Jonty looked briefly at Orlando. “A bit of a breakdown” was something they could both understand.
“When did you find out?” Orlando spoke quietly. He could appreciate the implications of a sudden discovery that your heritage wasn’t what you’d been led to believe.
“When my father died and my mother decided to tell my brothers the truth.”
“You never resented being taken away? Not having the life the others had?” Jonty had to ask the question, even though it risked causing pain to the person at the table he valued most.
“I was given life.” Bartholomew smiled. “I was discarded, and she breathed life into me. Literally, as I understand it.”
“And you weren’t jealous of the rest of the family?” Orlando’s voice was quieter still.
“Why should I have been? I may not have had their money, but I had something more precious from my parents. Love.” No more needed to be said on that account. “We’d kept in touch with all the news about the family.” Bartholomew laughed. “I used to have a chat with Simon quite often over a pint at the pub. He never cottoned on.”
“He never had the slightest inkling? To my eyes, there seems a strong familial similarity, now that the beard’s gone,” Jonty said, replenishing their glasses. “Or am I seeing what I want to see?”
“That’s the funny thing. Simon used to say I reminded him of his grandfather. Once he’d had a bit to drink and started wondering if I was descended from a by-blow somewhere. I steered him away from the subject. He wasn’t to know.” Bartholomew rubbed his chin. “That’s why I grew the beard. I’d also picked up a lot of my habits from my adoptive mother, so I suppose those little quirks masked any familiar features of my face.”
“Would you mind another potentially unpleasant question?” Jonty was going to ask it, whatever the answer. “I was told the letters your adoptive mother sent to your brothers were spiteful. Why did she feel so bitter? For your sake?”
Bartholomew shook his head. “I saw those letters. Maybe I’m the only person still alive to have seen them. There was not a word of spite, unless you call telling the truth spiteful.”
More lies, then? Jonty wondered whether the truth—the whole truth—about this case would ever be known. The arrival of the next course gave everyone time to reflect on that, if they wanted to.
“How did you find out your uncle was alive?” Orlando asked Bresnan.
“It was just a piece of good fortune. I’d come down to see Simon and went to pay my respects at my grandfather’s grave. Bartholomew was there. I’d met him before in passing, but I’d never even suspected.”
“I was feeling a bit low. There’d been a couple of lads from the village—good, kind lads, never hurt a fly—who’d been killed out in France, and we’d not long buried their effects, not having the bodies to do the honours to.” Bartholomew stopped to regather his composure. “It didn’t seem right. Made me realise I could do what they hadn’t, go to my grave with my body and name intact, if only I told someone the truth. My nephew seemed the right man.”
“You discussed the will?” Orlando, a hound on the trail, was going to have every last bit of this out. “Alice Priestland’s will, I mean?”
“We did,” Bresnan cut in. “And the fact that Bartholomew here would be entitled to inherit his share, should we run it to ground.”
“And if you could prove his consanguinity.” Jonty wasn’t sure that was the right word, although he was glad he’d managed to pronounce it after two glasses of wine.
“We don’t need to. The fact that Alice’s will was farsighted enough to mention issue, even though at the time her children were mere toddlers, means that I alone inherit, and I’ll give my uncle his share.” Bresnan laid down his knife and fork; for once he seemed entirely serious, all tricks and riddles played out. “I’ll be content with what Simon left me. What I inherited from my grandmother will all go to Great Ormond Street. The good my uncle intended has worked out all round.”
Bartholomew nodded. “I’ve two sons of my own, gentlemen, and they’ve given me three grandchildren. They’ll be surprised at what their granddad leaves them.”
“You won’t leave them their real surname?” Orlando seemed as if he could hardly get the words out.
“No. I can’t do that. But as it’s not old Andrew’s money, it’s not tainted with his cruelty and spite, so they can have that with my pleasure.” Bartholomew scooped up the last morsel of food from his plate. “Excellent. You’ll let us treat you, of course?”
“We wouldn’t dream of it.” Jonty slapped the table. “You’re our guests. You can repay us by answering one final riddle. Mr. Bresnan, why did you go back to Thorpe House on the day Peter died?”
“I think I can guess.” Orlando’s eyes had their immediately postbreakthrough look. “You’d had a shock. Intimations of Peter’s mortality, and your own, made you decide it was time to tell the twins the truth. Before there was no time left.”
“Yes. We contacted Simon before he left Downlea. He waited for us, so we could go together. The remains of the family . . .” Bresnan seemed near to tears. “We couldn’t get near the house. Simon refused to enter it while Rosalind was there, but she hung around all morning. And then . . .”
“And then it was too late.” Bartholomew patted his nephew’s shoulder. “We were never a family blessed with luck. Or timing.”
Jonty and Orlando had waved good-bye to their guests and were weaving a path back to the St. Bride’s SCR where a short let-the-nosh-digest doze would be in order, when a deep feminine voice called to them.
“Mrs. Sheridan!” Jonty swung round to see their friend rushing across the Old Court grass, something that was never done unless in an emergency or at times of great celebration. “You look elated.”
“I am. Have you not heard?” She stopped, catching her breath.
“Clearly not,” Orlando said, looking from Jonty to Ariadne, then back again.
“It’s Owens. He’s had a double dose of comeuppance. St. Bride’s is abuzz with it, which is appropriate given the circumstances.” Ariadne grinned widely, as if her face might crack with delight.
“Tell us right now or I’ll take off all my clothes and run round here until you do so. No, belay that.” Jonty raised his hand at the look of horror on Orlando’s face and delight on Ariadne’s. “I’ll change my threat. I’ll tell Owens you have a secret passion for him.”
“You can tell him what you like. I suspect he’s past caring. Remember the wasps?” Ariadne asked, bouncing on her toes
“The play by Aristophanes?” Jonty wished he hadn’t dined quite as well, because he couldn’t quite follow this conversation as he wished.
“The ones in the pigeonholes?” Orlando asked, nodding.
“The very same. The process of smoking them out appears to have relocated them. They seem to have taken up residence at the college next door. In Owens’s lodge.”
“Glory be.” Jonty felt like running across the grass too, just as if he’d scored a magnificent breakaway try.
“It’s better than that. He tried to get rid of them himself. The little creatures, being highly intelligent, turned on him. Twenty-three separate stings, or so I’ve heard. Even if that’s an exaggeration, it’s wonderful.” She clapped her hands like a delighted little girl. “I shall never kill a wasp again.”
“Just in case it was one of the stingers? I think I’ll join you.” Jonty slipped his arm round her waist, then kissed her cheek, encouraging Orlando to do the same. This was a red letter day.
“Oh, you boys!” Ariadne blushed. “Let me get off to spread the good news. They need to hear this at Apostles’.”
“You should cycle round Cambridge with a banner flying behind you, proclaiming it to all and sundry.” Orlando bowed theatrically, and they let her get away.
“Isn’t it wonderful? I should feel guilty, wishing harm on those who harm us, but I’ll make my confession meekly kneeling on my knees next time I’m in chapel.” Jonty took Orlan
do’s arm and they walked on. “By the way, something’s puzzling me. How did you guess our luncheon guest’s reason for visiting Downlea? Did I miss some important clue?”
“You didn’t. I just put myself in their position. It’s what I would have done.”
Jonty stopped, just at the bottom of the SCR steps. “How extraordinary. Fourteen years ago, you would never have been able to do that, not with such insight.”
“I wouldn’t have been able to do that at all. Full stop.” Orlando smiled. “Different person. Different view of the world.” He tapped his chest. “You saved my life. Just like Mrs. Gurney saved Bartholomew.”
“Come along. People will hear.” Jonty took his friend’s arm and hurried them along. Such things should be said in the privacy of a college study or a double bed. “Professors aren’t allowed to be big daft puddings in public. Only at home.”
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The Best Corpse for the Job
Second Helpings
Cambridge Fellows Series
Lessons in Love
Lessons in Desire
Lessons in Discovery
Lessons in Power
Lessons in Temptation
Lessons in Seduction
Lessons in Trust
All Lessons Learned
Lessons for Suspicious Minds (coming soon)
Paired Novellas
Home Fires Burning
Standalone Short Stories
Awfully Glad
Promises Made Under Fire
Tumble Turn
The Angel in the Window
Dreams of a Hero
Wolves of the West
Music in the Midst of Desolation
All That Jazz
The Shade on a Fine Day
Sand
Anthologies
Lashings of Sauce
Tea and Crumpet
British Flash
Encore Encore
I Do Two
Past Shadows
I Do
Queer Wolf
As Charlie Cochrane couldn’t be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice—like managing a rugby team—she writes. Her favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries.
Charlie’s Cambridge Fellows Series, set in Edwardian England, was instrumental in her being named Author of the Year 2009 by the review site Speak Its Name. She’s a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, Mystery People, and International Thriller Writers Inc., with titles published by Carina, Samhain, Bold Strokes Books, MLR, and Riptide.
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Lessons for Survivors Page 23