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

by Charlie Cochrane

  “Me, Madam?”

  “Yes. The porter brought up an urgent message called in from one of your laboratory technicians. The machine—he says you’ll know which one—is making a peculiar noise and please would you come and attend to it.”

  “Mercy!” Panesar shot off the bed, clambered to the door, made a bow and with a receding shout of, “Sorry, emergency!” sped away.

  Nurse Norcross, who’d managed a nifty side-step out of his way, asked, “Well, what’s all that about?”

  “Preventing us all being blown to kingdom come,” Jonty said gleefully. “If you ever have him as a patient, make sure he doesn’t bring anything mechanical and potentially explosive into the sick bay.”

  Clearly horrified, the nurse ushered all Jonty’s remaining visitors out of the room as swiftly as if they all bore grenades in their pockets, leaving him alone with his puzzle book and his thoughts. What had Orlando been about to say when the nurse had burst in? And would Jonty be able to work out whatever-it-was in advance of his lover announcing it?

  Monday evening

  Orlando wandered home, suddenly feeling lonelier than he’d felt in a very long time. Even the pre-Jonty days hadn’t brought him this low, surely? Back then, he’d had nothing to compare his emotional level against: he’d simply not known what he was missing until the significant moment when Jonty had hit St Bride's like a meteorite, sitting in Orlando’s chair and changing the man’s life forever. They had struck up an unlikely alliance within days and maintained it for the best part of six years. They’d been apart during that time, most notably when Orlando had taken on the role of a professional dancing partner as part of an investigation, but for some reason this present situation felt worse.

  As he approached their cottage, the feeling of dread struck him, as it had done the last few evenings. The house would feel too large, too empty, too quiet. He’d even contemplated trying to find a room at St Bride’s to stay in until Jonty was dismissed from the sick bay and allowed home, but he knew how much ridicule he’d have endured from his lover for that. And it would have cast an unwelcome light upon their relationship, if Orlando couldn’t bear to be too far from the man who was supposedly just a colleague, with whom he shared a house because—as the official story had it—no woman would have put up with either of them.

  This evening felt particularly hard, because he’d not been able to have any time alone with Jonty, everyone having been swept out of sick bay at the same time. Unlike Nurse Hatfield, Nurse Norcross had no inkling about the special relationship between the two men so wouldn’t instinctively have known that to provide a few minutes when they could be alone to talk might be the best medicine for both of them.

  Buck your ideas up.

  Orlando could almost hear Jonty making the admonishment.

  Have some supper, snuggle in front of the fire and find a solution to the case.

  Orlando wasn’t sure Jonty would have included that last instruction, given that while they always collaborated on an investigation, an element of rivalry remained. Being first to a solution always bore a cachet.

  That brought to mind the other frustration from the afternoon. He’d been about to point out to Jonty that if he thought logically for once, he’d have realised that other people were in a far better place to have put the laxative in the pudding—or the shellfish, or anything else—than Scarrett had been, albeit he had to remain a suspect because of these arguments and the like.

  Jonty had come close to a similar conclusion, one that appeared to have slipped past everyone, when he’d mentioned Hamlet. Threlfall could well have taken too great a dose of Veronal himself, either accidentally or deliberately, in the first instance overestimating the amount needed to get to sleep and in the second underestimating how much would be needed to take his own life. No, the first wasn’t likely, unless he’d forgotten he was due to meet someone early Saturday evening. So was the second any more probable?

  It was possible that the reason Threlfall had asked to see Jonty was that he felt guilty about the injury he’d caused. Perhaps he’d heard the alleged snapping noise and believed it was a broken bone. Was that enough to make a man seek to end his life? Only if it was heaped upon a welter of other causes of guilt, surely? The broken engagement they knew about, but what else was there? Being the person who’d sneaked laxative into his fellow dons’ food?

  Ignoring, for a moment, the matter of opportunity—a poor piece of reasoning but one he’d indulge himself with—Threlfall being the man behind all the incidents had a certain merit. It explained, as other theories couldn’t quite, why Veronal had been used in his case as opposed to senna, which incommoded (how Jonty would chuckle at that choice of word) the victims but didn’t present any threat to life. Only Threlfall himself had suffered a more serious poisoning. Either the culprit misjudged the dose, having only intended to cause discomfort, or they were making their true intention known. If Threlfall died, it would be murder, not mischief. Could it even have been an attempt at self-murder that would incidentally look as though he’d been targeted by someone else, to spare his father more heartbreak? That would explain there being no suicide note.

  Orlando considered all this as he went through his normal end of the working day routine, or as normal as it could be without Jonty somewhere in the background. By the time he sat down to supper, taking his lover’s place at the dining table so that he wouldn’t be constantly aware of the empty chair, another chain of thought had arisen.

  From the start, because of the mention of Claridge’s dinner, they’d all gone looking for other instances of dons being taken ill and they’d found them. Was it a case of finding what they wanted to find? Were these really two separate cases, only connected through Threlfall as culprit or actually not connected at all except in the minds of the investigators and the coincidence of the persons involved?

  If Threlfall and the Veronal were taken out of consideration, what was left? People who were in a far better place to carry out mischief. Sibley himself had been at two of the meals and could easily have slipped something into a dish. As Laithwaite had pointed out, the most logical time for the senna to have been introduced to the pudding was before it was served.

  The books on prestidigitation on Sibley’s shelves.

  Sibley himself obliquely pointing the finger at Laithwaite, his rival for the Oxford position, saying it was odd he’d kept the pudding to be tested. And making sure Orlando knew about the cousin at the Blue Boar. Might a man who practiced sleight of hand not only contaminate the roly poly and the seafood but also practice sleight of tongue and have subtly suggested the food-testing strategy? He’d certainly been making the connection that evening between the dinner and schooldays, so if he’d known the story in advance of what had happened at Laithwaite’s school—and people did know about it—then he might have used that in his plans, linking it to the threatening note to Jones.

  Sibley who was a mathematician, who could have been present at the party after which Laithwaite had been taken ill and where, perhaps, a similar substance had been administered. Who had no qualms about returning to the Blue Boar while some of his colleagues had their doubts. Who had a book about St Andrew’s golf course, as well, but no Scottish accent, although that might have signified nothing.

  Orlando laid down his fork then headed for his study, from where he took an armful of publications back to the table. Somewhere among them was the paper Threlfall and Sibley had written together although—eleven periodicals and a cup of coffee later—he still couldn’t find it. Number twelve struck gold. Not only did it contain the article on binomial theory, within the paper was a reference to another piece of work in which Sibley collaborated and which had been completed at St Andrew’s.

  “All circumstantial and coincidental or small bricks building a large wall of—” Orlando paused, suddenly aware that he was addressing thin air. He laid down the periodicals, sighed and stared at the table which had been set only for one. Jonty’s return home couldn’t come so
on enough.

  Tuesday morning

  Scarrett came to sick bay bright and early. The doctor watched Jonty hobble around the room, which smarted a bit but wasn’t as painful as Jonty had anticipated—had he been confined unnecessarily? Scarrett then prodded his leg, pronounced judgement that he could probably go home the next day if he promised to keep the limb strapped up and not do anything stupid, then left. He seemed even more distracted than he had been the previous day, no doubt reflecting the scrutiny he’d been under from the police.

  His departure was followed swiftly by the arrival of a parcel of clothes for Jonty to wear and a note saying that Orlando wouldn’t be able to accompany him to the hospital, as he had to cover another don’s lecture as the man had been struck down. Not food poisoning this time, but suspected German measles.

  Jonty’s reply was full of sympathy and regret, more than he actually felt. It was his turn to have some investigational exercise and to do it on his own would be a bonus.

  The hefty lads arrived as promised, shepherded by Dr Panesar. They bore Jonty down the stairs with much hilarity and comparisons to bearing him off the field of play in triumph after scoring a hat-trick. One of them was then deputed to push the wheelchair down to the hospital, which he accomplished at such a lick that they arrived early and had to fill the time waiting for Sergeant Cohen with a fascinating discussion—the lad had brains as well as brawn—about who might be selected for the England rugby team.

  Jonty might have begrudged that time, given that he could have used it to consider the case, had he not already decided that he would wait until after the meeting with Threlfall to do that. Any ideas he was forming might turn out to be so much nonsense.

  Cohen arrived, took over the portering duty and they set off for the ward, where the sergeant would no doubt be wielding both his official position and his undoubted charm to overcome any problems about visiting hours.

  Threlfall looked awful. Jonty had caught his own reflection in a shop window on the way to Addenbrooke’s and thought he was bearing up well, considering the lack of fresh air and exercise he’d been forced to endure. Threlfall seemed almost a shadow of the man who’d nipped around the rugby field and brought Jonty crashing to the ground.

  “Dr Stewart?” He said, tentatively, as Cohen wheeled him towards the bed.

  “The very same. How are you, old chap?”

  “Not at my best, as you can see.” Threlfall eyed Cohen warily, but the policeman smiled and walked off, having arranged with Jonty that he’d retreat to the door of the ward where he could keep a wary eye on matters. Once he’d been briefed about what had been said, Cohen could return, make himself known and conduct the necessary interview with the victim. When he was out of earshot, Threlfall continued. “I thought I’d hurt you. I was in a bit of a state during the game, I’m afraid. All my own doing, which heaps more coals on my head.”

  “I’m not doing any shovelling of them, I can assure you. Too many rugby injuries taken and inflicted by me to be judgmental of another player.”

  “That’s very kind. I’m not sure you’ll be so magnanimous when you hear the full story.” Threlfall, picking at his coverlet, sighed.

  Jonty waited, but no more was forthcoming. “Go on. You can’t leave me on tenterhooks.”

  Threlfall sighed again. “I’ve been having trouble sleeping. A mixture of my mind mulling over an argument I had with a very dear friend of longstanding and plain old insomnia, to which I’ve always been a martyr. I’ve been taking Veronal for it.”

  Jonty simply nodded. Threlfall might not be aware that the St Bride’s men had been called in to help the police so perhaps best to play ignorant until proven well-informed.

  “I took some in the early hours of Saturday, trying to get some much-needed sleep before the game. When I woke, I found I’d reacted badly to it.” He glanced up. “Was I acting oddly?”

  “Not that I noticed, but my mind was on the sporting trial ahead. Dr Scarrett, who’s been attending my leg, said he’d been at the game earlier and said you didn’t seem yourself.”

  “He was right. I felt…groggy isn’t quite the word. Detached from the world around me at times. That’s why I was so clumsy in tackling you. I heard a breaking noise and was sure I’d broken a bone in your leg, or worse.”

  “Just sprained.” Jonty tapped the offending limb. “I heard that noise, too. Once I’d established I hadn’t suffered a break, I assumed you had.”

  Threlfall looked blank. “How strange. We couldn’t have imagined it, if we both heard it.”

  “Indeed.” How vexatious that the mystery would remain: Jonty had convinced himself that the answer lay with the man who’d hit him with his boot.

  “I suppose it will turn out to have been something entirely mundane, like a dried twig that we pulverised as we hit the ground.”

  “You may well be right.” Time to switch subjects to something that could be explained. “Might I ask how you ended up in here? Feel free to tell me to clear off and mind my own business.”

  “My own stupidity, again. You probably think I took a deliberate overdose of Veronal—I daresay the police think something similar, or that I was poisoned by persons unknown, given what the doctors have said—but it’s nothing so mysterious. I arrived back at Thomas’s, was about to get ready to meet Dr James for a sherry as planned, then decided I should take a dose of liver salts to pep me up. I was in such a confused state I took another dose of Veronal. And a large one at that.”

  Jonty wasn’t yet convinced that was the whole truth, despite Threlfall giving every appearance of being a forthright witness, although who could blame him for saying this had been a mistake? It wasn’t just the Almighty who had set his canon against self-slaughter: lawmakers had, too. “How ghastly. What did you do?”

  “Tried to make myself sick, although I was only partially successful. I hate the sensation of vomiting, so was probably too timid in getting the process started. I passed out before I could get the stuff up again.”

  That would accord with what had been reported when Threlfall had been found. “It would be best for you to repeat that tale in its entirety to Sergeant Cohen, who’s lurking by the door trying not to look like a policeman. You’ll find him sympathetic and sensible.”

  “I will do.” Threlfall held out his hand to be shaken. “I hope we meet on the rugby pitch again. You make a feisty half back.”

  “So I’ve been told. And you make a nippy three quarter.” Jonty wheeled his chair out from the bedside and, with a valedictory wave, headed in the direction of Cohen who’d need to be given notice of what the supposed victim was about to say, and how it would change their perceptions about the case.

  ***

  Once back at St Bride’s, thanks to another of Panesar’s team of undergraduates performing the wheeling duties, Jonty found Nurse Norcross waiting at the bottom of the sick bay stairs with a pair of crutches and two more hefty students to do the don-carrying duty. The next half an hour was occupied with him learning how to use the things, so any further consideration of the case had to wait until he was back in his bed again, feeling quite exhausted. A bite to eat and another small nap were called for, which he could take confident in the knowledge that Orlando had commitments until the middle of the afternoon so he could have all his thoughts in order before they next met. By which point his favourite mathematician would likely be feeling frustrated at having half the case snatched from under his nose.

  Fed and rested, Jonty began to see a positive side to the latest developments. Given that a potentially deadly poisoner hadn’t appeared in the city, the police officers would surely get back to more pressing matters, probably taking no further interest in the laxative incidents unless they sprang up again. That would give him and Orlando free rein to investigate them in their own time and on their own terms. Which brought Jonty to the matter of to whom Orlando could have been referring when he spoke of someone being better placed to add the laxative.

  Had he meant Laithwaite
? He could easily have laced the roly poly at Assumption and, in terms of being taken ill after the mathematicians’ party, various possibilities opened up. He could have lied about his condition, deliberately made himself sick or simply pretended that a genuine case of a hangover had been due to poisoning, in an effort to portray himself as victim rather than perpetrator.

  But in that case, why have the pudding tested at all? Why not sit back smugly while your victim—presumably Sibley, in some connection to the post they’d both wanted at Oxford—suffered? You could then easily target the man again without him becoming suspicious too quickly. A mere run of gastronomic bad luck. If Laithwaite had been behind the incident at the Blue Boar, using his cousin as an accomplice, then he’d been happy to let that be thought of as food poisoning.

  Jonty consulted the sparse notes he’d made, trying to get the timeline of events clear. The Blue Boar dinner had predated the one at Assumption. Was there any significance in that? Had the cousin refused to taint the food again, given the potential reputational damage to the establishment, so Laithwaite had taken matters into his own hands when the opportunity arose?

  The matter of the pudding being tested—and by the supposed culprit himself—still nagged. A clever case of double bluff, maybe. “How can you think I’ve done this thing when I’m the one who brought it to light?” Or something more overt, making sure that Sibley knew it was a deliberate act.

  Jonty laid down his notepad, picking up the puzzle book in its stead. Why couldn’t the Bard give him a clue, as he’d done with the quote from Hamlet?

  Tuesday afternoon

  When Orlando arrived in sick bay early that afternoon, Jonty appeared tired, although in a healthy way if such a thing were possible. The fresh air and a bit of exercise had clearly done him the world of good. As the note he’d sent earlier had improved Orlando’s sense of wellbeing.