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

by Charlie Cochrane

  “We’ve met him,” Jonty said. “He’s certainly charming.”

  Miss Evans opened her mouth then clearly thought better of whatever she’d intended to say. The chance remark had caught her on the hop. He wasn’t sure Orlando had registered that, so he pressed on. “He’s what my mother would describe as a bit of a Beau Brummel. I suspect he’d win many a lady’s heart, old or young.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that, sir.” Miss Evans’s words belied her expression. This line of enquiry continued to unsettle her. Maybe it was worth trying to exploit that situation.

  “Is he married, do you know?” Jonty turned to Orlando, trying to convey by subtle facial clues that his partner was to play along. “Didn’t Papa say something about meeting Robinson’s wife at a gallery where she had paintings on display? Or am I confusing him with somebody else?”

  “I’m sure you must be,” the housekeeper said, sharply, before correcting herself. “I mean, I’m sure that if Mr. Robinson was married to an artist, Mr. Denison would have said so. He liked his art. Have you seen the portrait on the stairs?” Miss Evans gestured towards the hallway, clearly anxious to distract her guests.

  “We saw it when we first visited. A remarkable likeness,” Orlando observed. “I suppose it was done a few years ago. Mr. Denison’s appearance seems to have changed somewhat. The affect of the pain from his joints, I guess?”

  “Yes, yes, quite right. He suffered terribly.” The housekeeper was become more flustered by the minute. How much more pressure would it take for her to tell all?

  Jonty knew they’d have to tread warily and rely on asking the right questions in as seemingly innocent a manner as possible. If he was one hundred per cent certain that they were dealing with a villainess then he’d have no compunction about putting her under pressure but the chance that she was nothing more than a dupe, working at the behest of somebody else, played on his conscience.

  “His anguish seems to be written on his face,” Jonty said, glancing round the room to find a photograph to back up his assertion, but they’d all been cleared away. “I could have sworn there were pictures of him, here. They didn’t go to the school?” he added, with a flashing smile.

  “No, they’ve been boxed for safekeeping. Before the men arrived to take the instruments. You can never be quite sure how careful people will be.”

  “Very wise. You’d want to keep those mementoes of him. Even if he almost looked like another man by the end of his life.” Jonty glanced away, ostensibly to look out of the window, but not before catching the expression of absolute horror that had crossed the housekeeper’s face.

  Orlando had evidently spotted it as well. “I’m sorry, was that terribly insensitive? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I’m fine, thank you. It’s just that I miss him so much.”

  Jonty strolled over to the French doors leading to the garden. With his back towards the housekeeper—confident that Orlando would keep an eagle eye on her—he said, with as much coldness as he could muster, “Grief is nothing to be ashamed of. Even when it’s lasted as long as a year. As yours has for Peter Denison.” He swung around. “It would help you to cope with his loss to tell us the truth, you know. We’ve pretty much guessed what happened.”

  Miss Evans looked around the room, perhaps to find inspiration to face the quandary she found herself in. Before she could gather her thoughts, Orlando asked, “Was it your idea to pretend that Paul Denison had died in the accident or was it Robinson’s? You must have thought you’d got away with it.”

  With a sigh, the housekeeper crumpled into a chair.

  “I think she’s passed out,” Jonty said. “I wonder if there’s any sal volatile to be found.”

  “I think there was a medicine cabinet upstairs.” Orlando was already heading for the door. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  By the time he’d returned, empty handed and apologetic, Jonty had already coaxed Miss Evans into consciousness—if she actually been unconscious in the first place and not just buying time. “Perhaps you could fetch a glass of water, Dr. Coppersmith. I believe our hostess has had a bit of a shock.”

  Orlando set off again, leaving Jonty to fuss over the housekeeper, with much hand patting and making of soothing noises. When the water arrived, she took too large a gulp, nearly choked, then had to recover herself before apologising for making a spectacle of herself.

  “There’s nothing to apologise for in fainting,” Orlando reassured her. “Whether you need to apologise for the rest is up to your conscience.”

  “You can’t make me say anything,” she protested. “You’re not the police.”

  “No, we’re not. But we have excellent connections within the force. People will listen to us.” The contrast between the way Orlando had spoken as they’d driven here and the confidence with which he spoke now was extraordinary. So must he employ his best bluffing skills when playing bridge. “You can hide photographs that might aid identification or give away instruments bearing incriminating fingerprints but were both Peter’s and Paul’s bodies to be disinterred, they would tell a tale that couldn’t be denied. There are other charges than murder you might face. Fraud for one.”

  Miss Evans, ghostly pale, shook her head. “Nobody has been hurt. Mr. Frobisher was at death’s door and he had no close relations, so it would be scandalous if the money from the tontine had gone to him and then to the crown because there was nobody to claim it.”

  Were they the housekeeper’s own words or was she repeating an argument that had been used to persuade her?

  “But people have been hurt and badly used. What about Paul Denison, forced to live a lie?” Jonty asked.

  “He was pleased to do it,” she insisted. “He had very little money when he returned to England.” Miss Evans spread a hand to take in the elegant room, the glimpse though the window of the delightful garden. “Imagine being able to enjoy all of this rather than living hand to mouth. He wasn’t the healthiest of men to begin with and life had taken a toll on him. Better to spend his days here than in squalor. He didn’t object when the idea was put to him.”

  “And Mary Beck?” Orlando said. “What did she think of this arrangement? She’d have been left homeless, one assumes.”

  “She was sent money. She wanted more, of course, but her sort always does. Paul Denison had too warm a heart so he made sure she was looked after as well as could be. She believed it was Peter Denison who sent her the money, out of sympathy.”

  Better too warm a heart than be so calculating. Jonty’s view of the housekeeper was changing from her being a woman made use of to her being a scheming wench. Or perhaps she was a bit of both.

  “She met him, here, didn’t she?” Orlando said.

  “Did she?” That was evidently news to Miss Evans. “No, that can’t be right. He’d have said.”

  “The meeting was witnessed.” Orlando paused, then abruptly changed the subject. “You’ve been left a rich woman.”

  “I have. Mr. Denison was determined that I should have the house and whatever money he left, given that I’ve served him so well for so long. I would have it all above board, if it hadn’t been for the accident. Mr. Robinson told me this plan was for the best.”

  At last the expected acknowledgement of Robinson’s role. “Perhaps a new plan would be even better,” Jonty suggested. “Come with us to the police and tell them everything. The whole truth and nothing but. They’ll look more favourably on you if it’s of your own volition.” He wasn’t sure that was true—nor that it was ethical because he didn’t believe that she’d been the solicitor’s dupe—but it might persuade her.

  A sly look crossed the housekeeper’s face. “Can a woman be forced to testify against her husband?”

  Jonty, puzzled both to the correct legal answer and the couple being referred to, said, “Were Mary Beck and Paul Denison married?”

  “No.” Miss Evans flicked her hand towards him. “Don’t be silly. If she’d had marriage lines she’d have
used them to get more money from the man she thought was my real master. I’m the one with the certificate, not her.”

  “Are you telling us you’re Mrs. Denison?” In which case, which one—Paul or Peter?

  “No,” Orlando said, slowly and confidentially, “I believe we’re addressing Mrs. Robinson.”

  If Jonty was stunned at his partner’s leap of logic, he was equally amazed at the smugness of the housekeeper’s reply.

  “I am. And why shouldn’t I be allowed to take a husband?”

  “No reason at all. How long has this happy situation prevailed?” Orlando smiled, but his voice was like ice.

  “Two years come August.”

  Two years? Jonty had a rush of questions come to mind, although he simply started with, “Did either Denison know?”

  “Of course they didn’t.” She couldn’t hide her self-satisfaction. “They thought I was using my days off and holidays to visit my sister. I suppose they couldn’t believe that a woman my age could find love.”

  “You never gave them the chance to express a view one way or the other,” Jonty pointed out. “You might have found them sympathetic.”

  Miss Evans—Mrs. Robinson—snorted, an even less attractive noise than when Orlando produced it. “Sympathetic? They’d probably have sacked me, believing my place was at home with my husband.”

  “Many a husband might think the same.” Jonty, becoming quite riled, wondered what aspect to tackle next. Whose idea had it really been not to tell her employer? Given Robinson’s position, did they need to keep the liaison quiet, his peers perhaps likely to think he’d married below his station? Or were they in such dire need of funds the loss of her income, comparatively small as it would have been, would cut too deeply?

  Orlando placed his hand on Jonty’s arm, cutting off any chance of posing a question. “We should go. Our work here is done.”

  Jonty opened his mouth to argue, but the expression on Orlando’s face made him change his mind. “Yes, good idea. Thank you for seeing us, Mrs, Robinson. It has been most useful.”

  The housekeeper, seemingly as surprised as Jonty had been at the change of tack, gave a desultory bob of a curtsey then said, “You’d needn’t bother calling here again. In a few days the house will be clear.”

  Orlando produced a perfunctory half bow in return. “I doubt we have any need of return here. If we—or anybody else—needs to speak to you again they’ll know where to find you.”

  He turned swiftly on his heels and headed for the door.

  “Why the rush?” Jonty asked, once they were safely out of the house and half way back to the car. “I had lots more I wanted to ask.”

  “Save it for the police to ask her, rather than us. Speed is of the essence.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Perhaps he’d be allowed to get the motor car whizzing along again. “Still not sure why, though.”

  “It suddenly struck me that we’ve put Mary Beck at risk. I don’t think Miss Evans—I can’t stop calling her that—and therefore, by association, Robinson knew about that meeting between Mary and Paul. They’ll see her as a threat, now. The only person who can identify which body is Paul’s.”

  “Ah. Very good point. Hence why you changed the tack of questioning. Do you really think they’d do away with her? I’d have thought they’d bribe her to keep her mouth shut.”

  “They might not want to risk it. Better a threat than an inducement. The former keeps its effect while the latter might wear off.” They’d reached the car, so got her started and settled themselves before Orlando said, “off to the police station, I think. Do you know where it is?”

  “No, but you can direct me. I dare say you spent many an hour there in your rugby playing days.” Jonty eased the car along the road. “This rather changes things, doesn’t it? We’ve got the housekeeper’s confession and while she can easily retract it and call us a bunch of liars, it’s enough in itself to warrant the authorities taking an interest.”

  “Even if it wasn’t enough, I’d still be warning them. I’d rather be thought an idiot and damage my reputation than have any harm to Mary Beck on my conscience.”

  Jonty reached over to pat his lover’s leg. “I’m immensely proud of you. It takes a heroic man to take the right action rather than the easy or safe one. We should warn the police about the risk of Robinson taking flight, with or without his lawfully-wedded wife. Perhaps we should get word to Papa, as well. He will have contacts in London—police or otherwise—who can be quicker off the mark. They might have more idea about Mary Beck’s whereabouts, too.”

  “Good thinking. You need to turn left here.”

  “Thank you.” Jonty carefully negotiated an awkward corner round an inconveniently placed brewer’s dray, then observed, “What we’ve learned today does rather beg the question of why Mary Beck hasn’t already been to the police. Or anybody else she can kick up a fuss with.”

  “For all we know, she already has.” Orlando sniffed, loudly. “Would they listen to a woman with her reputation and criminal record? She’d have had even slimmer evidence to give them than we have and wouldn’t have the benefit of reputation, track record and personal contacts with people of influence.”

  Which was absolutely true and a sad indictment of society.

  “If they don’t take us, seriously, they’ll have to listen to Papa. While something rankles with me in terms of making use of privilege, in this case it’s entirely justified.”

  An hour later—it felt like several days—they emerged from the police station finally having persuaded them to take note. It hadn’t helped that the local Inspector had a low opinion of Professor Lewis-Duckworth, having had a run-in with him when the warden of Gabriel was a madcap undergraduate and he no more than a lowly constable. The Inspector had heard rumours surrounding the warden’s theories about Denison’s death, trusted Kane’s assertion that natural causes were involved and thought the whole thing a grown-up version of a student rag.

  Telephone conversations with both Inspector Wilson and Mr. Stewart were needed to change his mind, the former emphasising Orlando and Jonty’s trustworthiness and nose for sniffing out the solution to intractable problems, while the latter involved considerable lashings of the Stewart charm and an invitation to Lord’s to see the cricket. Orlando’s brilliant suggestion that the Inspector finding the evidence to prove the swop of identities had occurred would be a feather in his cap which he could shake at Lewis-Duckworth whenever he wanted to embarrass the man finally sealed the deal.

  All that was needed was to return to the Randolph, pack and set off for home with the job, if not done, then on the way to completion. They’d done all they could.

  “Two years since Miss Evans got her marriage lines,” Jonty said as he stuffed his clothes into his case while Orlando meticulously folded and placed his. “Am I alone in thinking that casts quite another light on things?”

  “You are not.” Orlando carefully smoothed one of his many spare items of underwear. “I’d assumed up until then that the whole plan had come together serendipitously. Now I wonder if it had been planned. They wouldn’t have wanted Peter to change his will in favour of Paul, would they? Even if it meant sharing the estate with him.”

  “True. There must be somebody else who can verify that was Peter’s intention—perhaps his own solicitor—or why mention it to us?” Jonty paused, vest in hand. “Can you engineer an accident like the one that killed Peter?”

  “That I doubt. Anyway, they’d have done better with the man himself alive until Frobisher died, so long as he hadn’t redone his will by then.” Orlando shrugged. “It will all depend on the timings of who intended to do what and when and at which point they thought Frobisher would depart this earth. I don’t understand enough about biology to know if anything like poison might show at an autopsy so long after the event.”

  “You’re thinking of what Lewis-Duckworth said about his pal who’d seen one of Peter’s last concerts?”

  “Yes. That might be stretc
hing a point too far, but it’s entirely possible he was being drugged in some way by the person who could do it most easily.” Orlando smoothed down his clothes for the umpteenth time then carefully shut the case top. “Perhaps if he was under the influence of poison he might have been more prone to having an accident. Less likely to react and all that.”

  “Such as a convenient fall down the stairs while nobody was in the house?” Jonty nodded, then crammed the last item into his case. “I’d not be in the least surprised if they had already spoken to Paul suggesting the plan to him in the case of Peter predeceasing Frobisher without the change of will.”

  “The problem is that the two main witnesses in this are both dead. What if Mary Beck can’t identify Paul’s body? Or if she does she gets torn to pieces in the witness box? If only we had some proper evidence from a reliable party.”

  Fortunately, Jonty hadn’t quite launched into the consolatory hug he was about to bestow on his lover, given that a loud rap sounded on the door of their suite. A young clerk had come up from the reception desk to say that a Dr. Panesar had telephoned for Dr. Stewart, and could he return the call as a matter of urgency?

  Jonty, with a tingle of excitement building in his stomach—although he couldn’t say at what—tipped the clerk handsomely then went to make the call, leaving Orlando to finish the packing. The cuddle, alas, would have to wait, although perhaps he’d bring back something better.

  ***

  When he returned to the room, Jonty found the cases by the door, ready to go. His looked suspiciously less bulging than previously, suggesting that Orlando had surreptitiously repacked it. On another occasion he might have upbraided him, but the chap had clearly been upset and must have found the activity both soothing and psychologically satisfying. The ordering of the unorderable.

  “Was this the fruits of your consulting Dr. Panesar?” Orlando asked, emerging from the bathroom. “What were you asking him about? Evidently something that he’s come up with the correct answer to, given your facial expression.”