Lessons for Survivors

by Charlie Cochrane

  “I had a feeling there was something contrived about that day Peter died. As if I was being put off the scent. Whatever’s at the root of it, Rosalind’s uneasy about being questioned too closely about the exact who was doing what, where, when, and why. Although it could be simple unease at having a stranger poking around.” Jonty managed to eat, talk, and scribble at the same time. He explained the circumstances of Peter’s death, as the widow had described them. “Odd thing, though. When I approached the topic, I put on my dim act— Excuse me, I heard that snort.”

  “You play dim very well. Please continue.”

  “Hmm. Well, I asked her to set my mind at rest about something. That put her on her guard, but she relaxed again when I asked her if she’d found the body. As though she was expecting a different question. Then there was an oddly contrived encounter with Billy, the grocer’s lad.”

  “Billy?” Orlando wished, not for the first time, that Jonty could relate a story sensibly.

  “Yes.” Jonty produced a convoluted tail of red kites and housekeepers and ladybirds. “I’m sure Mrs. Hamilton had arranged for Billy to tell me his story, which raises the question of whether Rosalind asked her to do so.”

  “A mysterious man in the garden, eh? I wouldn’t have believed a word of it, no matter how fundamentally honest your delivery boy appeared.”

  “The funny thing is I did believe him. And not just because he seemed such a nice lad. Maybe he’d been persuaded that he had seen someone. Like he’s got it in his head about the birds.” Jonty scratched his head, lodging some breadcrumbs there. “Anyway, I decided he’d been put up to say it and maintained that belief for all of the next fifteen minutes or so. Until I met the vicar.”

  “The vicar?” Orlando’s mind, which had only just stopped spinning, was set gyrating again. “You’ve found out a lot more than I gave you credit for, haven’t you? You’ve got your cat-with-the-cream face on.” A particularly annoying, if handsome, one. Especially annoying when the person on the receiving end didn’t have anything much to gloat about.

  “I’d better explain that too. It’s why I was a bit late. I’d been talking to the Reverend Mitchell, incumbent of this parish.” Jonty had swopped the cat-with-the-cream look for one of innocence, suitable for talking to or about the clergy. It wouldn’t have fooled anyone. “He told me a very interesting story. Two of them. Did you have any idea that Simon and Peter’s mother didn’t die when she was supposed to have done? That she went off with someone else and lies buried with him, not in the familial plot that bears her name, but in a wreck on the ocean bed off the Scilly Isles?”

  “Blimey!”

  Both men took a reviving swig of beer.

  “Blimey indeed. She’s got a headstone at the family plot and apparently there was a proper burial for her, coffin and all. Down in Hampshire somewhere, the same churchyard as Simon’s buried in. If only stones could speak.”

  “If the ones at St. Bride’s could talk, you’d be in deep, deep trouble by now.”

  The landlord came to take their plates, passing the time of day and letting Orlando get his mental breath back. Clues were coming in a bit too thick and fast.

  “The man in the woods. How does this all link up to him?” Orlando said, when they could talk again without fear of being overheard.

  “Mitchell said Simon was here on the day his brother died, even though he told everyone he’d gone home and come back again. He also was keen for me to talk to Billy, as he’s supposed to be trustworthy, if a little gullible in the matter of raptors.”

  “Now you’ve lost me. Say that again slowly and sensibly.” Orlando swallowed the last of his beer and prepared to make more detailed notes; someone had to approach this sequentially and mathematically and not dash about everywhere in the story. Logic, maths, making notes: all of them were a great comfort to a man trying to take his mind off the events concerning plagiarism.

  “Simon was here when his brother caught the flu. He’s supposed to have returned home on Thursday and then turned straight around and made his way back here at the weekend, when he heard about his brother’s death. Only, the vicar saw him here on Friday, the day Peter departed this earth.” Jonty looked up from his notes with an expression of glee. “I’m not sure he told any of that to the Reverend Bresnan. I suspect this is going to turn out to be a lot more interesting than a case of a young wife bumping off her hubby to get the lolly.”

  “Your mother would have whacked you for talking so coarsely. Maybe I should take her part and carry on the tradition.” Orlando scribbled in his notebook, neatly folded the page, and ripped out a slip of paper. He’d not forgotten a similar threat to him, what now seemed weeks ago.

  Owed to Jonathan Stewart. Six of the best for vulgar language.

  Jonty read the note, but not aloud. “Can I keep this for a time when I’d fully appreciate it? Thank you.” He grinned, tucking it away in his pocket. “There’s more. Mitchell told me that Rosalind had done some thieving in the past, from another man she’d been involved with. She’s said to have repented of that particular sin.”

  “Has she, indeed?” There had to be more, given the glint in Jonty’s eye.

  “Yes. Apparently Peter knew and forgave her. Now, that’s interesting enough, but Mitchell knows more. Things that he can’t possibly tell us, he said, although he made sure that I knew they existed.”

  “It pains me to say so, but it seems like you win hands down on information discovered. That knocks my rivalry over a job in the post office into a cocked hat.”

  “It should do, if I didn’t still have this nagging feeling that I was being pulled along by the nose like a bull by just about everyone I’ve met today, except Billy, who simply struck me as being in a world of his own. If they made a point of telling me about the man, perhaps they made a point of telling me about Simon. And about Rosalind.” Jonty eyed his pint, as if he’d find all the interpretation of people’s machinations there.

  “They? Are you saying all three are in collusion?”

  “Maybe not. Mesdames Priestland and Hamilton couldn’t have known I was going to divert to the vicarage. It leaves a strange taste in the mouth, anyway. Unlike this beer.” Jonty downed the rest of his pint. “I can only think that Mitchell has heard something from somebody or other under the cover of the confessional. Although in that case, why mention it at all?”

  Orlando shrugged. “It’s a hare not worth coursing, whatever the confession or whoever made it. That door’s closed.”

  “Hmm.” Jonty picked up his empty glass, then set it down again. “Maybe the Apostles’ one is open. Rosalind Priestland’s brother went there, as did Peter, and we’ve plenty of connections to the place.”

  That was more like it. “Are you thinking either Ralph or Dr. Sheridan might know him? It’s a long shot.”

  “Very long. Still, we’ve been lucky with this sort of thing before, so I hope we will be again.”

  “Maybe we’ve been too lucky.” Orlando stared at his own empty glass ruefully. “Got to the answer by chance rather than reasoning.”

  “Does that matter? Ralph always says that the more he practices at golf, the luckier he seems to get. Maybe the two are related.”

  “Hmm.” Orlando wasn’t convinced. For all their successes and all their commissions, he couldn’t help feel they’d got away with things. Although maybe that was just the effects of the last few years talking. He couldn’t remember feeling like this in the summer of 1914.

  “Back to Apostles’. If one of our contacts from there knew the brother, and knew of Rosalind as well, he might be happy to dish the dirt.”

  “Ah, but are you sure there’s dirt to be dished?”

  “Absolutely positive.” Jonty nodded, emphasising his words. “Even if she didn’t actually murder her husband, I think she’s hiding something. There was just one occasion when I caught a look in her eye that reminded me of a dunderhead trying to work out if I’ve fallen for his story about the college cat eating his essay. And I’m
not sure it was to do with this ancient theft, if Mitchell was so free and easy with the story.”

  “If there are deeds of darkness to be brought into the light, you’ll find a way of hauling them there.” Orlando gazed out of the window, herding his thoughts. “Were there no charges pressed for those thefts?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Another man who was smitten with her, do you think?”

  “How can I possibly tell without any evidence? I’m not a dunderhead. Although I’d like to know if the real reason she didn’t apply to be postmistress was her history of larceny. Didn’t want to be led into temptation or something?” Orlando studied his glass. “I shouldn’t be saying this, but do we really have time to follow up every little loose end?”

  “Are postmistresses counted with the loose ends?”

  “I think so. And maybe men in the shrubbery too.”

  Jonty looked up from his beer, shocked. “You can’t mean that. Where’s the Coppersmith spirit of assessing every piece of information?”

  “Abandoned due to pressure of time. I’ve been thinking. Our brief was to prove Rosalind committed murder, and we have precious few available days to do it in.” Orlando steadily held his friend’s gaze. “We should concentrate on looking for any evidence that she did the deed.”

  “Which doesn’t include proving that someone else did?”

  Orlando shrugged. “I have no idea. Just like I have no idea what to do next.”

  “Nonsense.” Jonty put down his empty glass. “We take the next step and then the one after. Put that notebook away and we’ll tackle the landlord, together. Synergy.”

  “Synergy,” Orlando echoed, unconvinced. They returned to the bar bearing empty glasses, hopeful expressions, and a handful of change.

  “Another pint of the same, sir?” The landlord said, beaming over his pumps.

  “Just the half for me, please.” Jonty shook his head. “Too much beer at lunchtime and I’m out for the count.”

  “A half for me too. And one for yourself.” Orlando had seen Jonty after a predominantly liquid lunch, and it wasn’t the prettiest of sights. Or sounds, given the man’s propensity to snore when he’d been on the ale. “And can we pick your brains?”

  “Pick away, sir.” The landlord deftly pulled the beer as he spoke, producing a nice, clear brew with just the right amount of head. “Mind you, I can’t guarantee the quality of the answers like I can guarantee the quality of my ale.”

  “I don’t think it’s anything too taxing.” Jonty held his beer to the light. “Lovely. It’s just about an old friend—well, more a friend of the family—who lived here. Peter Priestland. I suppose you knew him?” He kept up the same story he’d used at Thorpe House. People talked in villages and he didn’t want to risk suspicion by floating away on a raft of inconsistencies. Things were going to be tricky enough.

  “I knew him to pass the time of day with, as you might say. In fact, I was only talking about him just now, with my wife, Dolly.” The landlord held his own beer up to the light, seemed pleased enough with the colour and clarity to nod approval, then took a swig.

  Orlando shot a fleeting look of victory in Jonty’s direction. What he’d overheard had been relevant to the case. “I was hoping to pay my respects at his grave, but Dr. Stewart here says he’s heard that the man’s not buried in the churchyard in the village.”

  “And Dr. Stewart’s right. Mr. Priestland came of foreign stock, if you’ll pardon the expression. He was from Hampshire, and that’s where his family are all buried, or so the vicar says. He’s laid in his long bed with his parents and brother.”

  “He’s from near Romsey.” Dolly popped her head around the door at the back of the bar. “I hope he didn’t spend too much time in the place.”

  Orlando and Jonty looked blankly at the landlord, then at each other, and then at the landlord’s wife. “I beg your pardon?” they said in unison, sounding like something out of a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta.

  “My mother hails from Southampton and that’s what they say down there. ‘So drunk he could have been to Romsey.’” Dolly airily waved what seemed to be a duster, emphasising her point. “Heathen lot. Anyway, drunk or sober, that’s where your friend’s buried.”

  “I told you.” Jonty rapped his hand on the bar counter, as if upbraiding Orlando for doubting him. “That’s going to be a day trip if we want to visit the grave. I wonder what happened to his sister, though. Is she buried there too?” Although Bresnan’s mother didn’t yet seem relevant to their case, nothing could be eliminated at this point. They’d turned up enough odds and ends to be wary, even this early in an investigation. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could tell us if she’s in the same place? My parents were great friends of all of the Priestland clan.”

  “Ah, there’s a thing.” The landlord appeared delighted at the challenge he’d been set. “I can answer that easy as pie, better than I could answer my questions about the times tables in school. She’s not there, just the parents, the babe that died at birth, and the two brothers who died in old age. You know, of course, that Simon Priestland followed his brother this year?”

  “We do,” Orlando said, nodding. “And I stand in awe of your knowledge. I wish we’d been aware of all this before we set out.”

  “Knowing that was more luck than brains, sir. I was sitting next to Mr. Priestland’s widow at our harvest supper last week, and she told me all about it. She feels more than a bit put out that she hasn’t got her old boy to hand, where she can keep an eye on him and see he’s all right. I got told the whole tale of the family and the mother dying when them boys were young. Tragic.” He shook his head, in the slightly overdramatic fashion some landlords favoured.

  Clearly he hadn’t got the whole story, then. “Aye, it is that.” Tragic for two boys to be told their mother was dead when all the time she’d been alive. Orlando had taken a serious dislike to old Mr. Priestland, the father of the twins.

  “And that’s why I was talking about them with my Dolly. Her niece is expecting, and Dolly says she looks like she’s carrying twins, the size of her.”

  “Dan, don’t be so common with these gentlemen. They don’t want to know about women’s business.” Dolly waved her duster again.

  “Never mind us, ma’am. I’ve a host of nieces and nephews and have seen it all second hand.” Jonty smiled. “And I’m forgetting my manners. We’ve stood your husband a drink. Will you join us?”

  “No, thank you, sir. I’ve got jobs I should be doing.” Although it had to be said that the landlord’s wife didn’t seem to be in any hurry to be getting on with her household tasks.

  “Dolly was saying her niece has a hankering to call the children Mary and Ann if they’re girls and Peter and Simon if they’re boys. I said I’d find that pairing unlucky, after what I’d heard about the Priestland family.”

  There was a sort of logic to that, a lot of store being put into the power of names. “Maybe that’s wise. And maybe the children will be one of each and solve the problem.” Nodding, Orlando finished his drink and put on his hat. There seemed nothing more to be gained here. He’d counted without Jonty.

  “My mother will be most concerned to hear that Mrs. Priestland is still feeling her loss so strongly. Such a lively woman. Mrs. Priestland, not my mother. Well, both of them, really.” Jonty produced his waffling academic expression. “Mama would be much relieved to hear that she was taking an interest in the world again, so I’ll tell her about the harvest supper, although I suppose I’ll have to tell her there’s no new suitor in the offing, to relieve Mrs. Priestland’s grieving.”

  Dolly exchanged a look with her husband then smiled, knowingly. “She was a good wife and I daresay she’s a good widow, but she’s always had someone to ease her through her grief.”

  “Dolly!” The landlord looked horrified. “These gentlemen don’t want to hear your gossip.”

  “It isn’t gossip. It’s no more than his job, to minister to his flock when t
hey’re in distress. Although . . .” Dolly stopped after another horrified look from her husband. “I’ll have to get on with my work. Nice to have met you.”

  Jonty smiled gravely, bowed and said, “The feeling is mutual.”

  Outside the pub, the air was mild, the afternoon having turned out hazy but pleasant. Jonty yawned and stretched, the effects of imbibing at lunchtime starting to show. “I’m not sure you were too wise in there.” He patted his friend’s arm and began to stroll along the street, in the direction of the metal monster.

  “What have I done now?”

  “You called me Dr. Stewart. You know how people gossip. If they hear a man called Stewart has been asking questions, with another man in tow, there’s a chance someone will put two and two together. Especially with your inauguration as professor being in the local papers. Both your name and your face are back in the news again.”

  “Maybe it will help. If people think they’re being investigated, they might start to do all sorts of silly things.” Orlando wagged his finger, as if Jonty were a particularly obtuse dunderhead. “In that case of plagiarism, the person concerned had done nothing to arouse distrust until someone quite innocently asked some questions related to the originator of the work. Then our plagiarist started to burn the midnight oil down at the department, and not just that, he burned documents while he was about it. One of the other dons noticed, and the game was afoot.” He jabbed the same finger into Jonty’s arm. “Anyway, you’ll have given your name to both Rosalind Priestland and the Reverend Mitchell. Won’t they have twigged?”

  “Not necessarily, if I was on my own. Did Dr. Watson’s patients always assume he was on a case?” Jonty nodded as if that settled the argument. “I’m glad we talked to the landlord, though.”

  “Why? What enlightenment did you gain from Dolly’s niece’s twins?”

  “The fact that the story about Peter’s mother isn’t general knowledge, and that the landlord was told the official version. How did Mitchell get to know the truth?” Jonty paused, a gleam in his eye. “Assuming it is the truth, of course.”