Lessons for Survivors

by Charlie Cochrane

  “But it isn’t just you on the committee, is it? There must be other members with as much influence in considering the evidence as you.”

  “I sit as chairman of the six of us. Therefore, I would have the casting vote.” Orlando still couldn’t raise his eyes from contemplation of a piece of lettuce.

  “And a chairman less fair-minded than Professor Coppersmith could use his influence to sway the rest of his conclave whichever way he wanted them to go. It happens.” Jonty sighed. “Probably Owens thinks we’re all as corrupt as he is and imagines that if he can pressure our professor here into doing his bidding, then he’ll have the whole committee in the palm of his hand and his man will get away with this skulduggery.”

  “The absolute bounder. I’ve a good mind to go round to the college next door right now and thrash the so-and-so.” There was a native club hanging on the wall, courtesy of a previous master with a penchant for little-known tribes. The way Mrs. Sheridan eyed the weapon suggested her threat was deadly earnest. “Would the disgrace of being beaten to a pulp by a middle-aged woman make him see some sense?”

  “I doubt it. Being trampled by a stegosaurus wouldn’t make Owens see sense.” Orlando snorted, stabbing a piece of pie as if it were Owens himself. “And anyway, he’s only made the most veiled of threats, if threats they really are. He may be devious, but he isn’t daft.”

  “So how can I help? Apart from lending a sympathetic ear?”

  Orlando seemed suddenly to have lost the ability to speak, so Jonty leaped in. “What we could do with is a very large piece of artillery we could wheel out at a moment’s notice to flatten him if he steps out of line. And the chances are that step he will, because things don’t look good for his protégé.”

  “Right. Well, leave that to me.” Ariadne nodded her head emphatically, as if she had the very thing already in her possession.

  “You’ve got something in mind?” Remembering his manners, Orlando at last glanced up with an eager look in his eye.

  “Not yet, but I will have, given a bit of time.”

  They ate in silence for a while, each of them following their own lines of thought, probably none of which were very complimentary to Owens. Ariadne broke the hush. “Is it possible he might be putting pressure on your colleagues as well? No chance that we can all form a wall of outraged resistance against him?”

  “I doubt it. I made some subtle enquires—I saw that smirk, Dr. Stewart, and I can be subtle when the occasion demands—of a couple of them, this morning.” Orlando produced as much of a self-satisfied smile as he could manage in the circumstances. “In anticipation of just such a question.”

  “That was brave of you. How did you manage it without arousing suspicion?” Jonty, for all the smirking and eye rolling, was full of admiration. “I never thought you’d have it in you.”

  “The old Coppersmith wouldn’t,” Ariadne murmured, earning her a smile from both her guests.

  “I took the bull by the horns. Said I’d heard an extremely disturbing rumour that Owens was putting undue pressure on a member of the committee investigating the plagiarism, pressure that was not to be tolerated.”

  “Did you use those very words? The sheer length and complexity would have let them know you were serious.” Jonty edged his leg back, just in case he’d overestimated the width of the dining table and had left his shin at risk of a kicking. “Watch him ignore me, Mrs. Sheridan. I’m distraught that he no longer rises to the bait.”

  “Oh, hush, you pest, and let the professor say his bit.”

  “Thank you.” Orlando bowed his head towards his hostess. “I’m glad someone at this table has proper manners. I assured my colleagues that, if it were true, I wanted to offer the man my total support in standing up to the swine. I think I can detect a lie by now, and I’m sure they were telling me nothing but the truth when they said it wasn’t any of them. They seemed genuinely perplexed.”

  “Impressive so far. Were you smart enough to give them a confidential chance of admitting they’d been approached?” Jonty eased a Bakewell tart onto his plate, picking off a crumb or two just to whet his appetite.

  “Of course. I suggested a note in one of my pigeonholes, but nothing’s been forthcoming.”

  “So we eliminate that option, at least for the moment.” Ariadne picked up the plate and offered Orlando the largest of the Bakewells. “Well done. I shall endeavour to be as efficient with my little commission. And now for important matters. Have either of you room for a small, sweet sherry?”

  Jonty had come home after lunch and got on so well with Twelfth Night that he’d cleared his decks entirely of everything that needed to be done for his next lecture—one to be delivered only to dunderheads and not, like Orlando’s inaugural one, before Uncle Tom Cobley and all. One day he’d have to write a paper on whatever must have been going on in the Bard’s brain that he seemed to have an obsession with men called Antonio who were in love with other men, ones who didn’t deserve, or adequately return, their affection. Although whether such a paper would ever be published without causing a national scandal, he wasn’t sure. Not even in these slightly more enlightened days.

  Such industry deserved a reward, and he’d taken it sitting in his favourite chair and musing, most definitely musing and not dreaming, on his favourite topic.

  He answered the phone at its sixth ring, leaping from his comfy chair where he’d most definitely not been dozing off in front of the fire. “Forsythia Cottage. Stewart speaking.”

  “Hello, stinker.” Hardly the sort of greeting Jonty had expected for an august fellow of a revered Cambridge institution, but sisters were no respecters of personage. Even if Jonty were ever given a Chair of some sort, Lavinia would always address him as her snotty little brother.

  “Hello, spotty.” If nursery names were being traded, Jonty could do business with the best of them. “How are things in Broad land?”

  “Fine, if you ignore the fact that Alexandra knocked one of her teeth out falling from a tree. Only a milk one. Tooth, that is.”

  “I always said she took after her grandmother. Apparently Mama was a great one for climbing and other tomboy activities in her younger days.” It would explain the formidable right hook she’d wielded as a young lady. “There’s a smug tone to your voice. You come bearing news?”

  “I do. But I had to work hard for it.”

  “Nothing my conscience is going to prick me for?” Especially as it was so soon; Lavinia had clearly got her skates on. He only hoped she hadn’t taken anything off in furtherance of her efforts.

  “Wash your mouth out, you little toad!” Lavinia’s voice had developed the same capacity of decibels as their mother’s. “I had lunch, that was all. A long and quite boring one, actually. He must have gone and found the story in the archives within minutes of my first ringing him.” She sighed. “I’m so pleased I was smitten with Ralph. If I’d settled down with Freddie, I’d have biffed him with the solid silver candlesticks by now. He’s handsome, but he’s awfully tedious.”

  Jonty resisted any temptation to make a remark about how a married woman didn’t live by bed alone; it was both indelicate and could have been seen as an allusion to the early years of Lavinia’s marriage. “I’ll make it two dozen roses, as recompense. Colour of your choice.”

  “Hm. Puce, I think. To match Freddie’s face after he’d finished lunch. Maybe it’s reward enough to know that I’d not made an error all those years ago.” Lavinia chuckled. “Anyway, Helen Phillips. She was lost at sea while on a yacht belonging to Sir Steven Marchant, baronet. Made a lot of money in the most ridiculous ventures. He did, not her.” Lavinia’s style of narrative resembled her brother’s; Orlando would have had a fit. “His family sold warming pans in the West Indies. Don’t laugh. Very popular for stirring molasses, so I’m told.”

  “I think you’re making half of this up, but carry on.”

  “You may well wish I’d made it up by the time I get to the end of it. An acquaintance of Marchant’s and
his lady friend, whom Freddie reckons was an actress of the time, one of slightly shady reputation, were also on board. I don’t know if ‘actress’ is euphemistic for . . .” Lavinia’s bravado seemed to depart for a moment, but she rallied. “A fallen woman.”

  “Probably. I suspect Helen had a touch of that about her too.” Although who was he to judge her, given what he’d heard about her husband?

  “Be that as it may, everyone was lost, including the crew. Some bits of debris were washed up on Tresco, but the rest lies in Davy Jones’s locker.”

  “Anything get rooted out about inheritances?” If it had, that would be two out of the three things Jonty had hoped for.

  “Marchant’s went to his son, although I suspect that’s not what you meant. Freddie found a peculiar little announcement in the papers a week or so later, about how heirs of Helen Phillips should contact her solicitor to find something to their advantage.” Lavinia’s voice sounded smugger than ever. “You’ll never in a million years guess whose firm it was.”

  At least Lavinia’s puzzles didn’t involve twins and triplets. “It has to be someone we know. Our solicitors?”

  “No, but you’re on the right lines. Your old pal Collingwood.”

  “Blimey.” Jonty and Orlando had crossed paths with Collingwood on a couple of occasions, each time to their mutual advantage. Although no longer officially active, the solicitor kept an interest in his firm and, it was rumoured, a matronly mistress in St. John’s Wood. He was possibly the sprightliest seventy-year-old Jonty could think of. “That’s a stroke of luck. I’ll get onto him right away.”

  “No need.” The smugness had reached new heights. “I called in to see him myself. Such a charming man, even at his age. We were soon knee-deep in old files.”

  Jonty resisted asking whether that was all they’d been knee-deep in. He hoped his sister wasn’t turning into some femme fatale of the investigation world. “This game sounds just your cup of tea. We should recruit you again, old girl. Papa always used to be our man in London and you can inherit the mantle.” Poor Mr. Stewart. He’d have lapped up this sort of case. “And talking of inheritances . . .?”

  “It was never claimed. A large quantity of jewellery sits in a bank vault, awaiting someone coming forward.”

  “Jewels? I like the sound of that. Alice Priestland was said to have converted her wealth to gewgaws. Easier to arrange inheritance of, for one thing.”

  “Don’t get overexcited. It could still be coincidence.” Lavinia’s voice sounded horribly reasonable. “I’m surprised it hasn’t reverted to the Crown.”

  “So am I. Either they still hold out hope or Collingwood’s wilier than I gave him credit for. I wonder how long it can go unclaimed?” Jonty pricked his ears, a veritable greyhound in the slips.

  “Find that out for yourself. Must I do everything?”

  “I’d love to, but I’m not sure I could cope with another deadline in the case. There are two other legacies already, both date-dependant and both reaching their crux over the next few weeks.” Jonty had the urge to wax lyrical. “Like ships converging on the same part of the ocean for some great battle.”

  “Or chips converging on the same part of the roulette table? I’d forgotten how flowery your language can be at times. Even Georgie is picking it up now.” Lavinia produced a heartfelt sigh. “Coming out with allusions and allegories and analogies at the drop of a hat.”

  “It could be worse. You’d rather I taught him flowery language than bad, surely?” Jonty could have taught the lad things that would have made his mother’s hair stand on end; mercifully, he’d restrained himself. “So just let me clarify. Nobody’s come forward to claim this stuff and been rebuffed?”

  “Not at the time of her death. And not since. I’m glad Freddie gave me Collingwood’s name.”

  “Freddie’s done a lot of work for you, hasn’t he? Above and beyond the call of duty. Shall I tell Ralph to prepare himself for some bad news?” Jonty might have been able to resist teaching his nephew inappropriate words, but winding up Georgie’s mother was a different matter.

  “Oh, for goodness sake, will you behave? Otherwise, I won’t go and do any more of your dirty work for you.” Lavinia’s words were harsh but she sounded happy. Was she going to prove to be the latest member of the Stewart clan who’d caught the detecting bug? If Lavinia had discovered the thrill of the chase, and was always as efficient in pursuing a lead, then Jonty had better keep her sweet.

  “I apologise profusely. Mea culpa and all that.”

  “I don’t like it when you act contrite quite so readily. Makes me suspicious. What is it you’re after now?”

  The third of the three things on his list, of course. “Your aspiring and never-to-be-paramour Freddie didn’t happen to mention anything that might have suggested Alice Priestland and Helen Phillips were one and the same? Apart from the jewels?”

  “No, he did not. You’ll have to get off what Mama used to call your fat, lazy bahookie and find that out for yourself as well.” Lavinia’s use of the expression sounded just like their mother’s. “Love to the professor. Or maybe I should say, love to Saint Orlando. I don’t know how any one man could have enough patience to put up with you.”

  “Give Ralph the same message from me. And pass their uncle’s very best love onto my two small pals.”

  “Small? Georgie’s almost as big as his father. Shooting up and out of his clothes. It’s been too long since you’ve seen him.” Lavinia invested the rebuke with about a paragraph’s worth of meaning.

  “It’s only been about a month! Are you stretching him on a rack?” Jonty tried to hide his guilt; his nieces and nephews were the only children he’d ever have an investment in and he could do better by them than a telephone call. “I’ll see him in the school holidays. Better still, he could come up here for a few days, and I’ll drag him down to the museum to annoy the fossils. Living and dead.”

  “Go and ring Collingwood, annoying boy.” Lavinia put the phone down.

  Once Jonty had stopped grinning, he obeyed his sister’s instruction, although not before deciding that three dozen roses might be a better amount and making a mental note that the partnership of Stewart and Coppersmith now had another fully fledged extra investigator and priceless source of information. Fortunately, they had a home number for Collingwood, which was just as well, as he wasn’t in the office and the rather snooty secretary would no doubt have refused to divulge the private number for the man himself.

  As the telephone rang, Jonty hoped that it wouldn’t prove to be one of those days when Collingwood went off to visit his lady friend. They needed to start making some real progress in this case, and all they had at present were lots of ideas and very few facts. Good grief, he was starting to sound like Orlando, even in his thoughts.

  “Kensington 4312.” The voice wasn’t Collingwood’s. Probably his butler, or whoever in the household was the official keeper of the telephone. “May I ask who is calling?”

  “Jonty Stewart, from Cambridge. Can I talk to Mr. Collingwood, please?” Jonty tried to strike the right note of businesslike affability to impress the haughty manservant.

  “Is he expecting you?” The tone sounded even snootier.

  “No, but if you tell him it’s in connection with a possible murder, he’ll get the picture.”

  Collingwood not only got the picture, he picked up the phone within what seemed a matter of seconds. “Dr. Stewart! Sleuthing again?” He sounded affable, hearty, and hale. Maybe his mistress was keeping him young in mind, spirit, and body.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Well, I’d be delighted to help you. Investigations ancient or modern?” It had only been the up-to-date cases Collingwood had been involved with; perhaps he had a yearning to get his hands dirty on one of their long-dormant puzzles, like the Woodville Ward.

  “Ancient and modern. Fairly modern, anyway. We’re investigating a death that happened last year, but one of our tracks has taken us into what may be a si
ding or may be the route to the heart of the solution. Sorry. Waxing lyrical there.” Jonty was pleased Orlando couldn’t hear him and upbraid him for beating around the bush. “What I mean is that you might be able to give us some answers, and we could clear up one of your mysteries at the same time. Helen Phillips.”

  “Ah, yes.” Collingwood sounded as if he was easing himself into a chair; perhaps this call was going to take a long time. “You’re aware of the unclaimed jewellery?”

  “Oh, yes. And I might just have found the people who should have inherited them.”

  “Splendid! I’d rather they went to the proper legatees rather than eventually becoming the property of the Crown, however much I admire Their Majesties.” Collingwood didn’t sound as if his ‘however much’ was very much at all. “Any idea why these people didn’t come forward when we put our appeals out?”

  “Because they didn’t know. I mean, they suspected they might have been related to Helen Phillips, although not under that name. And I’m not sure they knew about her legacy at all, as the jewellery belonging to the woman they thought she was had vanished.” Jonty stopped, breathless. “That seems awfully muddled, I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’ve got the gist. It’s no more complicated than some of the things I have to deal with, I assure you. You can explain the rest to me in your own good time. Are you certain these two ladies are one and the same?”

  “Not one hundred percent certain, I have to admit. There was some dispute between the two principals about whether they should try and clarify the facts.” Jonty laughed. “I’m off on a tangent again. Let me elucidate. Are you sitting comfortably?”

  “I am. Proceed.”

  Jonty told the story in all its complexity. Collingwood listened without interruption or questioning and at the end simply said, “We’ve not a lot of time, have we? All these dates converging and these jewels possibly forming part of the inheritances. Hmm.”

  Jonty liked the Hmm. Orlando often used the sound when he was thinking his deepest.

  “Is there any record in the family of this Alice Priestland’s jewellery?”