the cause of the little girl’s death to ensure that Robshaw’s room was left unoccupied?”

  “That could only be either Robshaw himself or Fitzpatrick, surely? Robshaw we discount, unless you think he was pretending to be ill, so it comes down to whether the gyp was trying to get the student out of there.” Orlando waved his spoon, which fortunately had been relieved of all its crumbs. “In which case, what motive could Fitzpatrick have? Unless this taradiddle about his being the mysterious cousin is true and Owens has tried to send us up the blind side.”

  “What if Fitzpatrick received one of those letters? The way he denied it left plenty of scope for him not quite to have lied.” Jonty coaxed the last piece of tart from his bowl. “And then there’s the business of what Owens did or didn’t say as he crossed the grass.”

  “Something else, too.” Orlando consumed another bit of succulent pastry and ploughed on. “Do you remember that quip Dr. Panesar made on Friday evening when we got this commission?”

  “Which one? He makes so many.”

  “The one about it being more in keeping with Owens’s character for him to pretend he’d been assaulted and had been forced to hit Seymour to protect himself. All joking aside, Owens is clearly trying to protect his cousin, for whatever reason and whoever that may be. Then there’s all the nonsense with the gloves, which he clearly didn’t want to discuss. What if he found Seymour dead when he arrived and suspected the cousin was responsible? He then tried to muddy the waters.”

  Jonty nodded, slowly. “But Owens was heard to argue with the lad.”

  “Well, yes and no.”

  “Yes and no? What kind of a response is that for a mathematician to give?” Jonty put down his empty bowl, left his seat and plonked himself on Orlando’s lap. “Art thou mad in Cressid’s love? Or Jonty’s?”

  “Behave.” Orlando didn’t tip him off his lap, though. “People heard an argument between two people, and from the location and circumstantial evidence they’d have been certain it was Owens and Seymour. What if Owens made the noise for both parties?”

  “Oh, you’re thinking of his gift for imitation.” Jonty rubbed the top of his lover’s head. “Very clever. That feat would require quick thinking and a lot of nerve but he’s possessed of both. Would it have influenced his alleged taking and throwing away of the weapon he was supposed to have been attacked with?”

  “Oh, yes. That would have been entirely faked.” Orlando was clearly warming to his new theory. “It was never thrown into a corner, he just made noises that might be interpreted as something being discarded, should he have been heard. If you imply afterwards that such a noise was made by such a thing, then people would be inclined to believe you, assuming the timing was right.”

  Jonty realised he’d spotted a potential spanner in the works, but he’d let things run for the moment. “Talking of timing, when would Seymour have been killed in this scenario? Not long before Owens arrived, or else when the doctor came he’d have noticed the discrepancy. That the lad had been dead when he was supposedly quarrelling.”

  “If the doctor was competent, yes. Do we know that he was for sure? Is there not a risk this case is too awash with so called facts based on nothing but assumption and coincidence of timing?”

  “Is that a pun?” Jonty chuckled.

  “Is what a—no, it’s not. Had it been intentional it would have been funnier.”

  “I’ll believe you. Not sure I believe your new theory, though. There’s an important element of timing you may have forgotten about.” Jonty tapped his finger on his lover’s not inconsiderable nose. “Did you poke this attractive item into the matter of what was heard from Seymour before ten o’clock?”

  “No.” Orlando looked suitably disconcerted. “I hadn’t come up with my theorem then.”

  “Very true, oh king of my heart.” Jonty gave him a consolatory kiss. “We clearly haven’t been able to establish whether Seymour was alive when Owens left him, because both your potential witnesses put themselves out of earshot, one way or another, but neither seem to have mentioned anything suspicious being heard or seen before the arrival of Owens, when they were around to witness it.”

  “Ah, yes. Both Empson and Poulton-Brown struck me as being intelligent young men; if there had been an unusual noise at that point I suppose they’d have reported it?”

  “One would expect—oh! Orlando, we’ve been blind.” Jonty rubbed the top of his lover’s head again, this time with his knuckles. “We’ve forgotten that they’re dunderheads. Very good at answering the question set, at least sometimes, yet not always capable of extrapolating to a different situation. In this case, talking about what they might have heard earlier. Although, if the murder didn’t happen after ten o’clock, who was hiding in Robshaw’s room when Poulton-Brown went past, and why? Surely the killer—are we still calling him Blinker?—would have got away before Owens arrived or between his leaving and the chaplain coming?”

  “Perhaps Blinker was in a panic. Especially if he was emerging from Seymour’s room at the same time Owens came to the bottom of the stairs. He’d have been desperate to find somewhere to hide, then mightily relieved to find Robshaw’s door open.”

  Jonty nodded. “I can imagine Blinker standing behind said door worried sick that Owens had arrived a moment too soon and was about to raise the hue and cry.”

  “Then getting a tremendous shock when Owens appeared to be having an argument with a dead man. Imagine what was going through Blinker’s mind.” Orlando took a sip of tea. “One minute he’d have been worrying how he’d get away and suddenly he’d have found the perfect opportunity for covering his tracks falling into his lap, for the second time running.”

  “Second time?”

  “Robshaw’s door being the first. Who’s being blind now?” Orlando smirked. “Blinker could use the confusion of the body’s discovery to simply blend into the assembled crowd, then fade away to wherever he’d come from.”

  “Fade away into a nightmare of worry, I’ll warrant.”

  “Indeed. Waiting for the net to close?”

  “Quite likely. Perhaps still puzzled that it hasn’t. And wondering what on earth Owens was doing arguing with himself and is doing now, keeping quiet.” Jonty eased himself off Orlando’s lap, stretching and rubbing his legs. “Sorry, touch of cramp.”

  “How do you think my legs feel? Squashed to pieces.” Orlando jiggled his thighs, which was no doubt effective but, Jonty felt, a touch too stimulating to watch, especially with a case to discuss. “So, who would Owens be protecting? Blinker’s surely not Fitzpatrick, a gyp being unlikely to hide in Robshaw’s room when he had his own to go to.”

  “He could be protecting Thompstone, but he couldn’t have been hiding in Robshaw’s room as he was clearly seen arriving at J staircase. Although I suppose Thompstone might have killed Seymour ea
rlier, slipping away before visiting the room a second time. What better way to cover his tracks?”

  “That’s taking a huge risk of discovery in between.” Orlando steepled his fingers together in thought. “And he wasn’t seen earlier. No, if the chaplain killed Seymour, he did it just before he raised the alarm. Although if the alarm raised was a genuine one, the commotion Thompstone made could have created that third opportunity for Blinker. In this instance to slip down the stairs.”

  “I’m afraid that horse is starting to lose ground, for me. Fitzpatrick would have noticed all these comings and goings, surely? That man misses very little, I’m certain.” Jonty yawned and stretched. “Who do we know was in the melee and were any of them definitely not seen to arrive from elsewhere? One of the students? The mysterious Harris?”

  “I frankly have no idea.” Orlando stretched too, a touch theatrically. “Would it be an old chestnut to suggest we oil the wheels of our minds in the manner we’ve always found useful in the past?”

  Jonty sniggered. “Why bother to dress the notion up in fine words? Why not say, ‘Jonty, old thing, I’ve a hankering to roger you stupid so are you in the mood?’”

  Orlando’s fleeting expression of outrage was soon replaced by one of amusement. “Guilty as charged, m’lud. But the experience will be doubly enjoyable if it brings us enlightenment.”

  “I would not disagree with that.” Jonty took his lover’s hand. “If music be the food of love, perhaps love is the food of efficient deduction.”

  “You do talk twaddle.” Orlando clasped Jonty’s hand in both of his. “And I wouldn’t have you any different.”

  “You can have me anyway you like, tonight,” Jonty murmured, “so long as we solve this problem.”

  ***

  Next morning, Orlando wore a smug little grin on and off from the moment he’d first risen, although he steadfastly refused to reveal why. By the time they sat down to breakfast, Jonty was beside himself with curiosity.