Lessons in Playing a Murderous Tune: A Cambridge Fellows Mystery novella (Cambridge Fellows Mysteries)

by Charlie Cochrane

  “May I just clarify a point?” Orlando asked. “How did you know it was an argument if they were up ahead of you?”

  “Raised voices, gesticulations, her shaking her fist at him. And the fact that Denison himself didn’t deny the argument had happened. Indeed, he was profuse in his apologies to me for having been forced to witness such a disgraceful scene. He said that the woman was either deranged or sadly misguided. She’d supposedly mistaken him for somebody else and was giving him a tongue lashing for having taken up with another woman. He said he’d had to call on a passing constable to rescue himself from her attentions.” Somerset yet again studied the sunlight patterns on the rug, which had now reached his feet. “That part is likely to be true, as I passed a constable as I made my way along the road.”

  “Did you believe his account of what had occurred?” Orlando pressed him.

  “To the content of the conversation, yes. That was borne out by the few words I did hear, which included her saying he couldn’t get away with what he’d done and that she’d found him once and could find him again.”

  Orlando, increasingly frustrated, not least at the fact the witness seemed reluctant to look them in the eye, wondered if he was he being deliberately obtuse, “The matter being argued over isn’t the issue. Did you believe his explanation that he didn’t know the woman concerned?”

  “Frankly, no. I wouldn’t swear to it in a court of law, but I had the feeling he called her by name. May? Marie? I don’t quite recall. But it occurred to me that he might well have been spinning one of his yarns on this young lady and perhaps on others. One could see how a man who is likely to embroider the truth might find himself tangled in a web of his own making with a coterie of women.”

  Jonty nodded. “We’ve seen pictures of him and I’d guess he’d have a wide appeal. On which topic, if I may ask something indelicate, do you think that Mrs. Evans, his housekeeper, was simply a servant and nothing more?”

  Somerset burst out laughing, then clapped his hands over his mouth. “I’m sorry, that was callous of me. While I saw very little of her, I gained the impression she was devoted to him, but a romantic attachment I doubt. He preferred his ladies younger, I believe. Like the one he was being upbraided by.”

  “But how could any of this constitute danger?” Orlando observed.

  “Ah, Dr. Coppersmith,” Jonty cut in, “what if the lady in question had a champion—in the form of a brother or father who’d want to horsewhip the scoundrel who’d offended his sister or daughter?”

  “Denison wasn’t actually horsewhipped,” Orlando observed. “As far as we can tell no violence was practiced on him. The offended party would have had to decide to go straight to murder, and to conduct it in such a way as it not to be obvious.”

  Somerset’s truculent snort showed what he thought of the notion. “As a theorem it has much to be said for it. However, this is 1911, for goodness sake. The voice of women is beginning to be heard in the land and quite rightly. What people still refer to as members of the gentler sex are showing their mettle. Does a woman need a champion to take her part or could she not deliver the horse-whipping herself if she felt like it?”

  “Both my mother and my sister would be eminently capable of such an act,” Jonty agreed. “As for murder, we know that isn’t the prerogative of men, going back to the time of Jael. Still, we’re getting into the realms of speculation. Did you see Denison after that?”

  “Not in person. The awkwardness would have been unbearable on my part.”

  “One final question, then,” Orlando said. “Was Denison part of a tontine?”

  Somerset considered for a moment. “Possibly. He certainly talked of coming into a windfall if he managed to live long enough, but I suspected it was simply another of his tall tales. Was it true?”

  Orlando spread his hands. “That’s what we need to find out.”

  ***

  They passed a leisurely afternoon, having stopped at a baker’s shop for supplies, which they took out onto the river in a punt. Orlando steered, as usual, as Jonty was better built for providing ballast and thereby steadying the craft—anyway, he was better at the job. Jonty banned all discussion of the case, insisting that they take time to enjoy the sunshine and clear their brains. They’d been hard at work the last twenty four hours and might be up to their ears in case-related discussion that evening if Mr. Stewart came to dinner, so a break wouldn’t come amiss.

  “What did you think of Somerset observing that Gabriel—the college, not the archangel—could only be prouder were you still there?” Jonty, sprawled seductively on a cushion, beamed up at Orlando. “What have you got to say to that?”

  “It’s not just me, it’s both of us. The synergy of the pairing.” Orlando gave his lover a tender glance then concentrated on his punt pole. A man might be easily, and disastrously, distracted in such circumstances. “But I won’t deny I’m pleased. Assuming Somerset meant it.”

  “Oh, he did. Years of working with dunderheads has left me able to spot sarcasm from fifty yards. You should bask in the glow of his approval.”

  Orlando tried to bask both in the endorsement and the bright Oxford sun for the next hundred yards, before saying, “I know that you’ve imposed a moratorium on discussing the case, but may I ask a general question?”

  “Ask away. I will employ my veto if I feel it becomes too specific.”

  “Why choose to put yourself in the care of a doctor who is less than effective—by which I mean potentially dangerous—at his job?”

  “Assuming the man is useless and isn’t being serially slandered.” Jonty trailed his hand in the water. “Perhaps he had some hold over Denison...no, I’m breaking my own rules. Let me rephrase. He retains patients by knowing some secret about them and insists on being retained or he will tell all.”

  “I’d wondered that. Some embarrassing disease, for example.”

  Jonty suddenly slapped the water, sending up a spray of drops. “Or perhaps because his being useless is of use to you?”

  “As usual, you’ve started not to make sense.”

  “I apologise, oh High Priest of logic.” Jonty inclined his head in contrition. “What I mean is that if you wanted an accurate diagnosis you’d avoid him like the plague. If, however you wanted to pretend you had a condition, then a daft old buffer who just happens to hold a medical degree and run a practice might be just the ticket. You could likely persuade him into believing anything. Such as the fact you had arthritis, or a dodgy heart, when you didn’t.”

  “You’re saying Denison pretended to have those conditions?”

  “I’m saying it’s a possibility. Fancy a sausage roll?”

  “Not at the moment. And don’t try distracting me with food to cover up you’ve broken your own rule.” Orlando sped the punt onwards. “No baked goods until we’re moored and until we’ve finished this discussion.”

  Jonty, guilty grin suffusing his handsome face, said, “Spoilsport. Anyway, I’m not saying he necessarily pretended to have both conditions. One or other might have been genuine. But a man with an undeniable habit of telling lies might well be the sort to either invent or exaggerate illness.”

  “That I accept, but why? What would it gain him?”

  “Getting out of doing what he didn’t want to do, for a start. You know the sort of thing. Most sorry, but can’t possibly come to dinner tonight, getting terrible gyp from my joints. Or alas, the doctor says I must rest in bed for forty eight hours to ease the strain on my heart. Slug-a-bed’s charter, I’d say.”

  There was much to be said for the theory. While impressed with Jonty’s acumen, Orlando couldn’t help but be miffed that he hadn’t come up with it himself. There was a pleasing flaw in the logic, however. “I accept those instances and would add in that an imaginary illness might be used to explain why he could no longer be involved in the espionage he alleged he used to be employed for. But what about the violin playing? If he loved it so much why pretend he couldn’t do it anymore?”
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br />   “Pride,” Jonty declared. “If his ability had started to wane, then rather than admit he wasn’t the virtuoso he had been, he’d pretend that a medical condition prevented him from giving concerts. If the doctor backed then he must be telling the truth. For once. Right!” He slapped the water again. “No more about this case. Take to me to some quiet backwater where the willows fringe the banks and provide a curtain of shade for the weary traveller. There I will sit underneath the bough with a bottle of lemonade, a sausage roll and thou singing. The singing is optional, by the way, although the rest is obligatory.”

  Chapter Seven

  Two messages awaited them at The Randolph. One confirmed that Mr. Stewart—and guest—would indeed be arriving for dinner that evening, while the second requested their attendance in the master’s lodge at their earliest convenience as Professor Lewis-Duckworth had new information to share. After arranging a telegram to say that they’d meet him at nine o’clock the next day, it was time for ablutions and changing for dinner, with not even the chance of a nap on the horizon. Life on the ocean wave—or the gentle Isis swell—had proved soporific and raised the risk of forty winks turning into four hundred.

  Jonty and Orlando hovered in the foyer of The Randolph, ready to greet Mr. Stewart and his guest as they entered. Jonty couldn’t help but notice how many female heads turned to appreciate the sight. His papa had a striking profile, as handsome now as in his youth, if the family portraits were to be believed, but the man at his side outshone him. He’d be perhaps nearing sixty and suggested how Antinous might have appeared were he to have reached that age. Orlando also was stunningly handsome and Jonty acknowledged he too had inherited the Stewart looks, so they’d present a dashing combination at the dinner table. He hoped the waitresses—and any waiters who were so inclined—wouldn’t be so smitten they’d drop the soup.

  “Gentlemen, may I present Mr. Robinson? I believe that what he has to say will be of interest.” Mr. Stewart oversaw the formalities of introduction, then they all headed for the dining room where Orlando had arranged for them to have a table in a quiet corner where they could talk freely. Which they did as soon as the important matter of ordering food and wine was dealt with.

  “I’m so pleased you came to me for professional advice. These things can be complicated although this one is rather straightforward.” Robinson’s voice was as attractive as his looks. “Mr. Denison set up a tontine with three other men, twenty years ago. They had known each other from school days, never losing touch. None of them had dependants. Two were confirmed bachelors, one had been married but his wife had died young, in her childbed, while another had sown many a wild oat but was certain none of them had germinated, if you get my drift.”

  “We do indeed,” Jonty said encouragingly, also wondering if the two who described as confirmed bachelors were so for the same reasons he and Orlando were.

  “So, they decided that rather than leave any worldly goods they might possess to a charitable cause or such like, they would form an alliance so that the last man living would gain all. Then the money would go to somebody they all held in esteem. Denison told me it had actually begun as a light-hearted idea one evening over a dinner where the wine flowed a touch too freely, and for some reason the stratagem seemed as appealing in the sober light of day as it had when steeped in claret.”

  “What if one of them had decided to marry after the tontine was established?” Jonty asked. “Even elderly gentlemen have their fancies. Time’s winged chariot and all that.”

  “A good point.” The arrival of a bottle of hock, of which Mr. Stewart sampled the bouquet and pronounced it excellent, temporarily halted the interview. Once the sommelier had departed, Jonty’s father continued. “And these men were by no means elderly, not so far as I’d define the word. If they’d been contemporaries at school they’d have been perhaps fifty years old when they set up the arrangement. Still time for love to flourish.”

  Robinson nodded. “I insisted they allow for that. A codicil was written into the agreement so that in a limited set of circumstances—such as marriage or the appearance of legitimate offspring, whether subsequent or extant, if you take my meaning—the participant concerned could withdraw. All four men agreed to the codicil but it was never used.” He consulted his notes. “As to the fate of these gentlemen, one of them died in a railway accident five years afterward the tontine was sealed. There was nothing suspicious about the circumstances. A derailment caused by a landslip.”

  “Thank you for clarifying these points.” Orlando had produced his notebook and was about to get his pen when a wave of Robinson’s hand forestalled him.

  “No need to take notes. I have written down all the relevant names, times and circumstances.”

  Orlando inclined his head. “Much appreciated.”

  “Anything I can do to help a friend of a friend.” Robinson nodded towards Mr. Stewart.

  Jonty’s father returned the nod. “Mr. Robinson’s business partner is a member at my club.”

  “Your network of connections is exemplary, Papa.” Jonty raised his glass in salute. “So, after the accident three men remained. What happened next?”

  “There was a substantial gap before anything of significance occurred. Then the year before last, another member of the tontine died. He had been suffering from consumption, possibly contracted when he was travelling on the Indian sub-continent and eventually his health gave out. Again, nothing to raise any suspicions.”

  “Indeed.” Orlando sounded disappointed.

  “The third death was in the March of this year, at which point Denison stood to inherit everything.”

  Orlando glanced at Jonty, trying to convey all his disappointment. If the violinist was the last of the four, he would have been a rich man, and couldn’t have been killed by another tontine member to hasten their inheritance. Somebody else could have wanted to accelerate a legacy, though.

  Jonty gave Orlando a sympathetic smile then asked, “Can you explain to us what happens to the money now, given that nobody remains alive?”

  “As best as I can, although I’m not handling Denison’s estate. I have outlined how things stand in here.” Robinson indicated the papers he’d brought. “Frobisher’s estate—he was the third to die—has cleared probate in a straightforward manner. Nobody raised any challenges and the funds from the tontine went to Denison while he was still alive. Now they will pass to his heirs, once his own probate is dealt with.”

  Orlando perked up again. Like Jonty, he’d seen that was a useful motive for murder. “How much will that heir or heirs stand to inherit? Do we know who they are?”

  “Thirty thousand pounds, which is an amount not to be regarded lightly, assuming that Denison hadn’t frittered it all away already.”

  “That would take some doing,” Mr. Stewart observed.

  “Not if it went to paying existing debts, although I don’t believe Denison was in that position. As for the heirs, let me just check.” Robinson consulted his notes while the other three shared raised eyebrows at the substantial amount involved. “Denison told me a couple of years ago that he’d just had a relative write to him, out of the blue. Paul Denison, a second cousin from a second marriage, of whom Peter Denison knew nothing. They’d struck up a friendship, initially in correspondence and then in person, partly due to their mutual love of chess, but alas—from Paul’s point of view—there was no financial gain. Peter was thinking of changing his will, then Paul was killed in accident before that could happen, so the document and heirs remained unchanged.”

  “This sounds like one of Shakespeare’s tragedies,” Jonty said, with a suppressed snigger. “Death and mayhem on all sides.”

  “It does strike one as rather melodramatic,” Robinson agreed. “So, as to Peter Denison, he left a small bequest to a benevolent fund for retired musicians, a slightly larger gift to Gabriel College and the residue, including his house, goes to his housekeeper.”

  “Mrs. Evans?” Jonty asked, impressed that Rob
inson had contacted Denison’s solicitor to elucidate the contents of his will.

  “Miss Evans, I believe.” He peered at his notes once more. “Yes, that’s what she’s named as here.”

  “We’ve met her. A most charming lady.” One who may have employed the illusion of married status to ward off scandal? Although it wasn’t as though the lady concerned was young and therefore likely to be subject to gossip. Perhaps it was simply a soubriquet more suitable to her status.

  Mr. Stewart leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Did she strike you as so charming that she couldn’t have hastened her employer’s end, once he’d inherited the tontine and was a wealthy man?”

  “I’m so glad you asked that, Papa, as I was desperate to explore the notion and didn’t want to appear impertinent. It struck us that...” Jonty’s words trailed off as the waiter arrived with plates of roast beef that smelled almost as good as the ones Mrs. Ward served up at home.

  “Keep that thought in mind, youngster,” Mr. Stewart said, eyeing his plate appreciatively. “Let us not detract from the excellence of the food.

  Once the last smidgeon of Yorkshire pudding had been used to mop up the last soupcon of gravy, the matter in hand was resumed.

  “Returning to Mrs.—or Miss—Evans,” Orlando said, “I rather liked her. She seemed fiercely protective of her former employer and upset at his death. Also, she doesn’t appear to be the sort of woman who’d suffer any nonsense. Also, if you recall, Dr. Stewart, we have heard from the neighbours that she was not present when Denison died.”