“Moriarty?” Orlando wrinkled his nose. “Oh yes. The actor playing the part. You could well be right about my sub-conscious.”
Jonty immediately regretted making the point, because now Orlando looked smugger than ever. Perhaps it was only to be expected, their having been so close to leaving the city with the rug of a case pulled out from under their investigative feet and now—if they were proved right—they’d uncovered quite a scandal. “Let me add some more fuel to the evidential fire. That young maid, the one with the lovely voice. She said she thought Denison’s playing nothing special. What if, instead of having no musical ear, she was the only one in the Hamilton household who did? The neighbour the other side was hard of hearing so she may not have been any judge. If the man she thought was Denison wasn’t really the violinist himself, no wonder he didn’t play in public. He simply wasn’t as good as he should have been.”
“That’s right. Well spotted. Anything else to add that I might have missed?”
Jonty wasn’t sure if Orlando really had overlooked those points or was trying to make him feel better about the situation. “A potentially small point of corroboration. Lewis-Duckworth said he was surprised that Denison spoke of his glory days without regret. If they’d not been his own glory days, no wonder it didn’t bother him.”
“Indeed. It’s a shame Dr. Bundy wasn’t as observant as you’ve been.”
“You think the arthritis was all put on, hence the choice of physician?”
“Yes, although he wasn’t so stupid as to let Bundy treat his heart. That problem was all too real.” Orlando poured them both another cup.
“Miss Evans would know it wasn’t him. She almost told us as much, you know. She felt the loss of her master, past tense, rather than feeling it, present tense.” Jonty took a sip—this was a three or four coffee problem. “So, if we accept all this to be true, who was the man pretending to be Denison and where’s the man himself? Why did Miss Evans get us all wound up to believe it wasn’t natural causes and what did she mean about the truth not hurting anyone?”
“That feels like a Tripos question. The sort where you get so wound up in answering one part you mess up the others.” Orlando laid down his cup, then held up his left hand, pointing to the finger where Jonty would have liked to place a wedding ring, had the world and its laws been entirely different. “Last part first, taking in the third question. Because she knew that the truth—that his heart killed him, which Kane would testify to—would send us on our way, tails between our legs. Meanwhile, she could safely pretend to be in line with the warden’s idea and so appear to be aiding our enquiries rather than hindering them.”
“I suppose so. Although wasn’t she running a risk letting us poke about that house? What if we’d turned up something that would have given us a clue earlier?”
“She’d surely have seen to it that there was nothing to be found, and not just for our benefit. No wonder the older pictures on display were less than clear. There was enough resemblance between the man himself and his newer version that they’d pass muster.” Orlando waggled his left thumb and middle finger. “Which leads us nicely to the first of your questions and again, following on, to the second. Who might have looked sufficiently like Peter Denison to pass for him? Of a similar age as well.”
“Paul Denison!” Jonty slapped his knees. “Excellent. The use of an impersonator would also explain the withdrawal from public life—on the count of both musical ability and meeting old colleagues—as well as the move to Oxford and making a new set of friends.” He wagged his finger. “Not entirely new. Somerset must have been in touch with Paul before he became Peter. Same initial so no suspicions aroused.”
“Exactly. I’d not be surprised if Paul did everything he could to put a stop to their face-to-face meetings. Too risky. He’d have been aghast at Somerset overhearing that argument.”
Jonty nodded. “Talking of chess, Miss Evans seemed a bit wrong-footed by the reference to the game, didn’t she? If her original master wasn’t that good at or keen on playing she’d not have naturally made the connection.”
“She’d have been grateful that Paul could play the violin. That at least was one aspect they could manage convincingly.”
“If it was Paul impersonating Peter, he might have jumped at the chance to take on the role at that point. Short of funds, his mistress in prison for gaining immoral earnings, no wonder he had problems with his heart.” Jonty, hearing a loud Harrumph beside them, suddenly realised they were no longer alone. He lowered his voice before they caused more scandal. “Perhaps Mary Beck following him here caused so much stress it brought on a fatal heart attack.”
“Or perhaps she’s been blackmailing him. The price of her silence.”
“As a theory, this has much to commend it. As you say, no proof as yet, but it ties many of the ends together.”
Orlando bowed. “Thank you. Not just for the compliment but for the fleshing out of the bare bones. Care to answer part two of your own question?”
“I could if I can remember what it was. Hold on.” Jonty mentally recapped the conversation. “Where is Peter Denison? Not weighed down with stones and dropped in a lake would risk him turning up as would throwing him in the sea or in a river.”
“Indeed. When I dispose of you it will be down a disused well, or in a derelict icehouse that’s been abandoned. Or in a cave. I promise not to do anything too gruesome.”
Jonty raised his hands. “Spare me the detail. When I murder you and have to get rid of your earthly remains, I plan to simply find a fresh grave that I can open up afresh and bung you in. You’d appreciate the hallowed ground and pleasant surroundings. Which is, I’m guessing, what they did with Peter Denison. Except they put him in his own grave. In a manner of speaking. Under another man’s name.”
“Paul Denison’s. Exactly the conclusion I’ve come to. Peter Denison had the unfortunate accident, an accident which must have made identifying the body by face alone a challenge and the person who could have put paid to the dead man being identified under a different name—because she’d have intimate knowledge of any notable marks on the rest of Paul’s body—was locked up at the time. It seems like Miss Evans and Paul Denison jumped at the opportunity to keep the tontine alive.” Orlando shook the pot, but all the coffee was gone.
“Shall we order another?” Jonty offered.
“No, I’ve had an ample sufficiency for the moment, thank you. We’ve a busy day ahead. Calling on Miss Evans again, for a start.”
“Yes. I’d also like to contact Dr. Panesar if possible and no, I won’t tell you what about. Two can play at your game.” Jonty slowly and with much relish finished his cup of coffee.
Orlando made a face, then said, “Among the loose ends I’d like to tie up—assuming we haven’t gone down a blind alley with this and found a theory that fits the facts but is still nonsensical—is whether Miss Evans had really known her original master for a long time or is that another lie to add verisimilitude to the set up? Nobody here would necessarily know one way or another.”
“No need to ask about that. One of the photographs at the house shows what we must assume is Peter Denison being presented with something or other and she’s there in the group of people watching and applauding. It looks like the picture was taken in America because there’s the national flag on display, although I suppose it might not have been. Irrespective of location, she looked younger, so we must assume she told us the truth about that.”
“She’s a good liar about the rest, then. Just the sort of accomplice you’d need giving evidence if there had been an inquiry into the latest death.” Orlando produced his notepad to jot something in it. “I wonder if she appeared at Paul’s inquest. We should look in the newspaper archive again. That can’t lie.”
“Whereas she can? I wish we could go back in time and go through our conversations again. Did she actually tell us anything that’s provably untrue or was she incredibly clever to ensure that she neither let the cat out of the
bag nor told us a lie? She referred to the victim as Denison, which was his name, and if asked to account for herself she could argue that she was speaking about two different men. Did she and Paul Denison act alone, do you think? Mary Beck appears not to have known anything about the impersonation.”
“No, I don’t think those two acted alone.” Orlando rose from his chair. “If you won’t tell me what you’re consulting Dr. Panesar about, then I won’t tell you who I think the third person involved was. Not until we’re en route to see Miss Evans. You’ve the time it takes me to read up about that inquest to work it out for yourself.”
With another smirk, Orlando headed off, leaving Jonty to reel through a list of potential candidates. Somerset, who’d known Paul Denison and had taken the trouble to distance himself when the man moved to Oxford. Although why then admit to overhearing the argument with Mary Beck? Professor Lewis-Duckworth himself, in order to get his hands on one of the genuinely valuable violins, so he could fiddle while Dr. Bundy’s reputation burned? But why call them in to investigate unless he was seeking to double cross his partner?
There was, of course, another option, and Jonty would have to refresh his memory as to what event had happened when—and be clear about the exact order—before he could make the accusation. Alas, if he was correct, the cat would be put amongst the Stewart household pigeons. In the meantime, he’d beg the hotel clerk for a telephone to put a call through to Cambridge.
***
This time they took Jonty’s motorcar to visit Denison’s house. While a leisurely stroll would have given them more time for discussion, Orlando seemed to feel that time was of the essence. Jonty had a fleeting vision of them pursuing Miss Evans along the street as she attempted an escape, cornering her near the bakery and enduring her parrying at them with one of her master’s violin bows. Still he agreed to the request, because the journey—although short—would be time enough for him to assert that he knew who the third member of the triumvirate was.
“Obvious, really,” he said, once the subject had been broached. “He’d have had to have known, given the sequence of events. Is that what aroused your suspicion? The vagueness of the dates he gave for what happened a year ago compared to the exact detail of the other information he produced?”
“Yes. That made my mathematician’s nose twitch. It twitched even more when we had the information about the timing of Paul Denison’s supposed accident and it was in advance of that last dinner, when he had the last two members of the tontine together. Frobisher must have been so unwell that there was every chance he’d not notice the change in the other man.” Orlando drummed on the motorcar door. “Which Robinson must have been fairly confident about. It might have formed a good test, anyway. To see how easily Paul could be passed off as his second cousin.”
“Do you think he was relying on us not to go down that route of enquiry?”
“Of course. And why should we? We were investigating this death, not the previous one.” Orlando’s drumming accelerated. “I never thought I’d ask this, but could you go a little faster?”
Once he’d recovered from the shock, Jonty said, “Not at present, although once we’ve cleared the town centre, perhaps. Why such a need of haste? Are you fearful the birds will have flown?”
“I am. I’ve come to the conclusion that it wasn’t our original visit that caused such a flurry of activity from Miss Evans yesterday. Robinson will have warned her of our interest in tontines. We might already be too late.”
Jonty prepared to make as much haste as he could on the journey, whenever possible. To have such licence should have felt glorious, but the enormity of the situation allowed him no time to enjoy it. “Perhaps we should simply make our way to the police station and ask them to put a warning out to the ports so that our birds can’t fly.”
“On what evidence? We might be convinced we’re on the right track but the local force may think we’re a pair of lunatics causing trouble. If Wilson and Cohen were here it might be different. They trust our judgement.”
Jonty nodded. “I’ll resist saying that’s the benefit of the Cambridge constabulary over the Oxford ones. I wouldn’t blame anyone for mistrusting us, given the circumstances. What are our chances of finding some compelling evidence? I suppose there is the discrepancy of dates between the last meeting of the tontine members and the accident with the falling slab.”
“Robinson could claim that he’d also been deceived by the imposter. He only saw Denison once a year—remember how he told us how shocked he’d been in the change in the man? Maybe he was establishing his story in advance.” Orlando stared at the road ahead, visibly willing it to rush under their wheels. “It would, naturally, be a course that abandoned Miss Evans to take all the blame, or to face all the rumours, as the case may be. I’ve been wondering why he asked for our opinion on how credible a witness she’d be.”
“She might abandon him, of course. Say he forced her into acting as she did, much against her better judgement. I can imagine a court being more likely to believe her story than his.”
“We’ll have to tread carefully. Robinson could quite possibly bring a charge of slander against us if we make a public accusation against him. And who knows where that might lead?”
Jonty shivered. Every man in their position was well aware of what had happened to Oscar Wilde. That had begun with a case of libel and ended in the man’s destruction. While they exercised more discretion than Oscar and Bosie appeared to have done, cultivating an image as a pair of not-so-old bachelors whom no woman could ever wrench away from their academic pursuits, they were still vulnerable to exposure of their true natures and relationship.
This was a powerful weapon that no enemy had yet sought to use against them and long might that situation remain, although they couldn’t rely on it never being brought into the field of battle.
“Perhaps Dr. Panesar will work his magic,” Jonty said, as reassuringly as he could manage. “I’ve set him to find out whether any of his mysterious contacts know anything about Paul Denison. It struck me that if he were the one with knowledge of espionage it would explain why he could speak do authoritatively on the subject and why he’d been so effective at impersonating his second cousin. Relevant experience.”
“Perhaps Dr. Panesar’s mysterious contacts could persuade the police to disinter what’s supposedly Peter Denison’s body, which would at least give us the opportunity to have somebody—Mary Beck for instance—verify the original identification. Which would stir up the hornets’ nest nicely.” Orlando, for the first time since the journey started, sounded more optimistic. “Robinson could well have a stronger motive than simply taking a fee for helping Miss Evans inherit all. If he was in charge of the tontine funds he might have misappropriated them or otherwise failed in his administration. One hears of fraudulent solicitors and brokers who draw on their clients’ money, only to find that they can’t repay what they’ve taken. If they ever had any intention of repayment in the first place.”
“In that case, the longer the Tontine ran, the longer Robinson would have to repay what he’d taken. Or to avoid being caught with his fingers in the till. Papa would back that theory whole-heartedly. I contacted him again, by the way. To make discreet enquiries on Robinson’s character and reputation.” Jonty rounded the corner into the street where Denison had lived, pulling up a little distance from the house. “If we stop here, we’ll retain an element of surprise.”
Orlando, unexpectedly, began to laugh. “I have visions of you slinking along the street, hiding in the doorways, or approaching the property from the back, leaping over the garden fence and causing alarm to the entire neighbourhood.”
“Sounds like great fun. But I’ll settle for strolling along road quite nonchalantly. To prove we have nothing to hide.”
When they reached the front door, it took four lots of knocking to produce an answer. They might have given up and returned to the car, had Orlando not been insistent that he could hear somebody moving around in
the property. “All very suspicious,” he’d whispered, between the second and third sets of raps on the door.
“I bet she wishes she’d got rid of that blotting paper. The one that gave you the hint about the tontine.” Jonty leaned over to the left but couldn’t see in sufficiently through the window. “I bet if she’d know about the thing it would have been gone before we—or anyone else—arrived.”
When Miss Evans eventually opened the door, she appeared flustered. “I’m so sorry, gentlemen. I wasn’t expecting anyone to call and I was otherwise engaged.”
Jonty guessed, from the way she averted her gaze, she was implying that she’d been in the toilet, although he doubted that explanation. Perhaps she’d hoped they’d go away, not realising how persistent they’d be. He employed his best smile, then said, “I apologise for bothering you yet again, but things have moved on somewhat from when we last spoke. Might we come in and ask a few more questions? It’s beneath your dignity to talk on the doorstep, I’m sure, you now being mistress of the house.”
“Oh, yes.” She stepped back, with evident reluctance, to let them enter.
Much had happened since the previous day, the music room being pretty well denuded of what it had contained.
“The people from the school came first thing this morning,” she said, with a sweep of her arm. “Quite a relief that it’s all gone. They took the chess sets, too, and anything else they could make use of. I’m so pleased they found a good home.”
“Did Mr. Robinson help you to dispose of them?” Orlando asked.
“Mr. Robinson?” The look of innocent puzzlement followed by sudden recollection would have fooled nobody. “That’s the man who looked after the tontine, wasn’t it? Mr. Denison always used to say he was a true gentleman.”
Lessons in Playing a Murderous Tune: A Cambridge Fellows Mystery novella (Cambridge Fellows Mysteries) Page 11