“Nobody could ever think of you as stupid. You must be an exceptional actor at times.” Now seemed the right moment, given the jocularity, to raise a tricky subject. “Would you indulge the whims of a bedridden man, please? This may be beneath the notice of either yourself or Mr Wilson so some keen, but not too wet behind the ears, officer might be best tasked with it.”
Cohen eyed him amusedly over the top of his spectacles. “You’ve intrigued me. What task is this?”
“An odd one, on the face of it. If I said I’d like him to examine the exact patch of turf where I had my tumble on Saturday and to rummage through Threlfall’s rugby togs and kit bag, you might think I took an injury to my head as well as my leg.”
“I’d not say that, sir. I believe your track record would show there tends to be—if you’ll excuse the expression—method to your madness.”
“Any allusion to the Bard can be excused, of course. My methodical madness is based on a noise I heard as I hit the ground. The doctor assures me it wasn’t one of my bones breaking and Dr Coppersmith reckons it wasn’t a twig snapping as the ground was clear of such debris.” Jonty shrugged. “It may have nothing to do with anything, but Threlfall fell at the same time as I did, although he soon sprang up again. I can’t get it out of my mind that this mysterious noise might be somehow linked to what happened to him.”
“Like him breaking a bone himself? Or having a syringe of poison somewhere on his person that snapped, jabbed him and let the toxin enter his bloodstream?”
“Exactly that,” Jonty responded, delighted to hear Cohen’s thoughts had gone down the same lines as his.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but neither of those options appear to be borne out by Threlfall’s medical condition. I spoke just this morning to the doctor at Addenbrooke’s and he’d done a thorough check up. No sign of a puncture wound of any sort and the bruising present on Threlfall’s legs is consistent with his having played rugby for two weeks running. I’ll ask him about a possible broken bone, though. Could be a…” the sergeant gestured towards his collarbone.
“Clavicle. Yes, or maybe a finger, although you’d have thought Threlfall would have noticed that. Although if he was already feeling the effects of poison, his senses may have been dulled.” Jonty wrinkled his brow. “Perhaps Scarrett is wrong about my leg. Maybe there was a hairline break and that’s what I heard but it hasn’t made its presence known yet. Although he did say the injury isn’t healing as quickly as it should.”
“Perhaps you should get a second opinion. On the quiet, of course.”
“Of course.”
Cohen rose, said that much as he’d like to carry on the conversation, he had things to do, then shook Jonty’s hand and, after an exchange of pleasantries, left the room.
As Jonty awaited the arrival of his nosebag, he couldn’t get the doctor out of his mind. Cohen, who was nobody’s fool, had clearly begun to suspect him of some involvement in the case. Jonty now couldn’t get the thought of out of his mind that Scarrett may—deliberately or in error—have misdiagnosed the injury to his leg. Did he, for whatever reason, want to ensure that Jonty was confined to his bed and therefore not able to do any active investigation? No, that was being far too suspicious. How could the doctor have known that Jonty and Orlando’s services were going to be called on? And, anyway, he couldn’t have caused the original injury to happen, unless he knew about it in advance.
Was that possible? Had Scarrett—or someone else, as yet unidentified, it had to be admitted—somehow persuaded Threlfall himself to cause Jonty harm? Was it within the realms of possibility that the man might have been coerced, or even under the influence of hypnosis, which could explain his erratic behaviour? In that case it was unlikely the doctor was the culprit, given that he had drawn attention to Threlfall behaving oddly. Unless he was being ultra-clever, assuming that anyone examining what had gone on would draw that same conclusion.
Jonty heaved a great sigh. All these ideas were credible—just—but none of them could yet withstand the burden of proof test and all still begged the simple question, “Why?”
Even the arrival of a tray laden with delicious-smelling delights couldn’t ease his sense of uselessness. The prospect of another evening of bed-ridden indignity with only his novels to keep him company held no charms, although perhaps the newspaper which had been delivered with the meal would hold some articles of interest. Without Orlando at his side, that was about as exciting as things would get.
Sunday evening
Orlando had returned from St John’s in plenty of time for high table so cleared up a few pieces of college business which had been preying on his mind, in order to concentrate entirely on the matter in hand. He planned to drop into the Senior Common Room a few minutes before the time at which it was customary for the dons to go down to dinner, in an effort to ensure he was at Dr Panesar’s side during the meal. As it turned out, no such subterfuge was necessary, the eccentric polymath making a beeline for him as he arrived in the SCR and cleaving to his side until they were safely seated in hall.
No sooner was grace spoken and the collation of cold cuts and salad vegetables set into than he said, “Is Dr Stewart still confined to barracks? It must be maddening having to carry on an investigation solo.”
“It is. Especially during term time, when there’s so much to do and an extra pair of hands would be invaluable.” He was only just appreciating how difficult this would prove. Had Threlfall already died then the matter might have been important enough to release Orlando from all college and university duties. As it stood, Dr Peters hadn’t entirely relieved him of them—a new term, with new students, needed a certain degree of the old order being in place. Not only had he to use every moment of his time wisely, he was also beginning to miss Jonty and his occasionally gormless grin, at his side. Whether in their investigations, in the Senior Common Room or in his bed.
“If there is anything I can do to help, I would be more than happy to do so. I know Threlfall of old and not just in a university connection.” Panesar nodded gravely.
Something made Orlando hesitate to ask the obvious next question about what that other connection was, something in Panesar’s manner. They knew from the last case they’d tackled that the man had hidden depths, strange contacts and quite possibly an element to his life about which they’d never know more. Panesar’s involvement in non-academic activities was a matter of great speculation and mystery and not a topic for open discussion.
“Although I would not take it amiss if you declined the offer,” Panesar continued. “You and Dr Stewart will have formed a working relationship. Built up a degree of trust that could not be conferred upon a third party and a methodology that perhaps couldn’t be transferred.”
“Wise words, as always.” Deeply touched, Orlando patted his colleague’s arm. “It wouldn’t be the same, indeed, but no doubt we could make things work. You would certainly have my trust, so long as the investigation didn’t involve small explosive devices.”
“I can promise I will lock all of those safely away.”
“With that assurance, let me say that your name has already come up as a possessor of a suitable extra pair of hands. There is something you could help with.” Orlando noted the delight sparking in his colleague’s eyes.
“It would be an honour.”
“I don’t need to remind you that in police matters, employment of discretion and confidentiality is paramount, do I?” Once he’d received a delighted nod of assent, Orlando lowered his voice and continued, “Then let me brief you on what we know so far.”
He gave a summary of what had come to light over the last few days, with Panesar interspersing the account with his usual intelligent questions to clarify several points. Finally, he asked, “What exactly would you like me to do?”
“Employ your connections. You appear to have a much wider range of acquaintance than most of us, across both colleges and specialities. I’d like to know if there have been any other incidents of
a similar nature in the last two years.”
“Ah. The spiteful use of a laxative or similar substance.”
“Exactly.” Orlando nodded, then dropped his voice further. “Use your common sense, of course. I’m aware that people are already discussing this matter and no doubt embroidering it. Even in the groves of academe there’s a tendency both to be wise after the event or to see what you want to see. It’s possible that every instance of food poisoning or too many pints of beer will be viewed as sinister with hindsight.”
“It already is being.” Panesar wagged his handsome, bearded head. “One of my colleagues today was regaling me with a tale of how he is now wondering whether he was targeted at a bumps supper, after which he had been very ill. I was at the same supper and know it was simply his injudicious mixing of grape and grain. Any chemical would have given up its task in the face of such a pickling.”
Orlando chuckled at the story, but it did nothing to encourage him. How would they be able to separate fact and opinion—or wishful thinking—at such a remove? “It appears we’ll have our work cut out.”
“We will. Although one might say that some of that work has already been done.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I have been considering the issue and it struck me that I have some information in my rooms which might be relevant. I did not bring it with me this evening for fear of appearing presumptuous, but we can look at it after dinner, perhaps in lieu of sitting in the SCR?”
“That sounds an excellent idea.” Even if it meant Orlando restraining his curiosity until then.
The conversation turned to the sporting events of the weekend and a football match between two colleges which had ended in carnage, although all of it in the way of fisticuffs and none apparently involving poison. Which was a surprise in itself, given that one of the teams was the college next door, and who could be absolutely certain that they wouldn’t employ skulduggery?
***
Dr Panesar’s set of rooms—which Orlando couldn’t remember entering before—reflected the man’s varied interests. Books on physical science nestled alongside those on anthropology and the history of the Indian sub-continent. While the place was tidy and clearly conformed to some system of the polymath’s own, unexpected items such as a stuffed pangolin gave the main living room a slightly disturbing atmosphere.
Orlando, told to make himself comfortable, checked his chair for extraneous objects before sitting down. He politely refused the offers of both port and coffee, saying that it had been a long day and he feared that neither would be an aid to his wits. His host understood, immediately rummaging on his shelves to produce some papers which he thrust into Orlando’s hands.
“I cannot claim any part of this to be my own work, apart from the scrutiny. One of my students, Norris, produced it last term as a statistical exercise. Not an official piece of university work, but something he did for his own interest, before leaving the university to take up medical studies. I helped him with his analysis. When this present business erupted, it sprang to mind.”
Orlando flicked through the papers, noting that they were well presented and seemed to bear promise. “Do you keep all your students’ work?”
“I make a rule of filing papers away for a year in case they may be needed, although I also encourage the students themselves to keep anything important. This chap has gone on to St Andrew’s and had the sense to take his own copy of the work.”
“St Andrew’s? Scarrett went there, I believe. Notable medical school.” Orlando weighed the papers in his hands. “Don’t these build up?”
“They do. So late every October I clear out anything unwanted, preparatory to donating it to the St. Bride’s Guy Fawkes bonfire.”
Probably the best place for much of it, going on Orlando’s experience. Still, that cursory glance at these papers promised more.
A medical and statistical survey of illness within colleges, conducted by interviewing college nurses and doctors, with a view to establishing what were the prevalent diseases and complaints dealt with. By the author’s own admission not a totally rigorous work, being constrained by medical confidentiality and the memories of those involved but painting an outline portrait of the challenges faced. Sporting injuries featured heavily, particularly in the winter months, as did outbreaks of infectious disease.
“There was a very nasty rash—please excuse the pun—of measles across the university last year,” Panesar pointed out. “One of the risks of enclosed communities, of course, the spread of disease. Isolation is not always effective because by the time the patient has been taken to sick bay, they have usually passed the infection on. Who knows how many germs we have breathed on us every day?”
“Indeed.” Not that Orlando knew much about such matters, but he understood patterns and probabilities. What caught his eye as he scanned the report again—and the thing that Panesar must have remembered and recognised as relevant—were accounts of two isolated occurrences of what appeared to be food poisoning. Both involving a small group of dons, at different locations and different times. He tapped the paper. “Food poisoning. You’re suspicious of that diagnosis?”
Panesar’s eyes twinkled. “I think it is worth exploring whether there is any connection but, as you would be the first to say, we must not jump to conclusions based on supposition rather than hard fact.”
“An admirable approach.” One, admittedly, that Orlando didn’t always follow as rigorously in his investigations as he did in his academic life. Panesar would have kittens if he’d heard some of the highly speculative conversations that were indulged in by the fireside at Forsythia Cottage. “We have the dates and locations of these occurrences. One is the aforementioned incident at the college next door and the other the previous term, at an unnamed hostelry in the city.”
Panesar cleared his throat. “Might I suggest I follow that up, as I have connections at the college and believe I know who hosted that particular meal? I may have been presumptuous in asking, but I found out earlier today that it was a chap called Welbourne.”
“Not presumptuous at all. Showing initiative.”
“Of course, you might prefer to talk to him, for consistency’s sake.”
Orlando mentally tossed a coin. Consistency—and his own sense of wanting to retain ownership of the affair—would suggest that Panesar should be found another role. But Jonty always brought a fresh set of eyes to any case and putting Panesar on the trail of the other set of diners might allow him to pick up things that Orlando didn’t. “If you would visit Welbourne that would be very helpful. I can give you some guidelines as to what I—or Dr Stewart—might ask in the circumstances, but naturally we trust you to show the same rigour as you would apply to a piece of academic work.”
Panesar inclined his head. “I will repay that trust. Please assure the police of that.”
As Orlando hadn’t yet informed the police of the recruitment to the team of a new member, he merely nodded. “I’ll be pursuing the others who were present at the dinner Laithwaite attended.”
“The case of the adulterated roly poly? Sorry,” Panesar raised his hand, “you will not appreciate the allusion to Conan Doyle.”
“Not even from you, Dr Panesar.” Orlando grinned. “Although I might employ one myself. If ever there was a case of the baffled and overtired mathematician, this would be it.”
It was too late, when he left Panesar’s rooms, to drop in on Jonty, so he left a note with the porters to be delivered on the morrow.
Panesar knows Threlfall and I suspect it’s one of his mysterious connections. He’s not said he thinks it relevant to the case, and I’m not sure if we can probe him about it. I suppose we’ll soon find out if it is.
Monday morning
Jonty’s day started well, not least because of the sun streaming in through the window. He’d slept well, his leg felt slightly better and the breakfast tray could not be faulted in terms of quality or quantity. Once that was dispensed with and the nurse had cond
ucted all the checks she felt necessary—and with encouraging results—he was left to give himself both a shave and a bed bath. Some indignities a man balked at.
Better still was the arrival of the chaplain, not long after Jonty had made himself decent enough to face visitors. Langer bore under his arm a book, which he presented to Jonty with a flourish.
“It’s not much. Merely a little privately published set of puzzles based on the works of Shakespeare. Acrostics, Rebus and the like.”
“This is splendid, thank you. Just what I needed.” Jonty flicked through the volume with mounting glee. “Dr Coppersmith fears that my brain is becoming strained as I’m spending too much time focussed on this Threlfall business. I suppose that because my body is confined to this bed, my mind is overcompensating by reading too much into the smallest clues. Novels can’t provide the same mental satisfaction and I’ve been banned from university work until I’m up and about but maybe these will provide the right level of distraction.”
“I hope so.” Langer settled himself into the much-used visitors’ chair. “I don’t envy you at all, Dr Stewart, and I don’t simply refer to your physical condition. While I might enjoy the intellectual puzzle challenge of working out who had committed a crime, I would struggle with the idea that I had brought them to justice and maybe to the end of the hangman’s rope.”
That notion was the first dark note on the day. “Don’t think that either Dr Coppersmith or I ignore that aspect. We may blithely quote—as Sherlock Holmes does—the bard’s Hal, by stating the game’s afoot, but we know it isn’t a game. For me, I think of the story of the story as told by my favourite evangelist, Mark. Jesus is asked about tax and uses a coin to demonstrate his point. Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s. I see our role as fulfilling that element. Establishing the truth and letting the law run its course.”
Lessons in Following a Poisonous Trail: A Cambridge Fellows Mystery novella (Cambridge Fellows Mysteries) Page 6