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

by Charlie Cochrane

  “I appreciate your discretion and understand why you have to ask the question. The answer is that I don’t believe it has. Although one can never be sure.” With that the topic was closed.

  “Was Claridge a stupid man?” Jonty asked, then noted the confused expressions of the other two men. “Have I got the names mixed up?”

  “I’m afraid you have,” Panesar replied. “Dr Coppersmith, without pre-empting your account of your day, would you say that Sibley was a stupid man, as Dr Singh averred?”

  “He could come across as being rather academically lightweight, I suppose. An air he gives off.” Orlando puffed out his cheeks. “I know that someone—Butler, I think—mentioned him to me once, but, frustratingly, I can’t remember in what regard.”

  “Gentlemen,” Jonty said, with a sigh, “I’ve had so many names thrown at me today that my poor head aches as much as my leg.”

  Orlando frowned. “That’s not like you to get so befuddled.”

  “You’d get befuddled if you had to do all your detecting second hand.” Jonty sighed again. This situation deserved it. “It’s so much easier to keep these people in mind if one has actually met them. A face and personality to go with the name and fix in the mind.”

  “Shall I go through them again?” Orlando offered. “Perhaps Dr Panesar would write them down, with annotations about their context?”

  “I can make my own notes, thank you. Then I can fill the page with arrows and scribbles to my heart’s content.” Jonty took up his notepad, ignoring a mutter from Orlando’s direction that he could have done that in the first place. It was a patient’s privilege to be indulged.

  Orlando began. “Laithwaite, St John’s. May have had something slipped into his food or drink at a party last year. Definitely ate contaminated food at a dinner at the college next door, last term.”

  Jonty raised his hand. “I don’t need all that detail. Who else was at that party?”

  “Claridge, the host. Jones, who got the threatening letter and Sibley, who was there in Threlfall’s place.” Orlando paused, evidently letting Jonty’s pen catch up. “How is that?”

  “Admirable. I have a lovely diagram of a table and these people sitting round it.”

  Orlando shook his head and continued. “Another dinner, at the Blue Boar, earlier in the year. Present at that were Welbourne, Singh, Pope and—again—Sibley.”

  “So where does Norris come in? I know Butler is your drinking pal.”

  “Norris was my student,” Panesar said. “The one who did a study on diseases within colleges.”

  “Excellent. I’ve put him and Butler on my diagram in the top left corner, as the equivalent of spear carriers. Langer and Scarrett are in the other corner, as a sort of Greek chorus, while Harcourt and Threlfall are in the lower corners, observing the action.” Jonty nodded in satisfaction.

  The arrival of refreshments—borne by two nurses—brought a well-timed break.

  “This is Nurse Norcross,” Nurse Hatfield said. “She covers my days off and does an excellent job. I expect you not to give her any trouble.”

  Jonty wouldn’t have dared. Miss Norcross appeared to be of similar build, character and temperament to the doyenne of the sick bay. Perhaps there was some factory that produced such medical marvels ready made for action. He noticed that both his visitors were sitting more upright in their chairs, attempting angelic expressions. “I promise we’ll all be well behaved.”

  Once the nurses had departed, Jonty made a show of mopping his brow. “They’re both too like my mother for comfort.”

  Orlando, who’d got up to pour the tea, said, “Good. I’d like to see Nurse Norcross deal with you when you overdo things tomorrow.”

  “When? Don’t you mean if?” Time to get back to the case. “To pick up from where we’d reached, before my diagram making, Scarrett’s getting himself featured quite regularly today. Langer dropped in this morning, to tell me about an argument the doctor had with Threlfall.”

  “Interesting. I have another argument to report on, but your account should take precedence, if merely on the chronology of when the information was received.” Orlando handed Jonty a cup.

  “Thanks.” Jonty gave his lover an encouraging smile. Orlando must be feeling under a lot of strain to be resorting to such long words. Best to proceed with the tale of the theological argument—and how he too had reported it straight to the police—then settled back to listen to Orlando’s account of his morning. After he’d heard that out, he couldn’t help but confess his worries of earlier. “Having listened to all this, I’m so pleased my leg’s on the mend. I’d been torturing myself with the notion that Scarrett was either exaggerating the injury or somehow delaying my recovery so I couldn’t be involved in investigating the case. Foolish, I know.”

  “Not so foolish, I would say.” Panesar gave him an understanding nod. “One must examine every possibility. Are your cases always as baffling as this? It feels like I am Hercules, tackling the hydra.”

  “Hydra?” Orlando asked, biscuit poised to enter his mouth.

  “Yes. Or one of those little planarian worms so beloved of Mrs Sheridan. Two heads grow where there was only one. I fear I am not making myself clear.” Panesar stirred his tea as he spoke, even though he’d not put any sugar in it. “A growing number of names of people who have possibly been poisoned, some of whom crop up several times. A multiplicity of incidents between people, each of which might present a motive. No clear pattern as to whether a certain person is the target, the others affected being incidental, or if this is a broadside approach, and the fact that certain people have fallen victim more than once is mere coincidence. Baffling.”

  “Cases always are at this point,” Jonty reassured him. “The more you dig into people’s activities, the more connections and conflicts you find, most of which turn out to be innocent and irrelevant.”

  Orlando, who’d been listening intently while sipping his tea, said, “The key must lie with the how. If all the incidents here are linked, then the culprit must have been able to introduce the noxious substance in each case.”

  “Or have an accomplice who could do the deed where he—I’m saying he for the moment as we don’t appear to have much in the way of female suspects—couldn’t go.” Jonty chewed on a biscuit. “The Blue Boar. Langer said that he, Scarrett and Threlfall used to eat there but have now transferred their allegiance to the Bishop’s Cope. He implied it was on our recommendation, although I now wonder if there was more to it. Could they have heard about Sibley and company’s misfortune and decided that—whatever the cause of the problem—they’d not want to eat there again?”

  “Possibly. This is certainly a tangled web. The other factor which crops up is Peterhouse. The student who threatened…bear with me for a moment…” Panesar peered at his notes, “who threatened Dr Jones was from that college, as is Sibley.”

  “Then we might as well pick out the college next door for attention, because Jones, Claridge and Pope are there but attended two different dinners.” Orlando ran his fingers through his hair, leaving a crumb lodging there, something which would no doubt vex him when he spotted it. “It feels like there should be an obvious connection for us to spot, if we could merely strip away the irrelevant detail.”

  The gathering appeared to be about to descend into a pit of gloom when a knock at the door announced the entrance of Nurse Norcross, who came through the door bearing another chair and a visitor, although she wasn’t carrying him in her substantial arms.

  “Chief Inspector Wilson,” Jonty cried. “What excellent timing. This case has got us confused and on the edge of despair. You know Dr Panesar, I believe? Good. Now, please bring us some optimistic news.”

  “I’ll try my best, Dr Stewart.” Wilson wedged his chair into a small space. “Threlfall and Dr Scarrett did indeed argue about relics. Leastways, that’s how it all started. From there it developed into a matter of faith versus science, although Scarrett swore that they’d patched together a truce of s
orts. Threlfall reignited the matter a few weeks ago.”

  “What prompted that?” Panesar asked.

  “Some experience Threlfall had when attending evensong. A vision or revelation or light on the road to Petty Cury.” Wilson raised a hand. “Sorry, I shouldn’t make light of such matters. I’m sure men do have visions and dream dreams.”

  Jonty would agree with that statement, even though others might not. “But Scarrett isn’t so sure?”

  “Exactly. Threlfall mentioned what had happened to Scarrett who made the mistake—his words, not mine—of laughing. No amount of apologising for that afterwards could rectify the situation.”

  “The doctor seems to have a knack of rubbing people up the wrong way. Although wouldn’t that make him more likely to be a victim than a poisoner?” Panesar, who’d been staring into his teacup as though he might find the answer among any stray leaves, laid it down at last. “As for Threlfall, are we getting any impression of a man who gives others a reason to want to hurt him? Apart from the broken engagement and the enraged parent.”

  Wilson shrugged. “Alas, no, Dr Stewart. He appears to have been universally well spoken of in his college.”

  “Suspiciously so? The only person I can think of who is near universally popular is my father and I’m certain he must have people who’d want to slip senna in his tea.”

  “Not anyone close to home, though,” Orlando said, with a smile. “That general principle could apply to any of us. No man—or woman—is without enemies, surely?”

  The point was answered with murmurs of approval, then Jonty asked, “Do we know yet what was used to knock Threlfall out?”

  “We have identified what was given to Threlfall. A hefty dose of Veronal.”

  “Veronal?” Orlando asked.

  “It is used in small doses to help people sleep, Dr Coppersmith,” Panesar said. “Too large a dose might make you sleep forever.”

  Orlando glanced at Wilson. “How much was Threlfall given?”

  “It’s not clear. The person who performed the tests can’t quite believe their own results. It should have been enough to kill him, but it just left him in a coma, from which there are some signs he is recovering.”

  “Do we know if he was habitually using the stuff already, to help him sleep?” Panesar asked. “I believe that if someone is used to taking it, the effect diminishes.”

  Jonty noticed the slightly incredulous glance Wilson gave his fellow don. “Dr Panesar is a noted polymath, Chief Inspector. He knows more about most things than many of us will ever do.”

  Panesar inclined his head, in a beautifully gracious gesture. “Thank you. Although I profess to knowing nothing about sonnets or differential calculus or police procedures so you all have the advantage of me.”

  They also had the advantage of him in that none of them were likely to be at risk of blowing up a laboratory, although Jonty felt he’d better not mention that. “Has any Veronal been found in Threlfall’s set?”

  “Not as yet, Dr Stewart, but we’ve instituted a fresh search this afternoon. That might help answer the question of whether he regularly takes it. One assumes that the culprit wouldn’t be aware of the fact and so misjudged the dose.”

  “I’d suggest that we need to consider that the poisoner was completely aware.” Jonty paused, to better savour the bewildered expressions facing him. “Threlfall himself.” He picked up the book from his bedside table. “Langer gave me this as an aid to preserving my sanity while stuck here. A book of Shakespeare themed puzzles. The last one I completed concerned Hamlet.”

  “That the Everlasting had not fixed His canon 'gainst self-slaughter.” Wilson nodded. “I confess that we hadn’t seriously considered that once we’d established that no note had been left and that he’d arranged to meet someone after the match. Nobody has brought to our attention that he was inclined to suicide.”

  “Nor to mine,” Orlando confirmed.

  After Panesar had shaken his head in response, Jonty said, “It’s simply a notion I’ve got. Like Hamlet’s, the man’s thoughts seemed to have been revolving around the eternal, although that in itself means little. I’d love to know why he went on that pilgrimage, though. A penitential journey? The breach of promise or something else weighing on his mind?”

  “The chaplain didn’t give any indication?” Wilson asked.

  “He didn’t know,” Jonty replied. “He may have known and not been able to tell me, of course, but I don’t get the impression he was Threlfall’s spiritual advisor.”

  It would only be relevant to this case if whatever he had repented of had been enough to make someone target him.

  “Might I ask if you have spoken to Ernest Harcourt?” Panesar chipped in.

  Wilson nodded. “Not personally, but one of my senior colleagues in London has. He was attending his grandchild’s birthday party on Saturday, as was his daughter, son-in-law and half a dozen other adults, let alone children. That appears to shut down that line of enquiry.”

  “Unless Scarrett took revenge on behalf of the family.” Panesar pointed out. “Is there any news from St Andrew’s?”

  Wilson raised his hand. “We need to teach you to have patience, sir. Rome wasn’t built in a day nor are proper police enquiries completed within a mere matter of hours. All we know is that the spate of incidents did happen but the cross referencing to this case of people and dates is yet to be completed.”

  “I apologise for being hasty, Chief Inspector. I—” The rest of Panesar’s apology got cut off by another knock on the door.

  This one heralded Nurse Norcross announcing that Jonty had yet another visitor, Sergeant Cohen, and should he simply poke his head around the door, as she was doing, given the lack of space. Jonty, picturing Cohen’s massive frame trying to wedge itself into one of the tiny gaps between the chairs, couldn’t help but see the farcical side of the situation. Wilson might offer up his place, although he gave no indication of doing so, nor did either of the dons. Jonty was about to suggest that Orlando perch on the end of the bed, when Panesar offered to do the same, allowing the sergeant to take his chair.

  “Thank you. A touch cosy, isn’t it?” Cohen laid his enormous hands on his knees. “I have two pieces of important news that even Mr Wilson won’t be aware of. Threlfall has recovered consciousness.”

  “Excellent news,” Wilson said. “Will we be able to speak to him?”

  “Ah, now there’s a thing. The doctor says he will be happy for us to talk to Threlfall tomorrow, only Threlfall refuses to talk to us until he’s spoken to Dr Stewart.”

  Jonty was certain he must have misheard. “Me?”

  “Yes. Apparently, he asked after your welfare and said he owed you an explanation. I believe it would be best if one of us accompanied you, though.”

  Cohen glanced at Wilson, who said, “Absolutely. Assuming you are in a position to make the visit?”

  Jonty glanced down at his leg. “I’m allowed to put a bit of weight on this tomorrow, but I’m not sure I should be attempting the stairs or a trot to Addenbrooke’s. I’d probably end up in the bed next to Threlfall. Perhaps I could be borne in state on a bejewelled palanquin? Or you could bring the motor car, Dr Coppersmith?”

  Orlando snorted at the mention of the metal monster. “That would be worse than the palanquin. I’ll happily push you there in a wheelchair, though, if we could get you downstairs. And so long as you promise to be sensible and not shout ‘penny for the guy’.”

  “Spoilsport. I’d have donated any profits to the local orphanage.”

  Cohen re-introduced a note of common sense to the conversation. “Those stairs do strike me as a problem. It does strike me as odd to have the sick bay located up here. Not very convenient.”

  “The reasons are lost in the mists of time,” Panesar said. “Something to do with reducing the risk of shenanigans such as raiding the contents of the medical cupboard. Regarding practicalities, I can organise a party of hefty students to carry you down, Dr Stewart.”


  “Excellent. I leave it to your charm and powers of persuasion to clear it with the nurse and finalise the arrangements. Best make it after ten o’clock, though,” he suggested. “Scarrett is due to drop in at nine and it might be best not to mention this outing to him.”

  “Very wise.” Wilson turned to his sergeant. “You said you had two pieces of information, Cohen.”

  “Indeed I do, sir. Scarrett was called into Assumption the evening the laxative was put in the pudding.”

  “The outbreak of mumps?” Had Orlando been a racehorse, his ears would have been pricked.

  “Yes. The porters had that day stuck in their minds because there’d been such a palaver at the time about whether a student could have got in from outside. I think they’d felt their efficiency had been put in question, which they weren’t happy about, naturally. They were adamant that the only persons from outside who’d entered the college were Claridge’s guests and Scarrett, attending the sick bay, and,” he added, with emphasis, “dropping into the kitchen to make some suggestions about suitable food for invalids. About which the cooks were less than enamoured.”

  “He does seem to go out of his way to make himself unpopular,” Panesar said, gleefully. “In the college and in the kitchen. Assuming he out the stuff in the roly poly, which is admittedly a big assumption—no pun intended—could he have come ready armed, as it were? I suppose doctors might carry senna as a matter of course and if he heard who was attending the dinner, he might have struck opportunistically.”

  “He might, indeed.” Jonty stroked his chin. “Certainly this is the first instance we have of a person in the right place to ladle the laxative.” He stopped, aware that Orlando had adopted his argumentative expression, but before he could ask what investigational bee was residing in the man’s bonnet, the door opened once more.

  Nurse Norcross took an all-encompassing sweep of the cramped room. “Well, this resembles some strange puzzle about how to get five people in a space only suited for two without causing any of them a lifelong injury. Perhaps it’s time to conclude your business, gentlemen, especially as I’m afraid I have to call Dr Panesar away.”