Jonty slowly and dramatically put on his reading spectacles, looked over the top of them disapprovingly at Orlando, then discarded them again. “Talking of which, did you mention the breaking sound I heard to the police?”
“You still have that bee in your bonnet? No, I didn’t tell them, because I didn’t want them to think I’d lost my wits. If that noise is relevant, then its role will soon become apparent. I’m certain you’ll make sure of that.”
“I will. And it’s not a bee in a bonnet. I’m quite convinced that sound will prove relevant to this business.”
A knock at the door heralded the appearance of the nurse, who looked at Jonty, nodded and firmly stated that the five minutes was up. The visit was clearly at an end and any discussions couldn’t be picked up again until the next day decided the situation. Orlando, not unhappy at having been booted out, would have time to send his note, do some reading in his college study—it contained an armchair ideally suited for the purpose—and perhaps find half an hour to drop in to St John’s on the off chance before he returned to college for hall. Meanwhile Jonty could mull over the new information to his heart’s—if not the nurse’s—content. If either Cohen or Wilson did turn up later in the day it would form an interesting battle of wits as to whether they’d be allowed to enter the patient’s sick room, One, alas, that Orlando wouldn’t be there to witness.
***
St John’s college, while full of grandeur and architectural beauty, and with a reputation and atmosphere that St. Bride’s could barely aspire to, aroused no sense of envy in Orlando. His college had always been far more forward thinking than any of the other Cambridge institutions, having been first to install a telephone in the porters’ lodge and proper plumbing to the bathrooms. No doubt the undergraduates and dons at some of the more illustrious yet staid colleges would still, even in the twenty first century, be housed in accommodation that had barely changed since Noah sent Ham, Shem and Japhet to the university, while St. Bride’s would continue to blaze a trail of modernity. With that smug thought in mind, he reported to the porters’ lodge, whereupon a note was sent up and returned with an invitation to come directly to Dr Laithwaite’s set of rooms.
These turned out to be blessed with sunlight dappling through leaves that had just begun to turn in colour, as delightful a setting for a study as could be found anywhere in the city. Orlando was made comfortable in a chair, with the promise of a pot of coffee whose arrival was supposedly imminent.
“I’m sorry I missed the luncheon today,” Laithwaite said. “My godfather was visiting the city and I couldn’t let him down by not taking him out.”
“Indeed.” Orlando upbraided himself for not having registered the man’s absence.
“You wished to see me concerning Threlfall? I suppose the police are availing themselves of your services again. Your reputation, naturally, precedes you.”
“While that’s very gratifying, it robs us of any element of surprise.” Orlando raised an eyebrow. “Were you a master criminal you’d be immediately on your guard at hearing our names. I’d hate to have to resort to a pseudonym.”
“Just as well I’m not a master criminal, then. I’ll refrain from any remarks about Moriarty—your opinion of Sherlock Holmes precedes you, as well. Dr Butler tells me you can’t abide the man.”
The arrival of the coffee allowed the conversation to move on without mention of the awful man from Baker Street.
“To get straight to the point,” Orlando said, stirring his coffee, “you were at the dinner at the coll—Assumption college—when those present were subsequently taken ill.”
“Feel free to use the St. Bride’s nickname for the place,” Laithwaite remarked, grinning. “Yes, I was, along with Jones and our host, Claridge. Also a chap called Sibley who was roped in to make up the numbers when Threlfall had to pull out at the last minute. Have you met Sibley?”
“I’ve not had the pleasure.” The name was vaguely familiar, though. While Orlando couldn’t pin down the association, he had a feeling it wasn’t positive.
“You should. He’s certainly very good company. Said the meal reminded him of having feasts in the dorm at school—he had us all doubled up with laughter. Sad it turned into such a nasty business.”
“Indeed. You were also taken ill, I recall, in a separate incident, the best part of a year ago.”
Laithwaite, who’d been taking a sip of coffee, glanced up sharply. “Yes, that’s right. I didn’t realise that was common knowledge.”
Orlando waved his hand airily. “You know how dons gossip. I was present on the evening in question and remember seeing Kelvin from Jesus overindulging. I was extremely surprised to hear he wasn’t the one who’d succumbed. You, on the other hand, were quite abstemious at that event.”
It wasn’t clear whether Laithwaite accepted Orlando’s explanation, which had stretched the truth almost to snapping point. He simply nodded. “Yes, I hardly took a drink at all, and certainly didn’t mix grape and grain. Naturally, when I felt so bad the next day, I assumed I’d come down with some illness, the timing being merely coincidental. It was only after the dinner at Assumption that I wondered whether the two events might be linked. This business with Threlfall appears to confirm that something suspicious could be going on. And that neither of us is the sole intended victim.”
“Indeed. He might have been the intended victim at the Assumption dinner party, of course, with the poisoner either not knowing he’d had to pull out or not being able to change his—or her—plans at short notice.” Orlando consulted his notes. “Although it was Dr Jones from Assumption who received a threatening note a few days before the dinner, I believe?”
“Yes. Although that was another case of coincidence.”
“Coincidence?”
“Ah. That’s something that the gossip-mongers have missed.” Laithwaite chuckled. “That note was easily traced back to a student from Peterhouse, who felt Jones had dealt with him harshly when he’d simply sought help in the tricky matter of inter-molecular bonds. This lad insisted his threat had been so much hot air and frankly, he couldn’t have laced the pudding because he’d been taken to sick bay with suspected mumps, so suspicion fell naturally elsewhere. We had an outbreak of the same disease here, at the same time. Not the sort of infection a young man wants to be struck down with.”
“Very true.” Nor an older one. “So if the writer of the note didn’t do it, who did suspicion fall on?”
“Another undergraduate, one of those under Claridge’s wing, had been shouting his mouth off to his pals about what he’d like to do to the man. They—with more loyalty to their college than to their peer—reported him to the Assumption authorities. They naturally associated the threat with what had happened to us.”
Orlando, unaware previously of the involvement of the other student, took a draught of coffee while he regathered his thoughts. “A remarkable chance of fate indeed.”
“Yes. I don’t suppose I’d have thought to keep a portion of the suspect pudding to one side, had it not been for that note from Peterhouse. My subconscious nagging me, perhaps and producing a fortuitous coincidence. Otherwise, I’d have simply assumed that the peculiar taste was simply due to poor cooking—Assumption’s reputation on that front is occasionally deserved—and in that case I would have been too polite to raise the matter with my host.”
“I believe that threatening note to Dr Jones put you in mind of an incident that happened at your school?”
“You’re aware of that? I’m impressed.” Laithwaite raised his coffee cup as though to toast Orlando’s perspicuity. “Yes, it did. There is no connection between the two cases, as far as I know, though, apart from my having been present for both incidents. Although I’d be highly surprised if the occurrence at either establishment was unique. I can’t believe the young men involved were the first to take such a revenge in a cloistered academic environment.”
“Certainly.” Orlando wrote a few words in his pad, more for show than purpose
. “To return for a moment to the chap from Peterhouse who wrote the note. You state that he couldn’t have doctored the pudding because he had an unshakeable alibi. My colleague Dr Stewart takes a dim view of those.”
“Does he? Why?”
“Something his father experienced. A man who was apparently in two places at the same time. It’s never been adequately explained how the thing was pulled off, but it was. I would never doubt Mr Stewart’s word.”
“Indeed. His reputation precedes him, too. How he finds time to write for The Times is remarkable. You make a valid point, though. Perhaps it’s much more likely that a guilty man would be able to show he was otherwise occupied at what appeared to be the key time. The rest of us would struggle to account for most parts of our day—especially those of us who spend portions of our time alone in our studies, at our studies.” Laithwaite chuckled at the pun. “No, in this case it wasn’t simply a matter of the mumps, but the means. The pudding was prepared in the college kitchens. It must have been adulterated at the ingredients stage, when it was boiling away—although that would risk the culprit scalding himself—or between cooking and serving. There was a short time when the item in question was left unattended in the lobby of Claridge’s set. We’d said that we’d help ourselves and so the college servant who’d been ministering to us was able to get away early. I’d say it was most likely that the laxative was introduced then, as that would reduce the risk of it denaturing during the cooking process. All of which would have been difficult for a stranger to the college to have managed. The porters were adamant the undergraduate from Peterhouse didn’t come in during that time.”
Orlando reserved judgement on that. Colleges weren’t the impregnable fortresses some of their inhabitants believed them to be and anyway the note writer could have got a friend to do the deed. “Earlier you talked about the risk of the perpetrator scalding himself. Could the culprit not have been a female? They say that poison is a woman’s weapon.”
“Do they? I suppose it’s possible, then, although it would have to be a college employee rather than some brazen female undergraduate, for the same reasons just mentioned.”
Orlando nodded. Sergeant Cohen might be best placed to wield his charm on the female of the species.
“I don’t know many women—curse our bachelor existence, eh?—but none would strike me as likely to turn to the cyanide. Mary—” Laithwaite checked himself, “forgive me if I mention a lady’s name. Someone I know, who’d be horrified at being thought capable of such things.”
“Is that Mary Harcourt? That would have been her maiden name.”
“No, another Mary.”
Had there been a hint of relief in Laithwaite’s voice? When no more was forthcoming from him about the mysterious woman—and why should there be, if she wasn’t germane to the case—Orlando asked, “Did any of you report this incident at Assumption to the police?”
“No. We decided among us that it was a relatively harmless prank, given that the apparent perpetrator had been swiftly dealt with and sped out of the university. He had been close to being sent down on a previous occasion and while there was no direct proof, he’d been involved this time, he’d had the motive and the opportunity.” Laithwaite, with a raised eyebrow, jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the court. “Let’s be practical, Dr Coppersmith. Were we to report every rag-like incident the police would be run off their feet.”
“But this was hardly a rag-like incident. And, as you said, there is uncertainty over whether the so-called culprit was the actual one.”
“Uncertainty is not proof or disproof, Dr Coppersmith. We both know that.”
When it was clear that no further comment was forthcoming, Orlando asked, “May I turn to the other instance of your being taken ill? Your retrospective opinion of that changed after Claridge’s dinner?”
“Yes. Although at that far a remove I was unable to say when I might have ingested the stuff on the night in question. If ingest it I did and it’s not simply a case of me connecting two unconnected items.” Laithwaite spread his hands. “I couldn’t even tell you what I had to eat that day and my glass would have been in my hand all evening so I’d have control over what went into it.”
“So you honestly never associated the two events until you had the result of the test on the pudding? It wasn’t the previous event that prompted you to retain a portion?”
The St. John’s man turned his face towards the window, perhaps admiring the late afternoon light playing through the leaves outside, before turning back again. “Are you always so astute at seeing through people? Yes, there is an element of truth in what you say. When I tasted the pudding it reminded me of something although I couldn’t at that point have said what. An unpleasant association. I suspect my subconscious, which had been working overtime, had linked the two events quicker than I did, so made me take the sample.”
Orlando knit his brows, trying to follow the train of thought. “The taste of the pudding reminded you subliminally of something you’d eaten the previous time you’d been ill?”
“I think that’s the likely explanation, although my knowledge of the behaviour of the human brain is limited to what I’ve gleaned from my colleagues. A fascinating subject, no doubt, but one probably lacking in the rigorous application of proof.”
Orlando was sure Dr Panesar would disagree with that, albeit in his usual charming manner. “Have you come across any other similar occurrences in the past year or so? Mathematicians or other dons being taken ill?”
“I’ve been racking my brains as we’ve spoken but I confess I can’t bring anything to mind other than an outbreak of gastrointestinal upset a year ago, but that was among undergraduates and appeared to be infectious rather than of a sinister nature.” Laithwaite, who’d been cradling his cup, at last laid it down. “What happened yesterday has shaken me, Dr Coppersmith. I hadn’t heard about Threlfall until the porter brought your message and I’m not sure I’d entirely taken in the significance until we had this conversation. I had rationalised these occurrences and decided that whoever had decided to lace our food with laxatives had had their fun and was done with it. This seems to be an order of magnitude more dangerous. Is it the same person striking again? Are Threlfall and I being targeted specifically or is it our type in general?”
“I wish I had an answer for those.” Orlando looked bleakly towards the window, but not even the golden sunlight lifted his spirits.
***
Sergeant Cohen must have worked his particular magic on Nurse Hatfield, because when she ushered him in to see Jonty she was wearing a beaming smile and just the hint of a blush. “This had better be your last visitor of the day, Dr Stewart. At least you’ll sleep well after all this mental exercise.”
“I hope so. It takes my mind off my leg. And thinking about what I’ll be sent over for dinner.”
“You’re making me feel hungry, now,” Cohen remarked. He was a noted lover of his nosebag, as both his words and his frame testified. When the nurse had left them, he continued, “You’ll be frustrated at your colleague being able to run around in pursuit of this case.”
“Frustration is an understatement, although clues have been queuing up to visit me here. I’m afraid that, as Dr Coppersmith has no doubt intimated, I’ll be delaying your supper tonight by sending you off to visit two other people. Firstly Dr Scarrett, who is treating my leg, was a friend of Threlfall and was highly concerned about his behaviour before the match. Of course—according to Langer the chaplain who is a friend of both and is the second party I had in mind—Scarrett and he had taken Threlfall under their wing at school so his concern might have been genuine. And then there’s the matter of Ernest Harcourt who’s a distant relative of his. Scarrett’s, not Threlfall’s. His connection is to Mary, the daughter.”
Cohen scratched his head. “I followed you as far as your leg being treated. The rest you’ll have to explain to me slowly while I make notes.”
“Sorry, Mr Cohen. Dr Coppers
mith always says I can’t give a logical account of anything. Let me explain as best I can.” Jonty tried to describe as clearly as he could what he’d gleaned from his two visitors, increasingly aware as he related it that the information really amounted to little more than gossip and speculation. Hard facts—apart from who was related to whom—seemed scarce. “Make of it what you will,” he said finally. “Not much to go on but maybe a start.”
“More of a start than we’ve yet had. An aggrieved man with a bit of a temper, a woman wronged and the victim behaving strangely. Dr Scarrett weaving in and out of the tale.” Cohen tapped his notebook. “Chief Inspector Wilson will be pleased, even more so than at the notion of other…shall I call them gastric events…that could be connected. I’d like to thank you for reassuring the chaplain of our discretion. Some folk seem to think we gossip like fishwives. Of course nobody will be made aware of any scandal, whether it’s relevant to the case or not.”
“I have every confidence in you. I suspect Langer was feeling rather guilty that he’d been appearing to gossip, bless him. Any news on poor Threlfall’s condition, by the way? I feel irrationally guilt-ridden that I came away from the match with nothing worse than a game leg.”
“No change, sir, which we must view with optimism. We’re awaiting the results on what poisoned him and will let you know, as it’ll no doubt be helpful. You never know what unconsidered verbal trifles someone might drop and you or Dr Coppersmith will be there to snap them up.”
“Very eloquently put, Sergeant.” Jonty smiled then felt suddenly sombre again. “I suppose, in light of what I’ve said, you’ll view it as wise to keep Scarrett out of matters. Professionally, I mean.”
“Yes, sir. I think—strictly between those of us involved with investigating the matter—that it would also be wise to have another medical man quietly and tactfully scrutinise Scarrett’s initial diagnosis and actions. I’ll also do some tactful questioning myself about the circumstances surrounding him being called to Threlfall and what happened when he arrived. I’ll play my stupid policeman card and ask for it to be gone through again. That usually works.”
Lessons in Following a Poisonous Trail: A Cambridge Fellows Mystery novella (Cambridge Fellows Mysteries) Page 5