“Is it valuable?” Langer asked. “Could it have been donated for the benefit of musicians within Gabriel’s walls?”
“Or could it have been sold to swell the coffers?” Jonty finished the last of his coffee, then laid down his cup.
“The warden says he has considered this but is reluctant to act one way or the other until he is sure to the intention of whoever placed it there. He’s naturally informed the police in case any instruments were reported as lost or stolen, his first thoughts being that the arrival of the instrument was the result of an undergraduate rag. But nobody has come forward to claim the thing.”
Langer drummed lightly on the arm of his chair. “I may have missed this, but I am unclear about when this strange event occurred.”
Orlando wasn’t sure he’d actually stated the timeline of events: that alone was illustrative of his somewhat befuddled state of mind. “The violin appeared a month ago today. Two days afterwards Lewis-Duckworth read in the newspaper that his friend had died and on the same day he received a card through the post to the same effect, from Denison’s housekeeper.”
“Typical of newspapers,” Langer said, with passion. “They print stories willy-nilly without thinking of the effect they may have on their readers. I wonder who gave them the story. The housekeeper sending out notifications implies the man left no close family.”
“Indeed. He left no wife or dependants.” Orlando kicked himself for not having wondered about the newspaper. It might have no significance, but they couldn’t tell at present.
“It might have been the next door neighbours, if they saw the undertakers arrive and knew of Denison’s fame,” Jonty suggested. “Or one of his friends if they came to see him the day he died. There’s not much point speculating about that. I’d rather have my colleagues’ opinion on the issue of provenance, and whether one could tell a Stradivarius violin, for example, from one of the same age but without the same cachet in terms of a name. Dr. Langer, I believe you have some expertise in this area?”
“I would say I have a little knowledge, although to describe it as expertise might be overstating things,” the chaplain said, with a pleased little smile at having been consulted. “Most people with a musical ear could tell from the tone between a violin made by an expert and one which wasn’t, assuming it was the same person playing the same piece. A fair test. A real expert could detect more than that.”
“Real expert?” Jonty grinned. “But not, I guess, a self-proclaimed one?”
Langer tipped his head to one side, evidently puzzled. “Did you have an expert of dubious provenance in mind as well as a violin?”
“No, I was simply reminded of Papa and the whisky bores.”
“Whisky bores? Wells from which one obtains the water of life?” Panesar asked, but only in jest. “Please tell us more.”
Orlando, tempted to bring the subject back onto the matter in hand, forbore from interrupting. Sometimes Jonty’s flights of fancy took them to places that would prove invaluable—in hindsight—to solving a mystery, albeit at a tangent.
“My pleasure.” Jonty bowed. “As you well know, Dr. Panesar, I was referring to old buffers who profess to know everything about some subject or other. We have a number of them at the university but in the case I refer to, their pet subject was single malt whiskies. Papa invited some of them to our house in London, for luncheon. After the meal he organised a tasting competition for them, entrance fee ten bob, all proceeds to Mama’s charity and the winner simply rewarded with the right to brag. Papa had decanted three bottles into three decanters, labelled them A, B and C, then asked for them to be identified against a list of distilleries he provided.”
Orlando smiled at the ingenuity of his almost-father-in-law. “I’m surmising that they failed the test abysmally?”
“Of course. These chaps blethered on for ages after they sampled each one and narrowed it down to regions. Almost to particular Scottish rivers. They were all agreed the whiskies came from the general vicinity of the river Spey.” Jonty raised an eyebrow. “That’s where any agreement pretty much ended. Between the three men they could only agree on one of the distilleries and that was only between two of them. The third was adamant they’d got it wrong by a good twenty miles. It went on for ages and was absolutely glorious.”
“And it turned out they’d all three got everything wrong?” Panesar’s eyes glinted again.
“Absolutely. Of course, Papa being the devious creature that he is, the truth was much worse than their failing to pin down a distillery. None of the drinks were vintage malts of any kind. Two were the same brand of blended whisky he’d sent the butler to get from the local off licence and were therefore exactly the sort of drink these so-called experts would describe as being beyond the pale, and the third was from the Lea Valley distillery, so was manufactured hundreds of miles from the Spey and only a few miles east of where it was being drunk.”
Orlando snorted. “Your father goes up and up in my estimation. That sounds like exactly the sort of wheeze we should try on some of the bounders from the college next door. Were the old buffers furious?”
“Inside, no doubt. They blustered, of course, said that they knew all along that Papa was playing a game with them and they were playing along, but we both knew the truth. And they were charitable enough to each donate a further guinea to Mama’s charity.”
“But would a real expert, the sort of quiet, knowledgeable chap—or woman—who knew their stuff yet didn’t go around telling everyone what a genius they were, have been able to identify the distilleries? A person such as Dr. Coppersmith or Dr. Langer, who are both inclined to hide their light under a whole pile of bushels,” Panesar added, to Orlando’s secret delight.
“I have no idea. Papa reckoned anyone worth their salt should have known that the blended wasn’t a single malt, but as to narrowing the drink to a particular distillery or even a region he’d only known two folk who were blessed with such perception. One of each gender, by the way.”
Langer, who’d followed the conversation with great seriousness, said, “I believe the same could be said for violins. If the one left at Gabriel is supposed to be valuable it should be assessed only by the top people in their field. I could provide a list of names, should that be helpful.”
“It would indeed. Thank you.” Orlando checked his watch. “I’m afraid I must take my leave.”
Panesar glanced at his own watch, then shot out of his chair. “So must I. I fear I shall be late.”
With Jonty’s cry of, “Don’t disappear down any rabbit holes!” the party returned to their normal college duties.
***
The walk home consisted of a leisurely stroll up the Backs, a short cut across the playing fields and a brisk trot along the Madingley Road because their stomachs had started to rumble, despite the marmalade pudding. It should have been a delight for all the senses, given the beautiful weather. But the importance of the case to their reputation and the questions posed both by the warden’s letters and the post-prandial discussion made Orlando deaf and blind to all enjoyment.
“How can we find out if Denison was involved in spying?” He asked, sawing the air with his hand, a gesture which used to be habitual and which had mostly fallen out of use. “I don’t suppose there’s a list somewhere that just anyone can go and consult.”
“That would indeed defeat the object of secrecy.” Jonty, thank goodness, clearly appreciated that the suggestion had not been a serious one. “We both know who to consult, though. Don’t we?”
“Your father? I was intending to put a call through to him as soon as we reach home. Irrespective of the espionage he might have light to shed on the case.”
Mr. Stewart was the fount of many pieces of knowledge and while it was unlikely that even he would know off the top of his head whether Denison had performed a secret service for his king (or queen, depending on when this had allegedly happened) and country, he would no doubt know somebody who might be able to supply an answer. Even i
f it were a simple yes or no.
“For once, I was thinking less of Papa than somebody else. I wouldn’t be surprised if Dr. Panesar came up with something in that regard, too.”
“Why do you say that?” Funny how that mirrored what Orlando had been musing on, earlier.
“Has it never struck you that he’d make a wonderful agent? Nobody would be able to take him seriously, for one thing. His reputation as a dotty scientist persona would precede him. I often think that he and Mama would make a wonderful combination were this country in dire need of brains, charm and deep cunning.” Jonty picked a dandelion from the side of the pavement, then scattered the seeds to the wind with his breath. “I shouldn’t be surprised if he was in contact even now with his spymaster or whatever such a person might call themselves. Enquiring discretely on our behalf.”
Orlando didn’t feel he should favour this supposition with a sensible response. Surely it was as playful as his mention of a list had been.
“You clearly don’t hold with my idea.”
“I would merely describe it as possible yet unproven. I agree entirely that he has all the potential to successfully engage in espionage, but it’s impossible to prove one way or the other, given the circumstances.”
“Well that’s the nub for the whole case, isn’t it? If there is an espionage angle to this business, not only will we be faced with a wall of silence at every turn but we’ll possibly be putting ourselves in danger.” Jonty took Orlando’s arm, then halted, so they could talk face to face. “If he was killed, in revenge, then the killer might not scruple to turn their attention to us, or anyone else who risked exposing the truth.”
“Do you think I haven’t thought of both those eventualities? They’ve contributed to my reluctance to take on this case.” Orlando looked at the pavement, unable to bear the scrutiny of that piercing blue gaze, given what he was about to say. “I did think of going to Oxford alone so you wouldn’t be in danger but I’ve learned my lesson on that one.”
“Glad to hear it.” Jonty tipped Orlando’s chin up so they were eye to eye again. “We work best together. And if there is danger then we should be at each other’s side for it. Like the Theban band.”
Orlando nodded, then silently encouraged Jonty to walk on. Given what had happened to the Theban band, that wasn’t the best analogy.
Chapter Three
They took the motorcar to Oxford: it was indicative of Orlando’s state of mind that he made only a token protest against the suggested mode of transport. Jonty had prepared several propositions as to why the metal monster—as Orlando referred to it—would be preferable to the train, not least the flexibility it gave once they were there. If they had to travel around and within the city, they didn’t want to always be beholden to cabs. The lack of argument had been worrying, only confirming Jonty’s view that the next few days would be a sore trial to his dearest love. Still, they’d booked an excellent suite at the Randolph, and the recreational aspects of the visit should be made the most of, to counteract the strains of the investigation itself. Jonty had a hankering for visiting the Ashmolean, and also for taking a boat along the river to dally under the willows. Assuming the riverbanks actually had willows—surely the city couldn’t be so benighted as not to possess those?
The journey passed without incident, if also without much chatter, and they arrived in good time to take afternoon tea with Professor Lewis-Duckworth.
Gabriel College resembled most of its ilk, and the warden’s lodge could have come straight out of a textbook on building such residences. Professor Lewis-Duckworth himself struck Jonty as being exactly how he’d envisage Orlando’s father. Not necessarily in appearance—he’d seen a photograph of the man and the Artigiano del Rame bloodline was noticeable there, whereas the warden had no hint of the Mediterranean. But his general demeanour, the stern visage and rigid posture spoke of self-restraint and maybe a lack of humour. Still, all the years of dealing with Orlando’s foibles stood him in good stead for dealing with men of such character.
To his credit, the warden made them most welcome in the drawing room of the lodge, thanking them profusely—if stiffly—for sparing the time to address a mystery that might end up being unworthy of their considerable abilities. The sentiment appeared to be sincere. The refreshments on offer certainly suggested his respect for his visitors: tea, sherry, exquisite little cakes and biscuits, both sweet and savoury.
Orlando, who’d been unsettled all day, now appeared to be under considerable strain. He put his sherry glass down on a table, then picked it up again. Likewise, he fiddled with a biscuit, risking it exploding into fragments. This was more like the Orlando of 1905, the man in whose chair Jonty had mistakenly sat and thus changed the course of both their lives.
“This case appears to be an intriguing one,” Jonty said, when it became apparent that Orlando wasn’t going to start proceedings. “Shall we start with the violin?”
“I was going to suggest that.” Lewis-Duckworth rose, then crossed the room to a large chest, out of which he produced the object in question. From the moment he had the instrument in his hand, the warden’s expression softened, just as Orlando’s did when he had his hands on something he had affection for. Usually Jonty himself. “You should hear the thing being played. It has such a lovely tone.”
“You’ve tried it?” Jonty asked.
“I couldn’t resist. I played in my youth, although not to any great standard, and not what some folk might approve of. Local music, traditional tunes.”
Jonty found himself warming to the man. He’d expected the warden to confess a passion for Wagner or some such clamorous composer: an appreciation of gentler and simple things was to be admired. “We used to enjoy playing those in the Stewart home in Sussex. Traditional folk music collected hither and yon, some of it very local. Perhaps previous occupants of the Old Manor have entertained themselves with some of the tunes you play.” No doubt with clean words for the gentry side of the green baize door and obscene ones for below stairs.
“You say you believe it belonged to Denison? One would have thought that was easy to ascertain.”
“One would, but it isn’t.” Lewis-Duckworth gave them a rueful smile. If he had noticed that the cat appeared to have got Orlando’s tongue he was too polite to show it. “He had half a dozen instruments and appeared to keep no written record of their make. Not even for insurance purposes, according to his housekeeper, as he deemed each of them irreplaceable and beyond monetary value. As for provenance, he told me he let the music itself prove the background.” He caressed the instrument again. “Gabriel dates back to the sixteenth century, as perhaps do some of the tunes this violin will have been party to producing. I have been wondering whether Denison had this brought as a present for me, knowing how much I would appreciate it,”
Jonty spotted that Orlando had assumed his what has this got to do with what we’re discussing? expression. Time to put fiddle airs aside for the moment, although the matter of why the man couldn’t produce a question of his own was becoming vexatious. “You’ll have had an expert look at the instrument? What is their opinion?”
“I confess I haven’t. It felt too…materialistic. Too tawdry, so soon after the man’s death.”
Orlando fished in his briefcase, then handed the warden an envelope. “Our chaplain, Dr. Langer, has furnished a list of experts who could give you a reliable opinion on the instrument, should you need it.”
Jonty felt like cheering at the silence at last being broken.
“Thank you. If is indeed valuable then perhaps it would be a proper mark of respect to my late friend to do so, once the time is right. And once we can be sure it was his.”
“An expert opinion might help you pin down the owner,” Jonty pointed out. “I have no doubt that experts gossip as much as the next man or woman and word would get around of this violin appearing. Maybe they are already looking out for one such.”
“An excellent point.” Lewis-Duckworth pocketed the envelope. “
I’m afraid this business has seen me not thinking as clearly as I should. Forgive me.”
The discussion, clearly appealing to Orlando’s love of proof and dislike of sloppy evidence trails, had sparked him into something like his usual investigative self. “But the matter remains of its sudden appearance. Can you be absolutely sure somebody from Gabriel isn’t lying about placing it there, perhaps as part of a student rag. That would be the most obvious conclusion.”
“It would indeed, were it not for one thing. In my letter I promised I’d give you proof of that assertion. There was a small fire in the college that evening and the occupants of the first quad, including this lodge, were evacuated into the second quad. I stationed a porter at the archway between the two to stop anyone returning, and another porter was stationed at the main gate awaiting the fire brigade. As it happened, we were able to contain the small blaze ourselves, it having more show than substance. When we began to return to our rooms, the violin was found.”
“Where did the fire break out?” Orlando asked.
“In the vestibule that leads into the chapel. There are no bedrooms above that, only storage, so no immediate risk to life and limb unless the fire spread. Clearly when we decided to evacuate we didn’t know how small the thing would turn out to be.”
“Could it have been set deliberately to cause enough mayhem to allow someone to leave the violin and not been spotted because everyone’s attention was focussed elsewhere?”
“Perhaps. But everyone, students, dons and college servants, were accounted for from the first quad. The porters had a list to check against and they had nobody missing.”
Orlando suppressed a snort, which was just as well. Not a good idea to deride somebody so important even if they had made an obvious mistake of logic. “It is possible that the culprit wasn’t accounted for because they had no right to be there in the first place? A student from another quad or another college. One who was able to sneak out the next day?”
Lessons in Playing a Murderous Tune: A Cambridge Fellows Mystery novella (Cambridge Fellows Mysteries) Page 3