Lessons for Survivors

by Charlie Cochrane

  “We’ve been given a commission by the one remaining member of the family.” Orlando looked down at the headstones; if only they could speak and solve all the mysteries of the Priestland family’s tortuous history at once.

  “Mr. Bresnan? He’s been here a few times to pay his respects, especially when his uncle was still alive. The uncle wanted the grave opened, but I’m sure you know that.”

  “We do.” Although it was nice to have it confirmed by someone who didn’t appear to have any other motive in the case.

  “It’s an old rumour. My uncle helped with the burial and he was convinced something wasn’t quite right.” Cottar looked down at old Mr. Priestland’s grave. “Had his suspicions that you’d been up to something. And maybe you had.”

  “Why didn’t he speak out?” Orlando asked.

  “Because suspicions isn’t proof,” Cottar said emphatically, if ungrammatically. “The old vicar didn’t seem to think anything was amiss, so he didn’t say any more.”

  “And what did he suspect?” Orlando waited for a tale of a coffin that didn’t seem heavy enough, or a mystery surrounding the laying out.

  “That the old man had made up the story about his wife not wanting the baby to have a grave. It had been his idea, just to spite her. He wasn’t a very nice man.”

  “I think we’ve worked that out for ourselves.” Jonty eyed the grave with what seemed like disapproval. “But there must have been more than that, surely?”

  “Oh yes, sir. My uncle believed that Andrew murdered her.”

  Orlando was aware of his mouth working up and down but no sound coming out; even Jonty was lost for words, although Cottar didn’t seem to have noticed.

  “Here he is now.”

  “Here’s who?” Orlando imagined a mouldering spirit arising from the grave.

  “The nurse’s son.” Cottar waved to a tweed-clad, bearded figure coming along the path with a posy of flowers. “Hello, Bartholomew. These gentlemen were just talking about you.”

  “Nothing too scandalous, I hope?” There was a round of pleasantries and hat raising. “Would you be the men from Cambridge? Mr. Cottar mentioned you’d be coming.”

  “We are. And we’re delighted to meet you.” Jonty had recovered his wits first. “Would you mind us asking a few questions?”

  “About the Priestlands? That would be fine.”

  Had everyone guessed their business, or had their expected visit been the main village topic of discussion the last few days? “Yes, about the Priestlands. Your mother was a great support to Alice Priestland, I believe? So much so that she left her last will and testament in your mother’s safekeeping?”

  “That’s right, sir. Poor Mrs. Priestland didn’t have anyone else to turn to, not with that brute of a husband of hers keeping an eye on her every move, so she confided in her nurse. Excuse me a moment.” Bartholomew laid his posy on Alice’s grave, clearing away the damp leaves that had been blown there.

  Cottar winked and nodded at Orlando as if to say, See, he was a brute. My uncle was probably right.

  “Do you think it possible that Andrew Priestland might have murdered his wife?” Jonty got the question in before anyone else could.

  “That old chestnut?” Bartholomew got slowly up from his knees, wiping his hands together. “If she had been dead, then I might have believed it. He certainly gave her a belt. I was always told that was the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

  “And at that point she left?” Orlando wasn’t going to be denied the fun of the chase.

  “So I believe.” Bartholomew addressed the verger like an advocate in the county court. “New name, new life. It may not have been a very Christian act, Mr. Cottar, but I don’t think I can blame her.”

  Cottar looked confused. There was evidently going to have to be a lot of explaining to him about the real Priestland family history, probably over a beer or two.

  “You’ve been very helpful, gentlemen.” Jonty turned on his brightest smile, even though they hadn’t really learned anything new, apart from the fact Alice Priestland’s running away had been well-concealed. “Can you tell us anything at all about Peter Priestland’s wife, Rosalind?”

  Cottar beamed. “Pretty little thing. Quite a sense of humour. Bartholomew, do you remember her gulling the old choirmaster here?”

  “That old stick-in-the-mud? I do.” Bartholomew scratched his head. “She told him a tale about how she’d always wanted to be a church organist, but her husband wouldn’t let her as it would harden her soft little hands. She almost had the choirmaster in tears.”

  “Didn’t Peter object?”

  “Object? He was in on the joke. Thought it was marvellous to have found someone so bright and lively to lighten up his days.” Cottar looked down at Simon Priestland’s gravestone. “Peter thought the world of his wife, although Simon wasn’t so keen. Simon and Rosalind never saw eye to eye, although I suppose that’s to be expected. The twins were close, and then she came along and upset the apple cart. Is there anything else we can help you with?”

  “I do have one question, although I’m not sure you can answer it,” Orlando said, glancing from the verger to the nurse’s adopted son and back again. “Did Simon Priestland resent his brother for not wanting to open his mother’s grave and confirm what the rumours had said? Rumours that haven’t become general knowledge, if what Mr. Cottar told us is anything to go by.”

  “They argued, but I wouldn’t say he resented it. He loved his brother without reserve, even if Rosalind got short shrift. And he’d have loved his other brother just as much if he’d had the chance.” Bartholomew ran his hand over Simon Priestland’s headstone.

  “Simon told you that?” Or had Bresnan been down here with his enquiries, muddying the waters? Orlando wasn’t sure he trusted the man as far as he could throw him.

  “He did.”

  “And did he tell you whether he went back to Downlea the day his brother died? Even though he’d only just come home from visiting Peter?” Jonty asked. “Someone told us he was seen.”

  The question seemed to rattle Bartholomew. “You’ve been misled somewhere, sir.”

  “Have we?” Had Mitchell been stringing them along, just as Jonty had suspected?

  “Oh, yes. Simon didn’t go back to Downlea, as he never left the place. He was there from when he went to visit his brother to when he brought him back here to be buried. If you don’t believe me, ask his nephew.”

  “The Reverend Bresnan?” Orlando hoped there wouldn’t be another nephew turning up to befuddle the case.

  “The very same. They were both there together.”

  Both there? Blimey. Had he and Jonty been taken for an almighty ride? Orlando looked at his friend, who shook his head, clearly warning against saying anything else for the moment.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know,” Jonty said, neatly side stepping the awkward fact they’d had cast in their path, “the order in which the triplets were born?”

  “Oh, yes. Andrew came first,” Cottar said.

  So Bresnan had lied about that as well.

  “Then came Simon and then Peter.”

  “Are you sure?” Jonty scratched his head.

  “Positive.” Cottar looked at Bartholomew, who nodded. “You seem surprised.”

  “We are. That’s the third different version we’ve heard.”

  “Well, are we any the wiser?” Jonty had a mug of beer in hand, a cheese and tomato sandwich on his plate, and his confidant opposite him over the pub table. They’d taken the train to Romsey to enjoy one of the many hostelries, and the short journey had been worth it. The beer wasn’t just a poem, as he’d sometimes described the brew at the Mitre; it was a full-blown sonnet. He suspected they’d both end up with their eyes shut on the way home, having to rely on the guard to tip them off at the right station.

  “We know we’ve been led a merry dance—again—by our beloved client.” Orlando looked daggers into his beer.

  “I’ve come to the conclusion t
hat anything Bresnan tells us has to be externally verified.”

  “Hmm.” Orlando took a draught of ale. “If we were told the truth here today, then we’ve cleared up some loose ends. Simon was in Downlea and could have killed his brother on the grounds of resenting him for not wanting an exhumation and resenting Rosalind for getting between them.”

  “That sounds more like it. Get some more beer inside you to further oil your brain cells.” Jonty took some of the prescribed remedy himself. “At least we’re further forward about the fair Rosalind. Sounds like the story she spun your postmistress was part of the normal range of charades.”

  “Yes,” Orlando said after a long, slow draught of beer. “She seems to enjoy having people on, and she’s clearly good at it, even with people who’ve known her long enough to see through an act. No wonder you thought her sincere.”

  “If all that ‘poor sad widow’ stuff at Downlea was Rosalind trying her acting wiles on me, I might just go and thump her with the postmistress’s . . . whatever it is postmistresses have that would create a nice bruise.” Jonty made light work of half of his sandwich. “Why did she do it, if she did it?”

  “Wind people up? I have no idea.”

  “Not the acting. I’d put that down to original sin.” Jonty grinned. “Why murder her husband? Just for the money? If she’d waited a year or two longer, chances are it would have come to her.”

  “Maybe. If she was involved with Mitchell, he wouldn’t have waited that long.” Orlando eyed his sandwich, as if the motive might be written in the butter. “And who’d have credited he’d be right about Andrew being born first?”

  “As if that makes any difference. They’re all three of them dead.” Jonty looked depressed, as if not even the beer could hearten him. “I wish there was somebody we could trust to ask whether Mitchell and Rosalind were more than friends. Neither of them would tell us, Mrs. Hamilton would close ranks, and Bresnan’s too biased. Although if he’d heard rumours, he’d have reported them back, surely.”

  “Try another tack. I suppose we know who wrote those ‘helpful’ anonymous letters about the twins’ mother.”

  “Do we?” Jonty almost dropped the remains of his sandwich in surprise, but at least he looked momentarily happier.

  “I’d have thought it obvious,” Orlando said in his usual Jonty-you-can-be-surprisingly-dim-even-for-an-English-Fellow voice. “Although I won’t share my theory until you promise not to smack me for basing it upon very little evidence.”

  “As you’re not one of my dunderheads, you can be excused from academic rigour. I dare say it doesn’t apply much in your department, anyway. Ow!” Jonty rubbed his arm. “That lack of whacking should apply both ways. Right, what’s your earth-shattering theory?”

  “It was the nurse. She’s the best candidate we have in terms of knowledge and motive, and I bet old Andrew got rid of her when the boys were a year old because she knew too much.” Orlando waved his ham roll dramatically. “I bet she’d have wanted the twins to get their birthright.”

  “I think you could be spot on, my genius boy. Like I said, if only we could see those letters and know whether they were as hurtful as Mitchell, by which we probably mean Rosalind, made out.”

  “So what now?”

  “Back to Downlea.” Jonty leaned closer. “I want to talk to Mrs. Hamilton.”

  “Why?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? To see what truth lies in the story about the man in the garden. I wouldn’t trust Rosalind to give us a fair answer or us to be able to detect if she was lying. So we have to follow up with the housekeeper or young Billy. Maybe we can ask them about the vicar while we’re at it.”

  “You think if there was a man there, it was Simon?” Orlando rubbed his temples. “And they’re trying to cast suspicion onto him?”

  “I do. At least the latter part. I wouldn’t be surprised if the man was Bresnan himself. I’m not discounting him, Professor Coppersmith.” The beer might not have been clearing Jonty’s mind, but it was making him bullish. “I don’t think we can discount any set of circumstances.”

  In previous years, no journey through London would have been undertaken without a stopover—even if it were only for tea and cakes—at the Stewarts’ house. But Clarence had that now and, while Jonty loved his elder brother, the two didn’t share the same easy affection as Jonty’d had with his parents. And, of course, Clarence still thought that the baby of the family was merely a confirmed bachelor who shared a house with Orlando because nobody else would put up with either of them.

  Now familial visits to the capital centred on Lavinia’s household, which brought the added advantage of being able to join in Georgie’s games and so relive the best parts of Jonty’s childhood. As Orlando had suffered a pretty miserable upbringing, he was never averse to taking part and usually ended up being the happiest of all present.

  On Friday late afternoon and evening, en route from Romsey to Downlea, Jonty was able to fulfil his avuncular duty. Georgie was in seventh heaven at having his two favourite uncles to indulge his every whim, and Orlando was once more declared king of all the board games. And Lavinia got the three dozen roses that she’d been promised, delivered to her door.

  As a way of refreshing their mental powers, it was without compare. As the train headed north into Cambridgeshire the next morning, Jonty and Orlando felt ready to tackle anything the mystery could throw at them. In Jonty’s case, it was Mrs. Hamilton, and in Orlando’s, the grocer’s lad, Billy.

  Jonty made his way to Thorpe House by foot, the half hour’s walk proving an excellent way of burning off at least part of the wonderful dinner Lavinia had provided the night before. He’d reached the gate, aiming to sidle up to the servants’ entrance if possible and beard Mrs. H. in her own den, when a car sped past him and up the drive. He’d often wondered about guardian angels—having plenty of circumstantial evidence of their existence, given the number of times events had worked precisely in his favour—and suspected they were at it again.

  He retreated into a clump of bushes, where he could observe the house through a convenient gap in the foliage. Sudden memories of doing exactly the same thing while observing a skirmish from a scrawny stand of trees in France were quickly dismissed; this was no time for a dose of the collywobbles. Luckily, he only needed glasses for reading. Unlike his “other half,” he still had excellent distance vision, so he could clearly make out the lady of the house leaving her front door and entering the vehicle.

  He waited, nestled in the bushes like a poacher waiting to spring his trap, until Rosalind’s car was out of the gate. Feeling like a naughty child only added to the fun as he slipped along the wall and darted in and up the drive. Jonty was halfway to his destination when the sound of wheels on gravel and a female voice brought him to a halt.

  “Dr. Stewart!”

  A spike of horror shot up his spine. He thought he’d timed it to perfection, but Rosalind must have doubled back on herself—although whether at the sight of him or simply because she’d forgotten something, who knew?

  “Ah, Mrs. Priestland.” He beamed, took off his hat, and bowed, as the car pulled up alongside him. “So glad I caught you,” he lied, with what he hoped was great aplomb.

  “And I’m glad you’ve returned, Dr. Stewart. Might I be so bold as to ask if you’re acting in your official capacity?” Rosalind leaned slightly out of the window.

  “Official capacity? As Kildare fellow in Tudor literature?” Jonty knew damn well what she meant, but he needed to buy himself some thinking time.

  “Perhaps I should rephrase my question. Your unofficial capacity. As an amateur investigator.” She smiled, although her eyes were bright and cold.

  “I’ll be frank with you.” Jonty hoped his father wasn’t looking down from heaven, flapping his wings in horror at his youngest son’s keenness to keep conversation flowing with the odd little lie here and there. And if he was looking down, Jonty hoped he’d understand that it was in the cause of getting at the truth. �
�When I first visited my purpose was twofold, to pay my respects and to make some preliminary enquiries regarding a case we’d been asked to look into. It concerns an old friend of ours, and trying to track down the beneficiaries for a peculiarly complicated inheritance. I hope you’ll forgive me for not being entirely candid at the time, but I had to defer to the confidentiality I was entrusted with.”

  Jonty wasn’t sure if his smile or the suggestion of inheritance had worked the trick, but something had softened Rosalind’s attitude. If she’d known about Alice Priestland’s jewels, then maybe she was putting two and two together. She got out of the car and ushered him away from the driver’s earshot. “I accept your apology. I understand that you must have delicate cases to deal with and I’d be delighted to help you if I can. Can you enlighten me about this legacy?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’m very grateful for the help you gave last time, though. Very valuable.”

  “Then I’m a bit confused. Why have you returned if it isn’t to find out more concerning your case?”

  Time to extemporise, and maybe flush some prey out of cover while he was at it. “I don’t need to investigate any further, so I came to impart some news. While I can’t give any details, I can confirm that your husband was almost certainly one of these legatees.”

  “Really?” Rosalind looked thoughtful. She came closer, smiled, and laid her gloved hand on Jonty’s arm. “And you’re sure you can’t tell me any more about Peter’s mysterious benefactor?”

  “I could, but I’m not sure I’m allowed to.” Jonty decided to give the impression she’d lured him into indiscretion. “All I’ll say is that it’s a close female relative.”

  “His mother! I knew they’d run those jewels to earth one day.” Rosalind almost bounced.

  Jonty beamed back at her. “It’s a great day for the family.”

  “Such a shame Peter couldn’t have been here to see them.” She fished in her pocket for a handkerchief. “I’ll have to put them on display, as another reminder of him. As if I needed more.” She dabbed her eyes, but Jonty was no longer taken in by the playacting.