Lessons in Playing a Murderous Tune
By Charlie Cochrane
Lessons in Playing a Murderous Tune © Charlie Cochrane, 2019
Cover art by Alex Beecroft
These are works of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or establishments, events or locales is coincidental. All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cambridge, Summer 1911
Chapter One
Jonty Stewart woke to find the morning sun streaming through a gap in the curtains of Forsythia Cottage, yet the bed beside him empty of the usual occupant. It wasn’t unusual for Orlando Coppersmith to make the most of what promised to be a lovely day, taking himself downstairs in his dressing gown to sit with a coffee in his study and ponder over some abstruse sum or other. His page would be full of squiggles and symbols, with many a neat crossing out and not a few arrows linking one bit of working to another. Jonty had seen such things in their gestational form and while Orlando’s hand was tidy and his neat to present things well applied even to rough drafts, the average set of equations resembled a trail some small sea creature might have left on the ocean bed.
They were reaching the end of the May term, with the Bumps having taken place and the head of the river crowned—First Trinity rather than St. Bride’s, alas, but their boat had finished a creditable third—and the thoughts of undergraduates were turning towards home and those of the fellows towards a couple of months of peace. Still, Orlando’s mind was never far from the wonders of mathematics, a state of affairs that Jonty could appreciate as his never strayed too far from Shakespeare’s sonnets and what clues were hidden among them. Perhaps if he went and admired the darling buds of may—did the Bard mean the month or the flower, there was a conundrum to start with—he might gain fresh insight.
Jonty leaped out of bed, stretched, twitched the curtains back to admire the blue sky, put on his own dressing gown and pottered down the stairs. Orlando was indeed in his study, although evidence of sums there was none. Instead, the man concerned was sitting is his chair, coffee untouched by the look of it, and brows knotted.
“Good morning Orlando. Lovely to see you.”
Orlando leaped in his seat, almost knocking over his cup. “Must you sneak up on people?”
“I didn’t sneak. I knocked, albeit softly. You resemble some civil war era painting, entitled When did you last see someone so consternated?”
“I’ll consternate you.” Orlando picked up his cup, sipped from it, made a face, then pushed it away. “Nothing as vile as cold coffee.”
“Yes, there is. Cold tea. And you keeping secrets from me.” Jonty moved to the desk, extended his hand and said, “It’s a beautiful day. We’ll ask Mrs. Ward to serve us breakfast out in the garden. Whatever the problem is will seem better in the sunshine and accompanied by birdsong.”
Orlando’s expression suggested he didn’t believe a word of that, but he let himself be led to the kitchen, was tolerably cheery with their housekeeper and even took himself off to find cushions to rest their rumps on rather than brave the wooden garden chairs. All the while clutching what appeared to be a folded letter which Jonty felt certain was the root cause of the problem.
Once Orlando had got a bit of sun on his face, some hot coffee in his cup and a good helping of bacon and eggs in his stomach, Jonty was ready to broach the delicate subject. “So, what ails thee, oh love of my life?”
“A possible case.”
Jonty put the back of hand to his head. “You stun me. A case? And you’re not jumping up and down with joy? Is it from the college next door?”
“Worse than that. It’s from my old college at Oxford.”
“Ah.” Jonty put paid to the over dramatics and stirred his tea, meditatively. He could instantly see all sorts of reasons why Orlando would be torn between the natural attractions of having something to get his investigational teeth into and a return to a place he’d inhabited when he’d, to all intents and purposes, been another person. A person who was a shadow of his present self. “And will you take this commission?”
Orlando glanced up at the apple tree, where a robin was lustily serenading the new morning. “I don’t know. On the face of it, the puzzle itself is intriguing, but I’ve no great inclination to return there—to college or university—unless it’s on business.”
“Mathematical business, I suppose you mean by that? An investigation counting as merely pleasure?”
“Precisely.” Orlando managed a smile.
“I can understand you might not want to return to old haunts—they’re never the same—but to turn down a case seems odd, when it’s been a while since we had one.” It had been February when they’d last had to pit their wits against a criminal of proper cunning. Neither of them would count the matter of some poison pen letters which had reared their ugly heads in London over the Easter holidays. That had turned out to be easily soluble, given the correspondent’s tendency to write loose instead of lose and insert apostrophes where none were needed. Somehow that had been more offensive than the lurid content.
“I know. You’ll no doubt think that I’m being stupid, but I can’t help worrying. Supposing we take it up and this turns out to be the case we’ve always dreaded? The one that’s insoluble? I’m going to look a total idiot.” Orlando ran his long, agile fingers through his hair. “They’ll say I lost what little intellect I had when I headed eastwards and into the territory of the dark blue’s most deadly rivals.”
“Balderdash. If they say any such thing I’ll tan their hides. And consider the opposite. What if it turns out to be a triumph? A masterpiece of deduction that nobody but us could have delivered? Your name will resound in college legend, if it doesn’t already. In fact, I’d imagine rather than thinking you’ve lost your abilities they’re secretly furious that your reputation is associated with the light blues rather than them. I’m surprised they haven’t offered you an enormous bribe to return. Or kidnapped you.” That seemed to be an ample sufficiency of fanning the guttering flames of Orlando’s confidence. One didn’t want the man to be getting too smug. “By the way, did they ask both of us to be involved? Or would they eschew the services of a man who spent his undergraduate years at Cambridge?”
“If they hadn’t asked for your involvement I’d have turned the case down without a second thought.”
“Would you? Just as well they want me to tag along, then.”
“You think I should accept it?”
“I think you’ll kick yourself if you don’t.” Jonty reached over to pat his partner’s hand. “You can’t let down the alma mater. It’s a matter of honour. What’s the case, anyway? Perhaps if you relate the details to me it’ll whet your appetite.”
“It’s about a mysterious violin that just appeared in the Old Quad at Gabriel very early one morning.”
“A violin? You disappoint me. How very mundane.”
“How very Sherlock Holmesian,” Orlando said with a snort of disdain. How he hated that denizen of Baker Street, not least for the abysmal way he treated Watson. Jonty enjoyed reading the stories but could appreciate his lover’s views on the matter.
“They’re not expecting you to play said violin? That would be beyond the pale. As would indulging in any other of Holmes’s disgusting habits, pipe or syringe related,” Jonty added, wi
th a grin.
“No. Apparently it’s rather valuable and they want to find out how it could have simply appeared overnight when the college was locked and inaccessible and everyone who resides in the building has denied knowledge of it. They also want to know if the instrument is connected to a sudden death that might just be murder.”
That was more like it, although it begged many a question. “If it might be murder, why haven’t the police taken over the case? Do they have police in Oxford, by the way or are the dons so vicious that His Majesty’s forces refuse to patrol the place?”
“Idiot.” Orlando flicked away the comment with a wave of his hand. “The police believe the sudden death of Peter Denison was due to heart failure, and there had been no need of an inquest. An outcome which Professor Lewis-Duckworth refuses to accept, believing that diagnosis covers a multitude of sins and might actually mean that the doctor doesn’t know what killed him and doesn’t want to admit the fact.”
“Professor Lewis-Duckworth?”
“Warden of Gabriel. Equivalent to the master of St. Bride’s. Not a bad chap if rumour is to be believed. Better than the bad tempered anti-social curmudgeon who was warden in my day.”
Jonty hid his smile behind his tea cup. That would have meant two bad tempered anti-social curmudgeons at Gabriel back then.
Orlando continued. “The chap who died was a retired musician. In his day he’d been a virtuoso—quite famous in musical circles—but he’d been stricken with arthritis that had come on so swiftly and severely that he’d had to give up playing.”
“That’s sad. Did the warden include all these facts in his letter?”
“Some of them. He also enclosed a selection of cuttings from the local newspapers. I can show them to you later, if I—we—choose to accept the request for help.”
Back to the uncertainty. Jonty took a deep breath. “I think it would be very hard to turn down such an appeal, Orlando. I know that’s not the answer you wish to hear, but what reason could you give that would be believable? We’re right at the start of the long vac, so no great college or university commitments to constrain us and if we pretended we were about to go on holiday, we’d be sure to be found out. You know how gossip, academic or otherwise, gets about.”
Orlando nodded. “I know that. I realise I’m being stupid and I should snatch this case up readily, because I can also imagine your mother taking me by the arm, walking me round the garden at the Old Manor and telling me that were I to have a triumph it would overlay my memories of Oxford with a layer of triumph.” He cast his eyes down. “But I’m scared.”
“Oh, Orlando.” Jonty left his seat, took his lover by the hand and—just as he’d done in the study, earlier—eased him out of his seat. Only this time he took the man into a warm embrace. “I’m not going to tell you not to be scared, that you’re fretting for nothing as all will be well, because that’s just stupid. I will say that if you’re inclined to be brave then I’m here at your side and will be in Oxford. As you’ve been at my side all the times I’ve been scared or upset because the old memories have bubbled up again. And before you start apologising for having started off a train of thought towards that particularly unpleasant station, don’t. I’m enjoying being the strong one.” He couldn’t resist a chuckle. “And from the way your body’s reacting, you’re enjoying this cuddle. Such a shame that it would scandalise Mrs. Ward if we went back to bed.”
“You’re insatiable.” Orlando kissed the top of Jonty’s head then eased out of the embrace. “If that was me being told off, it was one of the more agreeable chastening experiences.”
“I’m not sure if it was me telling you off, encouraging you or a bit of both. All I’ll promise is that all will be as well as we can make it be.” Jonty resumed his seat, pouring himself another cup of tea. “And consider this. What if you declined to take the case, because you managed to find some valid reason why not—called to Italy on family business or some such nonsense—and then regretted it? Spurned opportunity and all that, especially if we don’t get handed another case for a while. There’s no guarantee of it.”
“No, indeed. Quite right.” Orlando didn’t seem entirely convinced but he was definitely much more in favour of the idea than when he’d been sitting at his desk wearing a lost-lamb expression. “I’ll write to Professor Lewis-Duckworth as soon as I get into college.”
“Excellent. I shall trust you to be the man of his word you always are.” Jonty grinned. “No need for me to come and hold your blotter up to the mirror to make sure you’ve accepted.”
“I might type it, just to spite you, so you couldn’t check anyway.” Orlando produced a smile, one that appeared to be mostly unforced. “Would you want to stay in college if we go?”
“When we go. No, my days of uncomfy beds and shared bathrooms are behind me. I believe the Randolph is a perfectly good establishment and there must be other places in the city that would be to the required standard. The occupants of Oxford can’t all live in tents like Bedouin.”
“If you’re going to spend all your time insulting my old university I might not take you. Your sister Lavinia can come along, instead, or one of your parents. They’re far more sensible.”
“I wouldn’t argue with that. Not as much fun as I am, though.” Nice to see Orlando being able to make a joke of it. That had to mean he was warming to the notion. “I promise to be a model of rectitude throughout our visit. I promise not to seek out people who knew you in your undergraduate days and force them to tell me hair-raising and jaw-dropping tales from your wicked past. Assuming there are any such tales to be winkled out.”
“Behave, or else I will invite Lavinia.” Orlando knocked back the last of his coffee in a marked manner. “Unlike you, I have no such blots on my escutcheon.”
Jonty could quite believe that. Orlando in his younger days would surely have regarded knocking back a few pints of stout and taking part in a rendition or two of rugby songs, to be activities scandalous enough. The notion was actually unbearably sad. What was youth for if not making a few mistakes and learning from them?
“Perhaps,” Orlando continued, “I should regale some of the Gabriel fellows with the story of you and the goat and the porters’ lodge. I doubt they’d be surprised to hear how low a Cambridge student could stoop.”
“I had to stoop very low when I was trying to milk the goat, certainly.” Jonty chuckled, pushed his cup across the table, then rose. “I must go and dress, or else St. Bride’s will resound with the story of the absent minded don and the pyjamas. Shall I see you at luncheon?”
“Indeed you will.”
“Excellent. I don’t need to see the letter from Lewis-Duckworth, by the way. I think it appropriate the contents remain between yourself and him. I trust you will give me a precis of the important elements.”
“I will, although you have most of them already. I’m hoping that more will follow, once I’ve accepted. I get the feeling the warden is playing his cards close to his chest until he knows what our decision is.”
“Very wise. And very intriguing. Hi thee hence and respond. Once all is settled we can see which, if any, of our plans need to be changed to accommodate this development.”
Orlando’s brows knitted. “If it’s going to cause too much trouble, it wouldn’t be a problem to decline.”
“It won’t be a problem at all. Accept the thing and we can sort all the rest.” Jonty gave Orlando a quick peck on the cheek and went to get dressed for the day.
Later, as Jonty just got the fiddly bit with his cufflinks, he considered the revelations of the morning. A call to Orlando’s old college. It was timely enough, given how close they were to the undergraduates departing and some freedom for the dons. If it had come during term time, Jonty suspected that Orlando might have immediately declined it, pleading pressure of work. As it was, those apologies might still be sent. Jonty wouldn’t believe that it was happening until he stood in the presence of Lewis-Duckworth himself.
***
The reply was written.
Orlando—secure within his study at St. Bride’s—stared at it, having already re-read it three times, checking for inaccuracies of spelling or grammar and ensuring that every word conveyed exactly what he meant. He’d originally drafted the thing in rough and subsequently gone through it half a dozen times until it was perfect, eating into time he’d promised himself he’d spend over a nice little logic puzzle that had come his way. That puzzle would now be the reward for getting this chore out of the way.
It was a positive response, albeit one laden with provisos, including getting permission from Dr. Peters for taking on such a task. While the investigation would take place during the long vac—probably at the start so that Orlando could enjoy the rest of the break without this chore hanging over him and university duties would be few, the proper procedures had to be observed. Albeit the fellows of St. Bride’s would be fairly free to pursue whatever activities took their fancy, the master of the college might object, on principle, to helping their rival university.
That mightn’t be too bad an outcome: Dr. Peters’s refusal would take the matter right out of his hands and allow him to withdraw with both dignity and reputation intact. Notwithstanding, the master had never denied permission for their investigations before, even during term time, believing that the credit to St. Bride’s of their fellows solving a problem which had flummoxed other people would far outweigh any minor inconvenience to the college. Still, a man could live in hope. A note in Dr. Peter’s pigeon hole referring to the possibility of a commission in Oxford would do for the moment and he’d let serendipity takes its course.
He’d not been able to prevent himself including some preliminary questions in the letter, referring to things the warden had mentioned but which Orlando had not yet shared with Jonty. If that little tinker knew all the aspects of what looked an intriguing case, he’d not be able to resist insisting they take up the case, even if it meant him going solo.
Lessons in Playing a Murderous Tune: A Cambridge Fellows Mystery novella (Cambridge Fellows Mysteries) Page 1