Lessons in Following a Poisonous Trail: A Cambridge Fellows Mystery novella (Cambridge Fellows Mysteries)

by Charlie Cochrane

  The point about Sibley had been interesting, though. Stupid? Very few dons, the college next door notwithstanding, could be described as stupid. Single minded maybe, eccentric definitely, apt to explore abstruse ideas but rarely silly. He had to admit, though, that they could be slightly blinkered at times, looking for associations in their chosen field and seeking to explain away any anomaly that proved—as in tested—the rule. It would be valuable to have Pope’s take on the matter.

  The welcome from the porters at Assumption proved decidedly frosty, which was to be expected, but they contacted Pope and passed on the request for an interview. Much to their surprise—apparently—he agreed to come down to the lodge immediately.

  “Anything I can do to help, Dr Panesar, then I’m your man,” he said, before they’d even shaken hands. “Come along to my rooms.”

  “Thank you.” Panesar gave the inhabitants of the lodge a magnificent bow then fell into step with Pope. The man was tall, perhaps with an inch or more on Dr Coppersmith, and wiry with it. The sort of frame to make a good longer distance runner.

  “I was expecting you. Welbourne sent a note which arrived only a few minutes ago. He said that you’d likely be in touch and given the history between our colleges, I’d have hated you to have problems getting past our porters. Excellent men, but they’d rival Cerberus in the execution of their duty. It’s about the dinner he gave, I believe.”

  “Yes. There has been a possible attempt to poison one of the dons at St Thomas’s and we are helping the police with it. Trying to see if that attack is part of a bigger pattern.”

  “Ah, so that’s it. Welbourne’s note was rather vague.” Pope ushered Panesar through a doorway and then into his set of rooms. “I suppose that reflects his academic rigour. Wouldn’t want to prejudice any of the answers I might give you.”

  “An admirable approach.” Panesar took the seat that was offered him, then proceeded to get Pope’s view of what had gone on the evening in question. His factual details matched Welbourne’s but his point of view was at odds to both the other men Panesar had spoken to.

  “I think it highly likely that these events could be linked. I study people, Dr Panesar, in all their glories and faults and the man—or woman—who conducts repeated acts of mischief, sometimes for no better reason than the pleasure it gives them, does exist.” Pope glanced at his bookshelf, perhaps seeking inspiration from one of the weighty tomes there. “I have heard of a similar…shall we call it outbreak…at St Andrew’s university, several years ago.”

  Panesar restrained the excitement he felt at hearing that name. A connection with Scarrett, who would have a legitimate reason to visit different colleges. And who better than a doctor to gather and administer poisons? Do not get ahead of yourself. He took a deep, calming breath and continued. “What more can you tell me about that?”

  “Very little, I’m afraid. I was told about it by my younger sister who studied there at the time.” Pope creased his brow. “That would put it at around ten years back. There were a number of instances of lecturers being taken ill, over a period of a couple of months. Then it all ceased as abruptly as it had started, but I have no idea if a culprit was brought to book. My sister had left the institution before any solution was found, if one was found.” He paused briefly. “Is it relevant?”

  “It might be.” Only the police could establish that, though. He went through his prepared set of questions, focussing on whether any threats had been received, but received no fresh enlightenment. “One last question. Do you know either Threlfall—he is a doctor of mathematics—or Scarrett, who is a medical one?”

  “Not the first chap you mentioned, but Scarrett is the usual physician we call on for the undergraduates. He treated me for a dog bite last summer.” Pope exposed his left wrist, which bore a vivid scar. “Only I could get bitten while out punting.”

  Panesar wished he had capacity to hear that story but time was pressing. “He is at present attending a colleague of mine. What do you make of him?”

  Pope shrugged. “A good doctor, technically, but lacking in both sympathy and empathy. I wouldn’t like to get on his wrong side, but that’s merely a subjective opinion, if similar to that of other dons who’ve been ministered to by him.”

  “Thank you.”

  It was time for heading straight to the police station before trotting back to St Bride’s and Panesar’s proper commitments, before meeting his illustrious detecting colleagues for a briefing. A briefing which he was immensely looking forward to.

  Monday afternoon

  Orlando arrived at his afternoon appointment slightly out of breath and vexed. He’d not even had time so far that morning to call in on Jonty, so would have to assume that no news was good news, leg-wise. He put to the back of his mind the sort of negative thoughts that would have plagued him in his younger days. No, Jonty hadn’t suffered a terrible relapse, with nobody bothering to inform him.

  As a result, he wasn’t quite prepared for Sibley himself: the man looked less like an academic than a close relation of Mr Pickwick. Someone who was clearly fond of his food and fond of life with it, a smile probably never far from his lips. This felt at odds with his recollection of Butler saying something to the man’s discredit, but as Orlando still couldn’t pin that down it would be best to ignore it at present.

  “Dr Coppersmith, Dr Coppersmith, how lovely to meet you,” he said, as they met at the Peterhouse porters’ lodge. “I have sherry, I have cake and I hope I have enough answers to your questions.”

  “All will be very welcome,” Orlando replied, taken aback at the enthusiastic greeting. The next half an hour could prove quite exhausting.

  Sibley kept up a stream of chat as they walked to his set of rooms. How shocked he’d been about Threlfall, how he wished the man a complete recovery, how they’d been colleagues for years, working together on a paper on binomial theorem at one point. Orlando vaguely remembered that publication, but any further thought on it was prevented by Sibley saying, “In a strange way, Dr Coppersmith, a way which I’m not proud of, I was relieved to hear that he’d been taken ill. It makes it less likely that I was being targeted.”

  “You?” Orlando tried not to sound incredulous.

  “Yes. I was at another dinner after which we were all taken ill, at the Blue Boar.”

  Gathering his startled wits again, Orlando said, “The Blue Boar. Would that have been during the Lent term of this year?”

  “Yes. Do you know about that?”

  “I believe so. My colleague Dr Panesar is following it up as we speak. I expect he hasn’t been in contact as he knew I’d be meeting you.” Unless it was an entirely different meal, which would increase the number of incidents further. “If I had your host’s name, I could compare it to the one in my notes.”

  “Welbourne,” Sibley said, as they reached his rooms. He settled Orlando in a chair, then prepared refreshments. Orlando found as wide a range of books on Sibley’s shelves as he had on Panesar’s. Plenty of treatises on mathematics, but also some on anthropology, a couple which appeared to concern the art of prestidigitation and a history of St Andrew’s golf course. Another polymath?

  Orlando accepted his sherry with heartfelt thanks then said, “If you tell me about the meal in question, might I make notes?”

  “Of course. It was on Shrove Tuesday, a last indulgence before we began the Lenten fast.” Sibley proceeded to give an outline of who’d been at the dinner, none of whom appeared to have cropped up already in connection with the case, apart from Sibley himself. He detailed what had been eaten—as best he could remember it—at what point they’d all been taken ill, the horror of the hotel management that such a thing could have occurred. “Sadler was beside himself. None of the other diners were affected, or so we were assured and I’m inclined to believe him. It was put down to some contaminated seafood which had been served in our first course. We were offered another dinner which I accepted with gratitude.”

  Orlando glanced up from his not
etaking. “You accepted. What about the others?”

  “Two of them joined me. The fourth said he’d never eat there again, but he’s a Magdalene man and tends to be set in his opinions. Not something St Bride’s or Peterhouse could be accused of.”

  Orlando, suppressing a grin, jotted on his notepad, more for effect than efficiency. “Did the second meal pass off without incident?”

  “It did indeed. We enjoyed it hugely.” Sibley patted his well-tended stomach.

  “Was it mistrust of the establishment which made the others turn down the offer of a meal or did they have suspicions about what had gone on?”

  “The former. I’d say there’s nothing suspicious in it.” Sibley’s expression turned sombre. “I only became apprehensive after the same thing happened at Assumption. I persuaded myself I was overreacting but what happened to Threlfall has made me think again. Although, if we were indeed targeted—and it’s highly unlikely anyone can find evidence of that at this remove—how did the culprit manage to doctor our food? How did he, or she, doctor the food in the other cases?”

  Orlando nodded, growing weary of that particular pair of questions, which were springing into his mind at regular intervals. “That’s what the police will have to find out, being in the best position to establish whether some person has connections to all the places where incidents have occurred.”

  “And how many of those are there, Dr Coppersmith, might I ask?”

  “At the latest count, one definite and at least three possibles, including the one you’ve just told me about. The common factor in them is the victims all being dons, some of whom have been present more than once, although not on all occasions.” Orlando wasn’t sure how much of this he should be sharing, but Sibley was the sort of man who invited confidences. “Some, although not all, of these men specialised in mathematics.”

  Sibley laid down his empty glass. “Yes. I’d observed that. Laithwaite among them, he of the sharp action in keeping some of the pudding to be tested.”

  Orlando had noted a hint of something-or-other in Sibley’s words. “Do you find that suspicious or excellent foresight?”

  “I find it odd. Yes, afterwards he told me all about a similar incident at school, but I’d not have made the same leap of logic. Perhaps I’m not as bright as he is. Or as he thinks himself.”

  That was more than a hint. A palpable barb. “He’s never struck me as being full of himself but I confess I hardly know the man.”

  Sibley airily waved his hand. “Don’t mind what I’m saying. I have nothing against him, despite his cousin being deputy manager at the Blue Boar and the fact we were once rivals for a post at Oxford. Neither of us got it but I heard on the grapevine that he at one point thought I’d used underhand tactics to stop him being appointed. All lies, of course, on all counts. I didn’t nobble him and he says he never suspected me of doing so. We’ve shaken hands on the matter and let it be consigned to history.”

  That was clearly untrue, given the unconvincing manner in which Sibley had spoken, although perhaps he wanted to believe it was true. Orlando made a mental note of the rivalry and the Blue Boar connection, as recording that on his notepad didn’t feel appropriate. “To carry on with personal matters, have you received any threats? Are you aware of threats being made to any of those present at either of the dinners?”

  “No, to those at the Blue Boar. Do you know about the student—from here, much as it pains me to admit it—who wrote a threatening note to Dr Jones even though the incident at Assumption was said to be the work of another undergraduate?” After Orlando nodded, Sibley carried on. “The odd aggrieved student aside, it’s hardly the most controversial life we lead, is it? Being a don. Not like being a politician.”

  “True, but people can get worked up over what others might find a trivial matter. Many of us might have in our lives a spurned lover, or an undergraduate who believed we were culpable in having them sent down. Somebody harbouring a notion of being unfairly treated, an academic rivalry perhaps…” Orlando kept his eye on Sibley as he recited the list, but saw not the slightest flicker of acknowledgement or discomfort.

  “If any of those apply to me, I am in ignorance of the fact. I can’t speak for Threlfall, but he appears to be incredibly popular among his students. I’ve certainly not heard him mention being threatened. Apart from the breach of promise business and that was a years ago.” Sibley paused, clearly embarrassed. “Do you know about that? Have I spoken out of turn?”

  “Yes and no, in that order. And I’ll add that it’s my firm belief that you can’t speak out of turn in these matters. This could be a case of attempted murder.” Orlando let the solemn words take effect before asking, “When you took Threlfall’s place at dinner because his wisdom teeth played up, who would have known of the switch? And known of it in time enough to be able to put senna in the pudding?”

  Sibley shrugged. “Possibly more people than is helpful for your purposes. He contacted me in the morning and I contacted our host, Claridge. I also spoke to some of the dons here to say I’d not be in hall. Threlfall’s dental surgeon might have been aware of his changing plans, I suppose, as might anyone at St Thomas’s who saw how much he was suffering and might conclude—if he’d said he was dining out—that his plans might change. Plus, naturally, anyone to whom any of these people mentioned the matter in passing.”

  All very true and all very vexatious. There was also a fundamental problem in identifying whether they were looking for someone specifically targeting Sibley or someone with the knives out for Threlfall, in which case they probably needed to ask who didn’t know that he’d pulled out of the Assumption meal.

  “Do you know a Dr Scarrett?” Orlando asked, not very hopeful of the answer.

  “I don’t think so. If you were to ask me about my own practitioner, I’d say he was a good doctor but a bit of a bully.”

  “A bully?”

  “Oh, not in the physical sense. He nags me about my weight and how I should be a more conservative trencherman.” Sibley patted his stomach again. “I tell him this is all muscle but he’s not taken in. He’s got quite angry with me in the past, to the point I’ve considered changing to another doctor. Perhaps I should try this Scarrett chap.”

  “What’s stopped you doing just that? Changing doctors, I mean.”

  “Laziness, Dr Coppersmith. Sheer laziness.” Sibley beamed, evidently proud of the fact. “I can’t see how it’s relevant, though. Mousley—he’s my medical man—surely wouldn’t have put laxatives in my food in a bizarre strategy to put me off an over-rich diet? It would beggar Hippocratic belief.”

  Orlando had to admit that such a notion was ridiculous: even Jonty in his wildest fantasies wouldn’t accept it. And given that Threlfall hardly bore an extra pound on him, that motive couldn’t be universally applied. “I asked about Scarrett because he’s Threlfall’s doctor. I was wondering if he was among those who knew that Threlfall had pulled out of the dinner at Assumption?”

  “I suppose Threlfall might have consulted him regarding easing the pain for his tooth.” Sibley shrugged. “I’m sorry not to be of more help.”

  Orlando graciously inclined his head. “I’m grateful for your time.”

  Also grateful for a couple of things that would need to discussed in the council of war with Jonty and Panesar.

  ***

  After the excitement of Langer’s visit, the rest of the day had passed relatively quietly for Jonty. Scarrett had called, professed himself happier with the leg’s progress, said that Jonty might be able to try putting a little weight on it the next morning then almost ran out of the door, pleading a busy morning of calls. While that saved Jonty the bother of trying to hide the fact he knew things about the doctor that perhaps he shouldn’t, it robbed him of the opportunity of engaging in some gentle questioning. Had Scarrett been deliberately avoiding the possibility of being interrogated?

  Jonty’s dwelling on that notion had to be postponed, however. Not long after the doctor had gone,
one of Jonty’s favourite students arrived, pleaded with the nurse for admittance and—after enquiring about the state of the limb—engaged him in a fascinating conversation about the sonnets. Using a different part of his brain proved enjoyable but tiring, and the medicine he’d been given to help him sleep left him remaining a tad drowsy the rest of the time, so lunch had to be followed by a nap. Following that, he felt ready to see what Orlando and Panesar had discovered and amaze them with what he’d found out.

  It was late afternoon before he had the opportunity, familiar voices—in Panesar’s case a loud, excited one—announcing the arrival of the co-investigators. They entered the sick room, said that tea and biscuits had been promised, enquired after Jonty’s leg, with approving noises at the fact some improvement had been seen, took a seat then both started talking at once.

  Jonty raised his hand. “One at a time. You’re worse than my students.”

  “Sorry, Dr Stewart. Detecting has got the better of me.” Panesar beamed. “I find it quite intoxicating.”

  “You’re forgiven. And allowed to go first.”

  The beam grew in intensity, to the point Jonty was worried his colleague’s face might crack, although once he’d consulted his notepad, a suitably serious expression was assumed. As he reached the end of his report by stating that he’d come to St Bride’s straight from informing the police of the St Andrew’s connection, Jonty gave a round of applause.

  “Well done. Pretty good for a beginner, although I doubt this is really your first attempt at such things.” Jonty lowered his voice. “I ask no questions about that, other than whether you think Threlfall’s present predicament can be anything to do with matters about which I can’t ask you?” He grinned sheepishly at his verbal contortions.