Lessons for Survivors

by Charlie Cochrane

  “Perhaps you should wear rubber boots when you’re in my vicinity.” Jonty sighed. “Lovely idea, even if I suspect larceny wouldn’t have worked. Owens will have the thing hidden away in a bank vault or the like.”

  “Now there I think you’re wrong. Of everyone in St. Bride’s, I’m the one to have known the man best.” Ariadne coloured as she spoke. Another part of college lore was how he’d tried to take advantage of her in the Fellows’ Garden and ended up being kicked for his pains. The exact location of the kick was only ever referred to as between the two small forsythias. “He wouldn’t hide those books away. He’d have them somewhere he could take them out and gloat over them. They’re probably in the lodge now, so if anyone from Bride’s dared to set foot over his threshold—you’d have to be inoculated first, of course—the books would be almost mocking them.”

  “Like the faint star you can only see out of the side of your eye and never straight on. So are we to go and liberate them? An old-fashioned cutting-out expedition?”

  “You are losing your touch, aren’t you? I knew Dr. Coppersmith’s lecture was affecting his mental acuity, but I didn’t realise it had affected yours. Have some more tea.” She wrested another cup from the pot. “They’d be no use to us then, unless we offered them back to Owens as payment for shutting up and not making a nuisance of himself. We need to threaten him with exposure of his theft.”

  They sat for a moment, thinking the thing through.

  “Unfortunately, I see a huge flaw in your plan.” Jonty laid down his teacup. This was beyond the restorative powers of even that magnificent brew. “If it’s true that book could be used to smear Eddy, because of what’s in it or the circumstances in which it was donated, and through him St. Bride’s, seeing as the servant was one of ours, then it’s a powerful weapon. If Eddy’s brother could be dragged in as well, then it’s dynamite.” That petard Jonty had wished for; but how could they hoist Owens on it? “Isn’t it more likely he’d use it to break some sort of scandal, raise the whole Cleveland Street thing again, link it to St. Bride’s, then sit back and watch us try to limit the damage?”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.” They sat in silence, contemplating a teapot that had turned cold and cakes that looked like they’d turn stale just to add further spite to the situation.

  Jonty was glad Orlando wasn’t there to hear talk of Cleveland Street and male brothels. He hadn’t even realised the places existed when first they’d met. His eyes had been opened enough to fully understand the implications of the Pemberton-Billing libel case, though. Who could have missed them? The notorious and probably mythical Black Book . . .

  “Treason!”

  Ariadne almost leaped from her chair as the word ricocheted through the room. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Treason. Subversion.” Jonty swallowed hard, memories of the war bubbling up. “Cowardice. We were on edge for years, looking for spies around every corner. At least, some people were. If only we could find some way of bringing a similar charge to Owens’s door.”

  “What chance is there of that? He’d have been too old for the draft and I’m not aware anyone made noises that he should volunteer. I have nothing to offer on that front. At least, not yet.” She suddenly made two fists and brought them together. “No, he won’t defeat us. There has to be a way; we’ve just not found it yet.” She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t tell your Professor C. He’ll only mope. Say that matters are moving forward, which they are.”

  That was going to prove almost as difficult as defeating Owens. “I’ll try, but I find it almost impossible to lie to him. At least about important things.”

  “Oh, that’s easily sorted. I’ll write a note and you can just hand it over.” She rose, moving across the room to an elegant Jacobean writing desk. “We must keep him calm or he’ll be unable to concentrate on his lecture.”

  Jonty wondered whether the lecture would ever get written and, given Orlando’s state of mind, whether it would concern anything more complex than adding tens and units.

  The note was shared before dinner, but before Orlando could interrogate further, the telephone rang and, in a move so out of character it must have reflected a state of some agitation, he went to answer it. Jonty tried not to listen, given that there was nothing more frustrating than half a conversation, and buried his nose in the newspaper.

  “Who was that?” he asked, when Orlando eventually returned.

  “King George himself. Offering me a knighthood.” Orlando grinned.

  At least there seemed to be some better news, then. Even if Jonty doubted the veracity of the honour. “On what grounds, may I ask?”

  “Preserving the British public from your idiocy by keeping you busy.”

  “Oh, ha-ha. King George would never be daft enough to do such a thing. He used to pat my head when I was in my perambulator.” Jonty budged up to let Orlando sit on the sofa.

  “I shall have to work that out and see if it’s possible.” He would, Jonty knew; it was just the sort of loose end Orlando could never let dangle. “It was Willshire, with the lowdown on Mitchell.”

  “He works quickly. Anything of use?”

  “His record says he was a model soldier. Signed up to fight, even though he was already ordained. Unlike the ones who stayed at home and urged people on from their pulpits.”

  “Steady on there.” Just as well this scene was taking place in their own home, where it didn’t matter if Jonty gave his friend a hug. “What else did Willshire say?”

  “Mitchell could have made a good career soldier, if he’d been inclined, but he developed fits. They think it was due to the strain out there . . .” Orlando stopped. This was delicate ground, and not just because of the references to France. Jonty had suffered fits because of the sexual assaults he’d endured at school. There’d been a time, after the war, when those fits had returned, but that was when he was still out on the continent; they hadn’t come back to Cambridge with him, thank God.

  “I understand. So Mitchell returned to his original profession. I wonder if the living of Downlea is in someone’s gift? I can imagine some crusty old colonel getting very excited at the prospect of an incumbent who’d been out and seen some action.”

  “Action and glory too. Willshire says he wished there’d been more like him.”

  “How disappointing. I feel like I want to wash my brain out and start again.” Jonty closed his eyes. “Back to the start, ignoring all handsome vicars, grocery boys, and any other possible suspects, including the mythical red kites. The one and only thing we were asked to ascertain. Do we have any evidence that Rosalind Priestland killed her husband?”

  “Ah, now that’s interesting.”

  Jonty thought he’d never heard a lovelier phrase. “I knew you were pleased about something.”

  “Willshire said the only bad thing he’d heard about Mitchell was a bit of mess gossip. He’d got himself entangled, when still at theological college, with a young widow. A rich young widow, which was said to be the main part of the attraction.”

  “Maybe he has a soft spot for them. Or they have for him.”

  “Wedding bells were predicted to ring, until he called it all off. Luckily, no promise was actually made.” Orlando smiled; Jonty guessed he was trying to look knowing. “Rumour had it she was under suspicion of having hastened her husband’s demise.”

  “Aha. Not the sort of evidence that would stand up in court, but at least it’s a start. Likes money, likes widows. Seems to have a liking for women who’ve blotted their copybooks.” Jonty counted off the points on his fingers. “Mind you, I guess that acquainting oneself with repentant sinners is a bit of an occupational hazard.”

  “Should get on well with you, then,” Orlando murmured.

  Jonty ignored the jibe, continuing to enumerate points. “Given his war record, he’s probably pretty fearless and not averse to taking lives, despite the clerical collar.” Thin stuff, very thin, but the thought of Mitchell aiding and abetting Rosalind Priestland made
sense. “I wonder if . . .”

  A strident bell sounded from the hallway. “There’s the bloody telephone again. It’s like Paddy’s Market around here.” Orlando had reverted to his normal attitude towards modern communication, probably because it had interrupted a potentially fruitful train of thought.

  “Oh, hush. You moan about it, but it makes our life easier. What if we’d had to keep going to London every two minutes to find this stuff out? We couldn’t investigate anything.”

  “Just get a move on and answer the wretched thing before whoever it is hangs up.” Orlando slapped his bottom in passing. Jonty closed the door behind him, aware that Orlando had no scruples about listening in and, even worse, sometimes asking questions as the conversation proceeded.

  Whoever it is was Collingwood, bouncing with joy, or that was the impression his voice gave.

  “Bingo!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Bingo, Dr. Stewart. We have a match. Your Alice Priestland’s inventory of jewellery matches the list I have for Helen Phillips. I would be satisfied to pass the inheritance on to her heirs so long as they can prove that they’re entitled to it.”

  “Splendid.” It was. Just the sort of cat to set among the pigeons and see whose feathers got ruffled the most. “If you don’t mind, though, I’d rather hang fire on it for a while.”

  “I understand entirely. There’s a small fortune here. If you’ve got a murderer, those jewels might just spur them into action.”

  “Just what I thought.” Please God, it wasn’t the sort of action where he or Orlando would end up getting whacked over the head.

  Orlando wished he’d asked Jonty to employ the metal monster to take them to All Saints’ Church. It would have cost him dearly in a ragging about his finally having seen the error of his ways, but it would have been infinitely preferable to this. They were standing at Mottisfont Station, looking hither and yon for a cab, Orlando wondering whether they’d end up walking miles in the pouring rain to where the Priestlands were interred. There didn’t even seem to be a porter or stationmaster to tell him what was going on, just an endless stream of drips off the station canopy, beating a martial music.

  “Autumn’s a lovely season, but the rain at this time of year seems worse than at any other.” Jonty peered out from under his umbrella. In theory he shouldn’t have needed it, but in practice it was vital, given the percentage of drops that penetrated the cover and seemed to aim themselves directly at them.

  “I think the weather’s deliberately punishing us for playing truant.”

  “Dr. Sheridan said we could go. Can’t count as truancy.” Jonty grinned; apparently not even the rain could dampen his spirits.

  “Gentlemen! I’m sorry, gentlemen!” A flustered, out-of-breath voice sounded behind them, accompanied by running footsteps.

  They turned to see a porter, a chubby-faced man who was clearly not designed for breaking into a brisk walk, trotting up from the end of the platform.

  “We’ve had such a commotion. A lady in the waiting room here, she’s . . . she’s . . .” The porter didn’t seem to be able to find the words to explain what the lady had done.

  Orlando wondered just how scandalous it could be. “She’s what?”

  “She’s—” The porter didn’t lower his voice; he just cut it off completely, mouthing, “Having a baby!” His face displayed some strange mixture of pride and utter horror. “The stationmaster’s gone off in the cab to fetch the—” He resorted to mime again. “Midwife.”

  “Um, yes. Well, don’t let us bother you further.” Orlando had dreadful visions of the midwife not appearing and himself getting roped in to boiling kettles, or doing even worse things. He turned to Jonty, who seemed to find this amusing rather than horrifying. “Please refrain from volunteering your help.”

  “Are you a doctor, sir?” The porter’s face became transfused with hope.

  “Not of medicine, alas. I was only going to offer moral support.”

  Orlando grabbed his friend’s arm. “We’ll find ourselves transport. Is there a garage in the village?” The sight of houses not far away filled him with the hope that they’d locate a conveyance before they caught their death of wet and cold.

  “No need for that, sir. The stationmaster will be back soon and you can use his cab. Maybe you’d like to wait in the . . . ah.” The porter took off his cap and scratched his head. “Better still, come and wait in our office. It’s warm there. And dry.”

  “Sounds like a foretaste of heaven.” Jonty grabbed Orlando’s arm this time. “No debate about whether it would be appropriate to be in a railway employee’s office. The rain overrides anything else.”

  They’d hardly had more than a few minutes to sample the heat and aridness when the stationmaster returned, and they were able to get into the cab—a motorised one—escaping any contact with the midwife in the process.

  “Why are there babies everywhere in this case?” Orlando looked out the cab window at the rain. There seemed to be little chance of it clearing soon; at least they could meet the verger in the church, assuming there wasn’t a wedding to add to the fun. “I hope the verger is as hale and hearty as he makes out.”

  “In his letter, he said he still had a mind as sharp as a pin.”

  Orlando wasn’t convinced. He’d met an old don at St. Thomas’s once who’d allegedly had a brain as sharp as a pin despite being nearly a hundred, and he’d turned out to be convinced that he was living in Nineveh at the time of the lion hunts. And had mistaken Orlando for his charioteer, which had been distinctly unpleasant. “I hope that proves true.”

  “And I hope the lady at the station doesn’t have triplets.” Jonty cleared some condensation from his window.

  “Amen to that.”

  The sun had chased away the rain by the time they reached the church, and the churchyard sparkled with autumnal loveliness. Mr. Cottar, the verger, was there to greet them, his hair a mop of white, but his eyes twinkling as brightly as the drops on the leaves. In their experience, vergers were either dour or slightly mischievous; this one seemed to come into the latter category.

  “You’re the gentlemen from Cambridge who want to see the Priestlands’ plot.”

  “That’s us.” Jonty initiated the round of handshaking. “And pick your brains about the family.”

  “You can pick as much as you like, but what you’ll glean, I can’t guarantee.” Cottar jerked his thumb over his shoulder, turned on his heel, and led them to the far end of the graveyard at a spritely lick for a man who must have been in his eighties. “You’re the Woodville Ward men? The ones in the newspaper?”

  “The very same.” Orlando nodded; maybe there was a chance that Cottar was as astute as they needed him to be. “I’m surprised you remember from so long ago.”

  “Bless me, it was only a month or so back. They did a series about unsolved mysteries and the men who’d sorted them out.” He stopped to pick up a fallen branch. “I do have a good memory, though. I certainly remember old Mr. Priestland’s funeral fifty years back. My uncle was still verger then, but I helped dig the grave.”

  “And you said you were there for his wife’s interment too? That must be another thirty years earlier.”

  “Eighteen-forty, that was. I was six, and I’d just started in the choir. I recollect it clearer than I remember last week.”

  “Professor Coppersmith is already showing signs of going the same way,” Jonty said, grinning.

  “We all had cakes with pink icing afterwards, as that was her favourite colour. I’d never had those before, which is why I remember it so well.” They stopped at a fine row of memorials. “Here they are.”

  The headstones were in good condition, the grave well kept, not just to the impressive standard of the rest of the graveyard, but above and beyond it. Simon had probably done his part when alive, but someone else clearly looked after the plots now.

  “Who keeps the graves so well? I thought none of the Priestlands lived here anymore?” Jo
nty ran his fingers along the grey marble that marked where Simon and Peter lay.

  “The wet nurse’s son.” Cottar nodded vigorously.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The twins’ wet nurse.” Cottar pulled up some ivy that had dared to appear beside old Andrew’s headstone. “Their mother couldn’t really care for them, she was so ill after the birth, so Mary Gurney shared the nursing of them. She’d not long before had her own baby and lost it, and she’d been nursing a friend’s who’d struggled to cope, so between her and the dairy, there was milk enough.”

  “And is it an older or younger son who comes and tends here?” If it was older, they bred them long-lasting along the valley of the river Test.

  “An adopted one, about the same age as the twins were. She got Bartholomew when Alice Priestland died and the twins were put in charge of a ‘proper’ nurse. I suppose she felt a bit lost, having thought so much of those boys, so when her cousin died in childbirth, Mary adopted her older babe.” Cottar scratched his head. “Bartholomew. Bit of a fancy name to be giving anyone, but she always had fancy ideas. I don’t suppose that was what he was christened. Good woman, though . . .”

  “Where’s Andrew buried?” Jonty’s question shot through the air like a bullet. “The baby that died. Is he with his mother?”

  Cottar shook his head. “I think he’s here, even if there’s no stone for him. My uncle asked old Mr. Priestland, and he said his wife had pleaded with him not to have the grave marked. She was a bit superstitious and felt that, as he’d not been baptised, he should be slipped in here on the quiet. As if God would let a little harmless babe slip through His arms.”

  Jonty pursed his lips and poked out the tip of his tongue, as he habitually did when thinking something through or seeking for the right words. “It’s an odd question, but can you remember anything peculiar about Alice Priestland’s funeral? Your uncle didn’t mention any . . . suspicions he might have had?”

  “Suspicions?” Cottar smiled knowingly. “I was wondering if that was why you came.”