Swing, Swing Together

by Peter Lovesey

“Matrimonial. I understand he left his wife a year ago and moved back into Merton. Have you met Mrs. Bonner-Hill?”

  “The murderess? I’ve met her, yes.”

  “Did you say ‘murderess’?”

  Fernandez smiled. “A frivolous remark, Sergeant. It was Bonner-Hill’s term for her—only, of course, in a jesting sense. She is an actress, you know—very good in romantic comedy. At some point in her career she was persuaded to try a more demanding role. The local newspaper commented that if she and the actor playing Macbeth had murdered Duncan with a modicum of their success in murdering Shakespeare, the play could have stopped at Act One and so prevented further suffering. Uncharitable, but amusing. I saw her in something of Pinero’s at Windsor not long ago and thought her quite enchanting.”

  “Why did Bonner-Hill leave her?”

  “There you go again, Sergeant, inviting me to speculate on the mysteries of the human mind. I decline the invitation for the reason I gave you before.”

  “I thought he might have told you.”

  Fernandez tossed his head so vigorously that the towel fell off. “You think he might have told me why he left his wife? How in Heaven’s name do you suppose a subject like that arises between two gentlemen on a fishing expedition?”

  “If you tell me it didn’t arise, I must believe you, sir, but my experience is that confidences are frequently exchanged in circumstances like that. The early morning. Nobody about. Two of you sitting in a punt in a quiet backwater waiting for the fish to bite. I’m no angler myself, but I’ve done observation duties in the police that aren’t so different from that and I’ve invariably found that if I have a fellow officer with me, we’ll talk, and before too long he’s telling me about the arguments he has with his wife and I’m telling tales about my days in the army. The most reticent of men become talkative when there’s no one else about and three or four hours to pass.” Cribb gave a short laugh. “Perhaps you did all the talking, sir. Poured out so many confidences that Bonner-Hill couldn’t get a word in edgeways.”

  Fernandez crossed the room to within a yard of Cribb, his eyes alarmingly red-lidded. “What are you saying? What are you implying about me?”

  Cribb put up a placatory hand. “One moment, sir. I don’t think I’m implying anything. I’m simply trying to assist your recollection of those fishing expeditions in case Bonner-Hill told you something that might be pertinent to my inquiries. When did you last speak to him? There’s a straightforward question for you!”

  Fernandez continued to stare inhospitably at Cribb for several seconds more before replying, “Last night, after dinner.”

  “Did he mention his plan to go out fishing this morning?” “He did. I had to tell him I wouldn’t be joining him. My laryngitis put it out of the question.”

  “Of course. Did anyone else in Merton know he would be going out alone? Did he mention it at dinner?”

  “I told you,” Fernandez said. “It was after dinner that we spoke.”

  “To your knowledge, had he ever been out before on his own looking for that pike?”

  “To my knowledge, no.”

  “Well, there’s a curious thing,” said Cribb. “The first time the poor man decides to do a bit of fishing on his own, he gets murdered. The only other person in Oxford who knows he is going out alone is yourself, but you’re confined to your rooms with laryngitis. It looks as though this murder wasn’t planned at all. Whoever killed Mr. Bonner-Hill might as well have put an end to anybody else unfortunate enough to have been about at that particular time. A tramp. A university don. It’s all the same. This is murder for the sake of killing. I’ve come across some nasty things in my time, Mr. Fernandez, but this really makes me shudder.”

  CHAPTER

  20

  Manhunt—Murderers in straw hats—How Harriet was reduced to tears

  THE SEARCH FOR THE three wanted men, Humberstone, Gold and Lucifer, was given the highest priority. At the Chief Constable’s orders every fit man in the City force was deployed. Those who had done night duty were recalled after four hours, and the police reserve were used for house-to-house inquiries. Hotels, public houses, shops, parks, music halls, the college precincts, even houses of accommodation were visited and Cribb’s meticulous description of the three recited, followed by the grim injunction, “If you should recognize these men, do not approach them yourself. Call a policeman. They are wanted for questioning in connection with a serious charge.”

  Despite the thoroughness of the description and search nothing of importance was found until late in the afternoon, when a check was made of the skiffs lashed together near Magdalen Bridge in the Cherwell and one was found to be the Lucrecia. The covers were taken off and the luggage removed for examination. The two wicker baskets and one carpetbag contained between them three pairs of pyjamas, two towels, three blankets, toothbrushes, combs, leather boots, a map of the Thames, a set of playing cards and two bottles of cider. “What did you expect?” asked the sergeant who had found the boat. “A signed confession?”

  Cribb had come back from Merton convinced that Bonner-Hill had been murdered in the same fashion as Walters, the tramp at Hurley. “He must have met his murderers early in the morning,” he told Thackeray and Harriet in a room at Oxford Police Station. “It was a quiet backwater, with nobody about. They approached him in their boat and got him aboard on some pretext. Then one of them must have pinioned his arms, while another gripped him round the neck, applying pressure to the artery until he lost consciousness. It wasn’t strangulation; that would have been too obvious. Even so, some marks were left around the neck and shoulders. Once he was insensible, they heaved him over the side and held his face under for long enough to fill his breathing passages with water. Verdict: drowning. So many bodies are taken from the Thames that there was every chance of the coroner finding a verdict of death by misadventure or suicide. The possibility of murder wouldn’t arise unless there was something suspicious. Our set of murderers didn’t reckon on the marks appearing on the victims’ necks after death.”

  Thackeray’s mouth shaped as if to whistle, but drew in breath instead. “Killing two men in cold blood like that! The calculation in it—it’s horrible. Most murders you can understand, even if you don’t altogether agree with the outcome. Jealous husbands, neglected wives, sons and daughters wanting to inherit—murder’s a family thing, as often as not. But killing strangers as a way to pass the time on a river trip isn’t nice, not nice at all.”

  “It’s beyond understanding,” said Harriet, still tortured by the knowledge that she might have averted Bonner-Hill’s death. “Where is the reason in it? It’s quite insane.”

  “I can’t agree with that, miss,” said Cribb. “There’s a good intelligence behind all this. It may be inspired by the Devil, but it’s coolly planned, I’m sure of that. Here we are at the end of a summer when young men in hundreds have taken to the river, paddling gaily up to Oxford like the three in Mr. Jerome’s book. It’s high ton—the thing to do. Good sport, good exercise, good fun. A world away from sudden death. Who would believe in a party of assassins in a skiff? Murderers in straw hats? It’s preposterous—and that’s why they’ve done it. Three men in a boat, not to mention the dog, doing the journey in the book lock by lock, pausing only to commit jolly little murders at intervals along the way.”

  “For amusement, Sarge?” said Thackeray, his face a study.

  “Well, it wasn’t for gain, or they’d have taken the money the tramp was carrying. Can you think of any other reason? I wondered first of all whether the first murder—of Choppy Walters—was to try out the method. If you think of it callously, as they would, a tramp is a perfect subject for trying out your skills as a murderer. Nobody notices a vagrant, or misses him when he isn’t seen any more. If that’s what the first murder was about, a dress rehearsal, so to speak, it suggests that the second was the real performance. In other words, they’d been planning Bonner-Hill’s destruction from the start. A neat idea—until you recollect that Bonner
-Hill wouldn’t have been alone in the backwater without Fernandez getting laryngitis, and that’s a circumstance they couldn’t have planned for.”

  “So they happened to see Bonner-Hill alone in his punt and decided to kill him, just like that,” said Thackeray, still struggling to accept the truth of what he was saying.

  “Just like that.”

  “And they’re quite liable to do it again. Glory, Sarge, we’ve got to stop them this time!”

  For Harriet, the last two words were twists of a dagger. She covered her face with her hands.

  CHAPTER

  21

  The widow at Windsor—A Providential insurance—The failings of a Fellow

  LATE THAT AFTERNOON A small group assembled in the City Mortuary for the formal identification of Bonner-Hill’s remains. Out of respect for Mrs. Bonner-Hill, who was coming from an address in Windsor, Cribb had exchanged his boating costume for a borrowed suit. Harriet, her eyes still red from crying, was wrapped in a black shawl. The attendant made the understandable error of supposing her the freshly bereaved widow and was murmuring condolences until Cribb explained that she was there in case Mrs. Bonner-Hill needed support from one of her own sex. With that made clear, the attendant’s conversation switched to horse racing and the entry for the Cesarewitch. A movement outside the door caused him just as suddenly to revert to: “… and so young, and with his whole career ahead of him. He would surely have risen in the University were it not for this. Ah! This must be …” The voice trailed respectfully away.

  “Mrs. Bonner-Hill,” announced the man who had pushed open the door.

  The young widow was heavily veiled and in deep mourning.

  “This is Sergeant Cribb of the police,” explained the attendant. “And Miss Shaw. Sometimes, on occasions such as this, it is helpful if another lady …” He left his sentences unfinished from forbearance, not forgetfulness. Predictably in Oxford, he was a very polished mortuary attendant.

  “Jacob Goldstein, manager of the Playhouse at Windsor,” said Mrs. Bonner-Hill’s companion, so young that for a moment it was not clear whether he was referring to somebody else, but as he said no more, the inference was that he had introduced himself. Dark-complexioned, with a handsome, sensitive face, he wore a lightweight black overcoat. The quality of the cloth suggested that the Playhouse did not run at a loss.

  “Shall we go through to the …?” the attendant suggested.

  “That is why we are here,” said Goldstein. “Are you prepared, my dear?”

  Mrs. Bonner-Hill made a small sound of acquiescence from under her veil. They filed into a room without windows. It was cold and smelt of carbolic. The body was on a wooden trolley covered by a grey sheet. First, the attendant drew Mrs. Bonner-Hill to a table at the side of the room. “His clothes,” he whispered, turning over the jacket to reveal the lining. “Are you able to state with certainty … ?”

  She nodded.

  “Was there anything in the pockets?” Cribb inquired.

  “A small amount of money and a handkerchief,” confided the attendant. “The practice is to deliver all such things to the executors. The recently bereaved are thus spared the …”

  “Shall we do what we came to do?” asked Goldstein, moving towards the trolley. His eagerness to get the formalities over must have been to spare Mrs. Bonner-Hill unnecessary distress, but Harriet could not exclude the thought that there was probably a 7:30 performance at Windsor that evening.

  “As you wish. Madam, if you would kindly stand just here …”

  Harriet, too, stepped forward, ready to justify her presence.

  “You won’t see much through your veil, Melanie,” Goldstein gently pointed out.

  Mrs. Bonner-Hill lifted it and revealed a face of unarguable beauty, the more winsome for its tiny indications of strain, the slightly pursed lips, damp eyelashes and just perceptible creasing of the forehead. Her eyes were large and blue and her hair, clustered in natural curls, was so fair that against the veil it could have been white.

  “If you’re ready …” said the attendant, taking hold of the edge of the sheet. He peeled it back.

  Harriet, poised to cope with an hysterical woman, need not have bothered. The hysterics happened, but their force was directed elsewhere. “Dead!” cried Mrs. Bonner-Hill as if she had not expected it. “My Harry dead! Oh, Jacob, what shall I do?” She clutched Goldstein determinedly round the waist and pressed her face sobbing against his chest. “Widowed, at twenty-six! What will become of me?”

  Cribb motioned to the attendant to replace the sheet. They steered the distracted widow into the anteroom and found a chair for her, but she still clung to Goldstein. Harriet decided that Mrs. Bonner-Hill’s suffering was so extreme that nobody could censure her for forwardness in regard to Mr. Goldstein. Circumstances could provide exceptions to polite convention. It was unfortunate that he was not a few years older, an uncle, say, or a friend of her father’s, but she could not be blamed. Her grief might have appeared just a little histrionic, and she was, indeed, an actress, but this was quite outside the repertoire of romantic comedy.

  Cribb leaned confidentially towards the attendant. “I believe you make a good, strong cup of tea in these places.”

  In ten minutes Mrs. Bonner-Hill had recovered sufficiently to relax her hold on Goldstein and accept the cup which was offered. The theatre manager took out his watch and glanced discreetly at it.

  “Your husband owned a property in North Oxford, I understand,” Cribb said to Mrs. Bonner-Hill. Conversation was difficult in these circumstances, but he was not the sort to be inhibited. “It’s a consolation to have somewhere to live. Will you go there for the next few days? There are formalities to attend to, of course. It would be difficult from—where are you residing at present?—Windsor.”

  She glanced in Goldstein’s direction. “I had not thought of that.”

  “You could put up at a hotel, of course,” Cribb went on. “It might be less distressing for you than your former home.”

  “I suppose it might.”

  “This young lady, Miss Shaw, is in Oxford for the weekend. I’m arranging for her to take a room in a small hotel in St. Aldate’s. It occurs to me that you might care to join her there. You could take your meals together. At times like this, a little company is a great support.”

  “I am not ungrateful, but—”

  Goldstein broke in. “Sergeant Cribb is speaking good sense, my dear. I shall not be able to stay overnight and it would be too distressing for you to pass the night in that house in Banbury Road. If Miss Shaw has no objection to the plan, I think you should do as the sergeant suggests.”

  “I shall be pleased to help in any way I can,” Harriet offered.

  “Things should be completed in a day or two,” said Cribb. “Once the funeral is over and his affairs are tidied up, you’ll be able to resume your normal life, get back on the stage. Good to have something to occupy the mind. Has Mrs. Bonner-Hill performed in your theatre, Mr. Goldstein?”

  Goldstein’s cheeks went slightly pinker. “Yes. In several different productions.”

  “That’s how you met, I expect,” Cribb went on staunchly. “Looked after your cast as if they were your own family. I’ve a great admiration for the way you theatricals stick together. This lady won’t be short of parts when she returns to the boards, I’ll wager. Are you in anything at the moment, ma’am?”

  “No.” Mrs. Bonner-Hill’s hand sought Goldstein’s and held it. “I am between plays.”

  “Ah. Shows how wrong it is to jump to conclusions. Seeing Mr. Goldstein here, I supposed you were in the current production at Windsor.”

  “We are playing Lear,” said Goldstein acidly. “Mrs. Bonner-Hill is a comedy actress. I happened to be visiting Melanie when the constable called this afternoon and broke the news to her. I could do no less than accompany her to this place. We are old friends.” He added, with emphasis, “I met poor Bonner-Hill more than once.”

  “Really?” said Cribb. “I
thought he disapproved of the theatre.”

  “Oh no,” interjected Mrs. Bonner-Hill. “He liked it well enough. He disapproved of my continuing on the stage after we were married, that is all.” She dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

  “Disapproved? He forbade you. Issued threats!” said Goldstein. “He would have terminated your career the day he married you if he had got his way. I don’t like speaking ill of the dead, but it doesn’t show much concern for the theatre to marry one of its most talented young actresses and order her never to go onto a stage again. Like pulling the wings off a butterfly.”

  “We had misunderstandings,” explained Mrs. Bonner-Hill unnecessarily. “About a year ago I returned to the stage and Harry moved back into his rooms in Merton. It was a civilized arrangement, with no bitterness on either side. By then we had come to accept that our careers were more important to us than an unfruitful marriage. He sent me money regularly.”

  “You will notice the lack of it, then,” said Cribb.

  “There is the insurance,” said Mrs. Bonner-Hill, her eyes wider and bluer at this consoling thought. “His life was insured for five thousand pounds. That should be enough to support me whether I return to the stage or not.”

  “Insurance?” said Cribb. “Which company insured him, ma’am?”

  “The Providential. He made the arrangements a week after we were married. It depressed me somewhat at the time, thinking about death so soon after the wedding, but Harry was quite unshakeable. His own papa had died young and left his family unprovided for. They were not penniless, but they lived in reduced circumstances. Harry went to Tonbridge as a scholarship boy. It was only when he got to Oxford that he had any money to spend on himself. An uncle made him an allowance in recognition of his scholastic achievements. I think the reason why he was so particular about his appearance at Oxford was that he had been compelled to wear old clothes at Tonbridge. Other boys can be very cruel, I believe.”