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

by Charlie Cochrane

  Jonty snorted. “You don’t have to be present at the death to be a murderer, Dr. Coppersmith, although I accept the point about the way she came across to us.”

  “I bow to your estimation of the housekeeper,” Mr. Stewart said, with a graceful inclination of his head, “and will strike her from my list of suspects.”

  Orlando smiled. “Move her down the list as opposed to losing her entirely, just in case we were misled in being so impressed by her testimony.”

  “She’d make a creditable showing in the witness box?” Robinson asked.

  “I believe so. You’re anticipating that this matter might have reason to go to trial?” Jonty asked, after an excited glance at Orlando. Were they about to be privy to a key piece of information?

  “Ah, sorry to disappoint you, no. I merely used that as a measure of a person’s credibility as seen through independent, trustworthy eyes. Although your opinion of her character, being tempered by your considerable experience in matters of crime, might be more dependable than that of a layman.”

  “Don’t swell their heads any more than they’re already swollen,” Dr. Stewart said, the paternal pride in his voice belying his words. “Now, you’ll be interested to hear about and interesting conversation Robinson and I had on the train. It appears he is as wary of tontines as I am. He only agreed to administer this one after much persuasion.”

  Robinson nodded. “Partly because I believed the four men would go elsewhere, perhaps to someone less scrupulous in their management of the process. If they were determined to have a tontine, and they appeared to be adamant, then I believed it had to be handled properly. I have tried my best to discharge my duty correctly.”

  “Including guarding against foul play?” Orlando asked.

  “Very perceptive, Dr. Coppersmith. That’s exactly what I wanted to prevent. While I couldn’t keep my eye on each of the men at all times, I made it clear that if I got any hint of malpractice I would inform the police. I also arranged for all parties to meet with me on an annual basis, over a luncheon which I provided.” Robinson waved his hand over the table. “Not as good as this one, but more than passable. At those meetings they could hold me to account for the performance of the funds I held in trust and I could look for any suspicious signs. In my profession, you soon get an inkling for when mischief is afoot.”

  Mr. Stewart nodded appreciatively at the common sense approach. “When did you hold the last of these meetings?”

  “Almost exactly a year ago and I feared at the time it might be the last. Denison looked far from well—I remember him being short of breath at one point—and Frobisher, who was the man who died in March, also appeared to have aged five years in just one.” Robinson shook his head. “Alas I was proven correct. I’d rather have been proven wrong. I used to enjoy those dinners. The men made a most amusing, if dwindling, company.”

  “Might we trouble you for your overall impression of Denison? In terms of his character and so forth,” Jonty asked.

  “Of course you may, although you will recall that I met him only once a year and any sense of the man would be both partial and subjective. I found him both pleasant and interesting. Professionally, I can be more objective. I saw him play the violin, many years ago, and I would swear an affidavit that he was an excellent musician, with a deft touch.” Robinson smiled in recollection. “I don’t suppose his musical skill is either in question or germane to the case.”

  “We suspect not,” Orlando averred. “A shame that he had lost his ability to play to the highest standard.”

  “He was distraught when he spoke about it, that last dinner. At that point he still retained some of his powers but he feared they even they would wane fast. When I heard of his death I admit I at first suspected he might have taken his own life, but apparently the doctor was adamant that wasn’t so.”

  “Given what we’ve been told concerning Dr. Bundy, it’s possible his judgement is not to be trusted.” Orlando pressed on. “Did he strike you as a truthful man? Denison, I mean.”

  “I always assumed so. He told many colourful tales, some of which grew in the telling, but I’d call him an inveterate exaggerator rather than liar.”

  The arrival of dessert turned the discussion towards the quality of custard the men had sampled in the past, leaving Jonty with a couple of questions unasked. Once the table had been cleared and coffee served, they could return to the matter in hand.

  “How did Frobisher die?” Jonty asked, as he stirred his drink.

  “A tumour in his intestines, I believe.” Robinson sighed, ruefully. “He must have been in great pain when last we met. No wonder he appeared so pale and drawn.”

  Orlando, who’d been cradling his cup without drinking from it, and was evidently nurturing the germ of a theory, said, “What about Denison? Did he give any indication that he believed himself to be in danger?”

  Robinson, brow wrinkled and lip thrust out, shook his head. “Not as far as I’m aware. If your mind was running along the track of his being threatened by one of his fellow tontine members, that train runs out of steam on account of his being the healthier of the two remaining and as for his murder by them, chronology rules that out.”

  Which was both true and incredibly frustrating.

  Chapter Eight

  “Gentlemen, I have to give you my abject apologies,” the warden said, as soon as he received them in his study. “The mystery of the violin is no longer a mystery. Please take a seat while I explain. Would you like coffee?”

  Refusing the refreshments, but accepting the offer of a chair, they waited—Jonty clearly in as much bemusement as Orlando—for the story to unfold.

  “Late yesterday I received a letter from the mother of two of our students. Non-identical twins, bright lads, only came up last year. Both of them well behaved, at least on the surface. One of them got tipsy at a family dinner to celebrate their homecoming and began to regale those present with tales of what he, his brother and his fellow cricketers had got up to as dares. I believe the twins began to egg each other on to feats of greater derring-do. One such was climbing over the wall to the lodge garden.” Lewis-Duckworth sniffed. “I have managed to speak to the lady concerned via the telephone and I’m satisfied this is the truth. The lad—Robbie Wigglesworth—said he’d snagged his trousers and the colour of the material we found matches the ones his mother examined.”

  “What about the rope?” Jonty asked.

  “I spoke to young Wigglesworth, who’d possibly been dragged by the ear to the telephone given the rumpus I heard down the line. When I asked when this had happened and if he’d carried anything with him, he confirmed it was a few days before the fire took place and that he’d carried a rope in case he’d needed it for his mountaineering. That had got caught up on the grape vine, too.”

  “How vexatious. On all counts.” Jonty was evidently torn between scowling and grinning. He’d no doubt appreciate the scale and audacity of the feat.

  “I will ensure they are gated for a suitable period on their return, although I suspect the ire of their mother will inflict a far greater punishment than I can produce. And I suppose we were all young once.” The warden leaned forward, confidentially. “I confess to rags when I was an undergraduate.”

  Before the goat could once again rear its capricious head, Orlando said, “You mentioned the violin. How does that come into this?”

  “Via the hands of the young scamp’s brother, Jamie Wigglesworth. He’d been challenged to make the violin appear in mysterious circumstances. It appears that it isn’t a valuable instrument, but a rather good fake that someone had sold to Wiggleworth’s godfather and which said godfather had passed on to him to do with what he wanted. And to be a lesson to both boys to check the provenance of things before purchase.” The warden shook his head. “A lesson to all of us.”

  “So, he took advantage of the fire to perform the dare?”

  “Indeed, Dr. Coppersmith. He lives on this quad and simply ensured he was last out of his
staircase after he heard the fire alarm raised. He left the violin and joined the others. He did not anticipate that so much would be made of it.”

  “Did he set the fire in order to facilitate the opportunity?” Jonty asked.

  “I believe not. There appears to be some faulty wiring in that area, so I am having the entire college system checked this summer. I suspect we were lucky it was nothing worse.” Lewis-Duckworth spread his hands apologetically. “And so, there is no mystery at all. I apologise for wasting your time.”

  “There is still the matter of Denison’s death,” Orlando pointed out. “Surely that is a more important matter to be cleared up?”

  “Perhaps I read too much into his death, as I read too much into the appearance of the violin. I would not have you chasing a wild goose.”

  “In the Celtic church they call the Holy Spirit the Wild Goose,” Jonty said, in a still, small and unusually serious voice. “What better pursuit could there be for those of us in academia than to pursue the spirit of knowledge and truth?”

  ***

  “Well done,” Orlando said, once they were outside Gabriel once more. “You took the wind right out of his sails.”

  “He made me cross, Orlando. I don’t mind that he thought the business of the violin more significant than it really was, but to then say Oh, I got that wrong, I must have got Denison’s murder wrong, too is just sloppy thinking. Or covering up.” Jonty stared searchingly into Orlando’s face. “Has he been told to send us packing, do you think?”

  “I considered that, but I suspect not. He has a reputation for his scholarly integrity, or so I have been told. Prides himself on not getting things wrong.”

  “Then he’s found that pride goeth before a fall? Therefore, he’s trying to prevent another fall when word gets around Oxford that he’s had us stirring up trouble over a death that was truly from natural causes.” Jonty kicked at a stone on the pavement. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he puts his reputation before the truth.”

  “Ah. I wondered why we got the sermon about the wild goose.” Orlando patted Jonty’s arm. “We’ll carry on, though. We’ve heard enough to make me think there are at the very least loose ends to be tied up. Your father isn’t the only one to find tontines a dubious business.”

  “Except, as we know, nobody stood to gain from the tontine apart from Denison himself.”

  “Ah. Now, I’ve been having a think about that.”

  Jonty’s scowl transformed instantly to a quizzical smile at the words having a think. “I like the sound of that. What have the formidable Coppersmith brain cells come up with?”

  “A tale of murder and revenge. For which I have very little in the way of evidence, I confess.”

  “I thought I heard your brain beginning to whirr at dinner last night.” Jonty almost bounced on his heels. “As a student of the Bard I like the sound of murder and revenge. Let’s find a quiet bridge over the river and you can expound. For once we’ll ignore the lack of facts—we can pretend we’re dunderheads once more!”

  “I know just the place.” With a smile and a wave of his arm, Orlando set off.

  He led Jonty along the road, down a little alleyway, round the back of a small museum specialising in the history of some obscure branch of science, and onto a path alongside a small stream.

  “This is the back of beyond,” Jonty said. “Watch out for those nettles.”

  “It’s got rather overgrown compared to when I was a student. I used to come here when I wanted a quiet think in a pleasant place. Ah!” It was still there, the little bridge over the stream and still bathed in sunshine. He’d regarded it as his special place and to be able to share it with Jonty was joyful indeed.

  “How delightful.” Jonty beamed, turning his head to and fro to appreciate the view. “I can picture you standing here, you old softy, contemplating terribly complicated sums.”

  Getting away from other people, too, although Orlando was reluctant to admit that part. Jonty would no doubt have guessed that was part of the motivation. He leaned on the rail, which felt more secure than it looked, then said, “Is it possible that Denison himself hastened the death of one or two of his fellow tontine members? Not the chap who died in the train crash, obviously, but perhaps the others.”

  “In order to inherit all?” Jonty shrugged. “It’s a reasonable motive. Are you thinking he might have employed one of Dr. Panesar’s beloved mysterious poisons that mimicked the symptoms of consumption or a tumour?”

  “I had it more in mind that he might have taken advantage of their weakened state to hasten them out of the world. He might have needed the money, if his source of income from concerts had dried up.”

  “I’d never thought of that. Clever clogs.” Jonty slipped an arm over Orlando’s shoulder. “In that case, who did him in? The housekeeper, she of the unclear marital status? By the way, how is Gabriel—the college, not the angel—for funds? Would they be desperate enough for a bequest that they did Denison in. No, you don’t need to answer. Your expression tells me I’m barking up the wrong tree.”

  “I’m only looking affronted because you’re implying I haven’t contemplated the notion.” Orlando forced a grin. “As far as I’m aware they’re as awash with funds as any college is. And why would the warden have called us in if they had anything to hide? What about some relative of one of the two men Denison killed to inherit the tontine? Perhaps an illegitimate child who felt they should have had access to their father’s money.” Orlando waved his hand. “I know, it’s all speculative, but it’s all I have to offer. Unless everyone is wrong about the doctor and Denison did die of natural causes.”

  “Hold on.” Jonty took his arm away, then placed both hands on the rail, drumming with his fingers. “We do have another character we keep forgetting. That woman with whom Denison was arguing. Rather than being a discarded paramour of his, could she have been the daughter—or common law wife—of Frobisher or the other chap? She’d tracked him down to where he’d moved and had come to demand the money she felt she was owed. Or to accuse him of murder.”

  “That would accord equally well with what she was reported as saying.” Orlando stared down into the water as it rippled under the bridge. “Although so could a dozen other things.” He gave Jonty a sidelong glance then resumed his contemplation of the water. Funny how this place was working its magic of helping him see clearly. “Perhaps this is as much of a mare’s nest as the business with the violin turned out to be. No mystery at all.”

  “Look at me.” Jonty’s voice, although calm, had a masterful edge and would brook no disobedience. “It might. But I’m reluctant to give up so soon. Something appears to be rotten in this state of Oxford, even though I can’t quite pin down what.”

  Thank God Jonty was so sympathetic. “That’s exactly how I feel. As though we’ve been told something that gives us the key to everything and somehow, we missed it. The one fact that tilts all the others so they realign and make sense once more.”

  “Well put.” Jonty slipped his arm round Orlando’s shoulder again. “Here’s a proposal. If we’ve not pinned down whatever-it-is in two days time, then we concede and leave the field with dignity, having given the case our best shot. If we can’t solve it then maybe, as you say, there’s nothing to solve.”

  They stood in companionable silence until Jonty had the idea of dropping twigs into the stream and seeing whose emerged on the other side of the bridge first. After five goes, of which Jonty had lost four, he said, “Are you sure you haven’t nobbled my twigs, you miscreant?”

  “No. You’ve just not got the correct technique.”

  Jonty snorted. “Technique, my aspidistra. My part of the stream appears to be running out of kilter. Rather like the time in this case we’re supposed to be investigating.”

  “What are you talking about now?”

  “Time. Out of kilter. A year ago, Denison gave up the violin, moved here, made new friends and lost old ones, and had his garden dug over. Maybe that’s the era we s
hould be looking into.”

  Maybe Orlando had himself slipped out of phase with whatever Jonty was saying because he still couldn’t see what the garden had to do with it and told his partner so.

  “A newly dug garden would be an excellent place to hide either a body or the means used to commit a murder.”

  “What a horrible mind you have at times. I should ban you from reading all these Jacobean tragedies.” Orlando rolled his eyes. “You’d be better off with Euclid. No dead bodies in there.”

  “That’s because he hid them in his grounds.” Jonty chuckled. “In all seriousness, think about it. All the changes made to Denison’s garden. Could they have included provision for hiding a corpse? Not that the landscaper would have included that in his schedule of work, of course. Just an opportunity grabbed.”

  “If they did you’d have thought the neighbours would have noticed something. You’d have had to dig late at night and then you couldn’t hide the noise.” Orlando stared into the stream again. He’d have to find an equivalent place in Cambridge that was so conducive to thought, especially when Jonty was throwing wild theories about. “And the gardeners or workmen or whoever was doing the hard labour on the changes would have had to realise something was amiss, surely? You’d have to dig pretty deep to hide the body and how on earth would you explain the fact away that you’d been interfering with the work?”

  “Perhaps you’d do it over a weekend, especially if your neighbours had gone away on holiday. Please note that two significant people in Denison’s life died at around that time.” Jonty tipped his head to one side. “So, if you’re allowed a theory with no supporting facts, then indulge me in one as well. Except that my non-existent facts are a sight more substantial than yours.”

  With that wonderful piece of non-logic, Jonty went off to find more twigs.

  ***

  The afternoon was spent in a mixture of intense activity—using the telephone, poring through newspaper archives in the library—and periods of boredom—waiting for telephone calls to be returned and results to turn up from the archive-poring. By the end of it they were wiser although not much further forward in the case. The order of events was clear: the death of Paul Denison happened a few weeks before his second cousin moved to Oxford, and Frobisher had gone to meet his maker a month afterwards. Reports of their deaths confirmed natural causes in the latter case and a horrible accident in the former, when a small block of masonry had dislodged from a building that was being refurbished, struck the scaffolding below a glancing blow, then deflected and plummeted onto Paul Denison’s head. The inquest had declared his death to be accidental and Peter Denison had arranged to have him decently buried in the family plot. The fact that neither man had ended up in the garden at Oxford was confirmed by their funeral notices in the Times.