Death Penalties

by Paula Gosling

  Nightingale was astonished to discover that Bardy actually remembered him by name and corridor. When he considered the numbers of young men who had filtered through Brendan before, during, and since his own stay there, it seemed an impossible feat, and he said so.

  ‘ “Memory is the warder of the brain”,’ intoned Bardy, proving he, at least, had not changed during the intervening years. His speech was still larded with quotes and misquotes from Shakespeare. He was always to be discovered reading the Bard in the Porter’s Lodge – hence his nickname – apparently thinking that such a scholarly pursuit was one befitting his position in the college. Bets had been taken as to what other book might be hidden behind the rubbed blue cover of his massive Complete Collected, but despite furtive forays into the P’lodge taken as dares, no rogue copies of Raymond Chandler or Playboy had ever been discovered.

  Bardy Philpott was unusual in other ways, too. Unlike most porters he was tall, and cadaverous in appearance, his long and melancholy visage convincing callow undergraduates that he lacked a sense of humour. Certainly he was strict in his application of the rules, but those who took the trouble to know him better soon discovered a wry, dry slant of mind lurked behind his lowering brow. But while he was firm, he was not entirely unyielding, and had often turned a blind page of his Shakespeare while a late returnee skulked past the P’lodge.

  He accepted Nightingale’s offering of tobacco and whisky with grave appreciation, and led him past his retired bowler – which hung in honourable estate on a separate peg in the hall – through to his snug sitting-room. He loomed oddly against the chintz and exposed beams, and when Tim commented on the room’s attractions, Bardy snorted.

  ‘Daughter-in-law did it all. Never asked me. When she finished, there wasn’t a chair in the place I could sit in.’ He sank into the one jarring item in the room, a huge and ugly club chair covered with cracked brown leatherette which Tim remembered had taken up a great deal of the space in Bardy’s lodge. ‘Bursar let me take this when I retired,’ he said, tapping his large bony fingers on the worn arms. ‘Probably would have had to talk to visitors while lying on the floor, otherwise.’ He grinned, exposing large, even teeth. ‘Does my heart good to see her wince at it every time she drops by. Which fortunately isn’t often.’

  They spent a few minutes exchanging vital trivia, filling in the cracks between the years. Although it was still early, Bardy had provided them both with a stiff drink, and now raised his glass and an eyebrow. ‘I never would have placed you with the constabulary. You must have changed a lot.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Tim said. ‘Looking back, I’d say I was pretty much a self-righteous prig in those days.’

  ‘Would have thought that was a prime qualification for policing,’ Bardy said, slyly, but there was no rancour in it. The old man leaned back and searched his memory for something suitable. ‘ “In every honest hand a whip to lash the rascals naked through the world”,’ he said, finally. He opened his eyes and looked at Tim with lively interest. ‘I’m assuming the honesty, mind.’

  ‘Depends on your definition, doesn’t it?’ Tim smiled. ‘So far I don’t think I’ve been too bad.’

  ‘And tomorrow?’

  Tim shrugged.

  Bardy nodded. ‘I suppose that’s honest, too,’ he conceded. He took another sip of his drink. ‘What particular rascal are you after today?’

  ‘John Soame,’ Tim said.

  ‘Has he killed someone?’ Bardy asked, in some surprise. ‘No. Why? Would you have expected him to?’ Nightingale asked, rather startled by this leap to the worst possible conclusion. Was he more right to suspect Soame than he’d thought?

  ‘Most people expected him to murder his wife,’ Bardy said, obviously worried that he’d said the wrong thing. ‘But as bad as she was, he never raised a hand to her that we heard of – and we would have heard.’

  Exactly. Tim’s decision to come here had been based on just that. ‘Was she so terrible?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bardy said, flatly. ‘I would have murdered her, if she’d been my wife. “A most pernicious woman.” ’

  ‘You’re speaking in the past tense, I notice.’

  ‘She died out east somewhere, in the end. Let him off the hook. Funny thing was, he was upset by it.’ Bardy paused to consider this aberration. ‘Maybe he felt guilty because he wished it would happen, but never could bring himself to do it. Maybe it was regret. Or annoyance, even. No satisfaction in having her drop dead where he couldn’t see it.’ He began to fill his pipe. ‘If not for that, then what?’

  Tim explained a little of the Leland case, naming no names, and that he was short of time. ‘As he’s new on the scene, I want to find out as much about him as I can,’ he said.

  ‘Fact or fiction?’

  ‘As much of either as possible.’

  Bardy smiled. ‘ “If a lie may do thee grace, I’ll gild it with the happiest terms I have.” I take it you know about the two girls.’

  ‘Two girls?’

  ‘Yes. The reason he’s not here now is because the master suggested a sabbatical. It was thought better to get him away until the gossip died down. He wasn’t really due for one for a few years, yet. They were embarrassed, of course, but they didn’t want to lose him.’

  Slowly the story came out. Two girls – close friends it later turned out – had alleged that John Soame had subjected them to sexual harassment in order to ensure good grades. He’d denied it strenuously, and had – in the end – been exonerated. But the damage had been considerable, both to him and to the college. ‘They should never have let women into Brendan,’ Bardy concluded. ‘These two were not good scholars, and he’d been tough on one of them – to the point where she put her friend up to siding with her, figuring it would excuse her poor performance in her first-year exams.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  Bardy sucked the flame down from four matches before he spoke. ‘Father is a magistrate,’ he said.

  ‘So nothing happened to her,’ Tim concluded, wearily.

  ‘Just finishing her final year.’ He sucked again, blew smoke, seemed satisfied and leaned back. ‘Not many friends, though. Just the one, now. Just the one.’

  ‘And they sent Soame away.’

  ‘He was pretty shaken by it. Went a little odd, which is hardly surprising, what with the life his wife had led him for years, and then her dying, and then these girls. And money troubles, too, I hear. Started to drink a bit. Got into a fight with a senior tutor from Trinity – bit of a sarcastic bastard, as it happens. Still, no excuse for public fisticuffs, is it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tim said. ‘It might be.’

  Bardy regarded him with some amusement. ‘You accept excuses, do you? Even in the Met?’

  ‘I hope so,’ Tim said.

  ‘ “Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy.” ’

  ‘ “Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall,” ’ Tim countered.

  Bardy grinned – an unnerving sight – and nodded. ‘Anyway, the master decided to grant him this sabbatical so he could pull himself together. But if the Met are interested in him . . . ’ He waited.

  ‘As far as I know he hasn’t done anything criminal,’ Tim said. He didn’t specify further. ‘You say he went “a little odd”. What do you mean by that?’

  Bardy shrugged. ‘Thought people were ganging up on him, conspiring against him. Not just the girls – although it was them that set it off, I suppose – but the other tutors, the dean, even the master. I believe it’s called paranoia, is that right? Suspicious of everyone.’

  ‘Was he “odd” to the point of imagining things?’

  Bardy shifted uncomfortably in his big chair. ‘I don’t like to speak ill of the man, Tim. I liked him, and felt sorry for him. We all did – it wasn’t his fault.’

  ‘To the point of imagining things?’ Tim persisted.

  Bardy sighe
d. ‘Some.’

  Tim leaned forward. ‘To the point of doing something about it?’ he asked.

  There was a long pause.

  Finally Bardy Philpott spoke. ‘He gave us a few rough nights,’ he said, slowly.

  ‘Had to admit him to Addenbrookes for a couple of days,’ Detective Sergeant Flynn told Tim that afternoon, in the lounge of the Eagle. ‘They sedated him, made him sleep it off, so to speak. And to give him his due, he stayed quiet after that. Must have put him on tranquillizers, I suppose. We didn’t want to bring charges. We like to be discreet about goings on in the colleges. God knows, there are enough batty ones wandering around to fill a loony bin and overflow into the Cam – we can’t arrest them all or there’d be no-one to lecture, would there? But barricading himself in his rooms and shouting that he’d kill anyone who came inside – we had to do something about that.’

  ‘Did he have a weapon?’

  Flynn smiled. ‘He had a carving set – you know – big knife and fork. Kind of thing you give as a wedding present. Knife was as dull as a breadstick, but the fork could have done a bit of damage. Never used it – never intended to use it, in my opinion. Two minutes after we broke down the door he collapsed and started to cry. Poor bastard. He’d just had too much put on him, that’s all. More of a danger to himself than anyone else. My chief inspector thought the same, and decided to let it go. We have to be flexible, here, you know. We get heavy with them, they’ll get heavy back. Too many of them, too few of us. Not worth it.’

  ‘Can you tell me anything else about Soame?’

  Flynn shrugged and picked up the other half of his ham sandwich. ‘My sister-in-law Edna is a bedder at Brendan. She often brought back stories about his wife running around with other men and that, and a rotten tongue on her, to boot. One of the kind that likes to stir things up for the hell of it, know what I mean? Enough to turn God himself into a woman-hater, apparently. A few years of that must have affected Soame somewhere inside, but Edna says he was “always lovely”. She thought the world of him – all the women on the staff did, according to her. Not what I’d call a Cary Grant to look at, but something about him appealed to them.’ The last bite of sandwich disappeared. ‘Mind you, if they’d seen him swinging that carving knife, they might have thought otherwise.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  When Tess arrived at the McMurdo house it was locked and apparently empty. She’d expected to find Adrian here, after his pronouncements on the telephone, but he was nowhere in sight. As it was Saturday, there were no workmen around either.

  The prospect of prowling the house alone was not an attractive one, but she’d gone to some trouble to get over here, and was determined to get to the bottom of all this.

  The answer had to be here, somewhere.

  She opened the front door and entered the unlit hall, which felt cold and gritty. If there was something hidden in this old house, something valuable and still undiscovered, it would be pretty amazing. Workmen were here every day, and the place was locked at night. Of course, it could be broken into like any empty house, but she had a feeling – also formulated during the previous long night – that something more was needed.

  Archie had changed his tactics. Maybe his original thought was to get her out – but now it was to get her in. Perhaps he accepted that Tess hadn’t found what he wanted, but knew how and where to find it, and was just biding her time.

  The oak stairway rose ahead of her, and broad arches opened into rooms on either side. Normally the place was filled with the sound of hammers pounding, boards creaking, the slop of plaster, and the whistling and chat of workmen. Now all was still and quiet – and yet there was a feeling that someone was here. Somewhere.

  ‘Adrian?’ she called, in a tentative voice. It had started to rain again on the way over, and the house had a dank and gloomy atmosphere. As she went through the empty downstairs rooms, thunder grumbled disapprovingly overhead. She shivered in her damp coat.

  They had begun decorating the dining-room at last. It had been the least damaged of all the rooms, and one of particularly graceful proportions. She had chosen a rich but darkish paper with a pattern of peacock feathers against a green background, and the minute she entered she saw that it had been a mistake. Even with only one wall completed she could tell she had misjudged the mood of the room, had hoped for too much light from the deep bay windows that overlooked the rear garden. Luncheon as well as evening meals would be taken in the dining-room. In an evening glow of candlelight the peacock paper might seem mysterious and exotic, but at midday it would probably depress both appetite and conversation.

  My goodness, she thought to herself. I hope Adrian didn’t see this. Maybe Archie was right, maybe she was losing her grip. She took out a pencil and wrote in large letters beside the last strip: ERNIE – DON’T CONTINUE – WANT TO CHANGE PAPER.

  Still thinking she might encounter an Adrian too sulky to answer her call, she went upstairs. Things were not so far advanced here, and in many places the plaster was still too wet to be painted or papered. Wires stuck out of the walls, awaiting the arrival of the special light fittings she’d ordered copied from a pattern she’d come across in an old catalogue in the V&A. Such a luxury, having an absolutely unlimited budget. Mrs McMurdo might be annoying, and her absence might be awkward, but if she had interfered the way her damned nephew insisted on doing, the job would never be done.

  After an unsuccessful tour of the upper floor, Tess went up to the attic, still with the expectation of meeting someone. Whether it was the rain or just the sounds of the old house adjusting to its new arrangements, she kept thinking she was not alone. But here, too, there was only empty space. She hadn’t been up here since her first survey of the house with the architect. She remembered her disappointment when the long dusty area had revealed only cobwebs and spiders, instead of a treasure-trove of trunks and old furniture.

  They had discussed the possibility of converting the attic to another living floor, but the house was so large there was really no need. Since there were very few cupboards in the bedrooms below, the attic would really be needed for its original use – storage. If Mrs McMurdo did employ servants, probably only one or two would live in. There was already provision for a small flat off the new kitchen, and there were three good-sized rooms over the garage that could be converted into an easily-accessible flat, should the need arise for further employee accommodation.

  She walked the length of the attic, which derived only limited illumination from the original dormer windows. This was supposed to have been augmented by the discreet installation of several windows on the rear roofslope, but the overcast sky and the sluicing pattern of raindrops on the slanting glass reduced this benefit considerably. Still, there was sufficient light to see that there was nothing here to interest her – or anyone else. The floor had been up because Ernie and his men had replaced some boards when they rewired the first floor ceiling circuit, and the entire roof had been removed and replaced, so any secret rooms or hidey-holes would have been exposed long ago.

  If there were any secrets left in the McMurdo mansion, then her midnight thoughts had to be correct – they were in the cellar. And she couldn’t avoid going down there any longer.

  Uncle Harry had written to his Australian relatives begging for money to ‘protect our precious family heritage’. McMurdo had sent a few thousand Australian dollars, and asked for details, but had heard no more until the solicitor’s letter arrived, announcing Uncle Harry’s sudden demise. Mrs McMurdo had thought it a great joke, and told Tess with some glee how her husband had been fooled. ‘The old wowser probably blew it all on beer,’ she’d said. ‘That’s probably what killed him, in the end.’

  Or had Uncle Harry been telling the truth?

  Had he wanted the money to ‘protect’ something valuable, and then died before he could tell his nephew about it?

  Gold? Jewels? Paintings?

  A
nd what kind of protection? The more Tess thought about it, the more she was drawn to the idea that Uncle Harry had had some kind of safe installed in the cellar. Installed and concealed.

  At some point in the house’s chequered history, the cellar had been converted from kitchen and storage to a small flat. She seemed to remember Mrs McMurdo muttering something about Uncle Harry living ‘like a mole’ – so, presumably when the place had been converted to bedsitters, he must have spent his last days down there in solitude.

  There was an outside entrance, at the side of the house, where tradesmen would have called on the cook who ruled the huge basement kitchen in the old days. There the coalman, the wine merchant, the greengrocer, the butcher, the baker, and the iceman would have cometh. The inside staircase that Tess descended also led directly into this old kitchen, now devoid of everything except dirt. The windows that overlooked the small front areaway were thick with muddy grime, and very little light came through. Tess had come prepared with a torch, and was glad of it.

  Behind the kitchen, a long passage led back into darkness. The first door Tess opened revealed a very primitive toilet. Other small, windowless rooms opening off the passage had probably been used for the storage of vegetables and preserved comestibles, and possibly for servant accommodation. The scullery maid would have slept down here, certainly, the air of her unventilated room half-poisoned with the fumes left on her clothes by the various polishes she was expected to use daily on grates, cutlery and brasswork. Towards the rear of the passage was a larger room. It had a small fireplace that used the same chimney which served the large and elaborate dining-room fireplace above. Although this back room was dark, it had a pair of wide, shallow windows that looked out on a steeply rising slope now overgrown with weeds. Next to this room, and sharing the chimney on the other side, was a smaller room, also with windows, although these were tiny and almost blanked out by overgrowth. These two potentially pleasant ‘garden’ rooms would have undoubtedly comprised the cook’s accommodation – parlour and bedroom. If the original McMurdos had employed a couple, it would have been for both butler and cook – a common and useful domestic combination.