Lessons for Suspicious Minds

by Charlie Cochrane

  Orlando, with a smug grin and the sort of warm glow that only came when a man got one over on his lover, led the way to the punt.

  Jonty hadn’t lied. Fyfield was magnificent, as they could see once the carriage turned into the main drive. And, while Orlando was prepared to argue till he was blue in the face that the homely, historical glories of the Old Manor made it a more attractive building, nobody could deny the splendour on show. A long, imposing edifice, beautifully maintained, with a splendid central block rising three storeys above the rest of the building. Set on a slope, or so Jonty explained, meaning that the house was far better proportioned when seen from the river, and the servants’ range was only below ground on one side.

  They’d no sooner arrived than been swept onto the terrace for a cooling drink and the opportunity to take in the magnificent view down to the river. The duke and duchess themselves weren’t quite so splendid: Derek was tall, wiry, well dressed, but gave the impression of being fraught, while Beatrice didn’t quite have the carriage or the élan to carry off her clearly expensive costume. They were, however, both effusive and apologetic in their welcome, happy to have the Stewarts as their guests again but sorry that the dowager duchess wasn’t on hand to join them. She’d been feeling the effects of something she’d eaten that had disagreed with her, but was mustering her strength for coming down to dinner. It was suggested that if Helena didn’t mind dealing with an invalid, perhaps she could pop her nose around the door, as the globe-trotter was keen to see her favourite goddaughter again.

  Mrs. Stewart had needed no second invitation, haring off to see Alexandra Temple as quickly as was decent and before the champagne had even been uncorked.

  Glass in hand, Orlando stood on the terrace, admiring the early evening vista—lawns and trees, avenues of them, rising out of an ethereal mist which seemed determined to settle in. Just the thing to revive a man’s spirits.

  “Lovely, isn’t it?” A familiar voice in Orlando’s ear announced the arrival of his light of love.

  “Magnificent. You’re very fortunate in your family friendships. Although I’m feeling rather guilty about enjoying this place so much.” Orlando sipped his champagne.

  “Why’s that?” Jonty leaned on the wall, fingers rubbing along the warm stone.

  “Because I used to think there could never be so splendid a view as the one from my bedroom at the Old Manor.” Orlando was always given the best guest bedroom, and the view down the stream valley, with the willows and water meadows, was his constant delight. “I daren’t admire this or else I’ll feel treacherous.”

  “Familial loyalty is a noble thing, but it shouldn’t blind one’s eyes to objective assessment.” Jonty cuffed his arm. “A man can like champagne and coffee without being disloyal to either. Although if you’re worried that Mama will smack your bottom again for harbouring such perfidious opinions, then I’ll keep your secret. What’s so wonderful about this view that it’s made you come over all soppy?”

  Orlando quickly glanced around to see if anyone could overhear, before whispering, “Apart from the fact that it’s almost as breathtakingly beautiful as you are?”

  “You big daft thing. Be serious.”

  “I was. There’s a second factor, though. Sussex is natural—or at least it looks natural, even if the vista I see there was probably all planned and laid out by the hand of man. Here, it’s mathematical and precise.” Orlando swept his hand towards the two matching avenues of poplars. “See how their shadows cross the lawn. I’m sure they were planted to catch the evening sun, just as the ones opposite would have been planted to catch the sunrise. Those shadows are superb.”

  “They are. However, much as I’d hate to spoil your wonderful theory, the sun does move, you know. Or maybe the earth does.” Jonty scratched his head. “Anyway, it only rises due east at the equinoxes. This time of year it’s already heading north of east, or maybe it’s coming back again. Anyway, the pattern of those shadows would vary throughout the year.”

  “I know that,” Orlando said, just a touch too quickly to suggest to Jonty anything other than the fact he was lying. “That’s what I admire so much—the consideration of what it must look like in the different seasons.”

  Jonty made a noise which might have been written as pfft, something remarkably like the hideous noise the man’s car made when the engine wasn’t quite firing as it should. “I’ve already caught Papa out having to string a bit of a story to our host, who doesn’t yet seem to be aware of the motive behind our being summoned here. His mother’s been as cagey with him as my parents were with both of us. I’ve got my eye in for a lie, and I believe you as little as Derek should believe Papa.”

  Orlando’s reply was forestalled by the arrival of their hostess, who insisted on describing the planned landscape work at Fyfield in such detail that the preceding conversation was laid aside, at least until Orlando could get his lover alone.

  Alexandra Temple appeared for dinner looking splendid in a dark-green dress, with emeralds to match, which made her daughter-in-law Beatrice’s bronze taffeta look dowdy. Even Helena Stewart, in a new dark-blue silk creation that exactly matched her eyes, was put in the shade by the dowager duchess. The woman must have been as magnificent in her youth as the estate she’d married into.

  And the dowager seemed still to be genuinely nice, not seeking to dominate the conversation over dinner with tales of her travels, and taking a real interest in Orlando and his latest research. If it was all an act, the pretences of an experienced hostess, then it was an impressive one. After dinner the ladies retired, but the men weren’t far behind; the Stewart entourage had been told to report for briefing.

  They found Mrs. Stewart and her godmother sitting together on a sofa, with the duchess on a chair to one side.

  “It appears,” Beatrice said, with a smile that seemed to be directed to the room at large rather than her husband, “that we’ve had the wool pulled over our eyes. I told you there had to be a reason why Richard’s tame sleuths were coming here.”

  Mr. Stewart’s voice, normally jaunty, had a nervous edge. “Guilty as charged, Beatrice. We couldn’t refuse such a commission.”

  Jonty, who’d been on the verge of making some quip about subterfuge seeming to be de rigueur this summer, bit his lip. There was something in the air, some slightly perceptible feeling of discomfort, that had been in evidence since they’d been out on the terrace, something he couldn’t simply put down to his previous experiences with the family. They didn’t seem half as domineering as he remembered them.

  “You did tell me there had to be a reason, Beatrice, and I refused to believe you.” Derek Temple looked over his spectacles at his mother. “Tuffnell?”

  Alexandra set her hands in her lap. “Yes, dear. Tuffnell.”

  “Oh, Mother.” Beatrice shook her head as though dealing with a four-year-old. “Captain Tuffnell killed himself.”

  Both Jonty and his father glanced at Orlando at the words killed himself. Why on earth were echoes of his father’s suicide so determined to dog their footsteps?

  “How extraordinary,” Orlando said quietly. “I assume you think he was murdered?” He addressed Alexandra, ignoring the slight squeak of protest from her daughter-in-law.

  “Tell the boys everything.” Mrs. Stewart took her godmother’s hand. “You can rely on them for absolute discretion.”

  “I’m not sure it’s absolute discretion I want, Helena. The time might have come to put the cat—a pair of intelligent and persistent cats”—she looked from Jonty to Orlando and back again—“among some complacent pigeons. If it was murder, I want the murderer to know I’m trying to flush him or her out.”

  “Mother.” Derek’s voice had an edge of exasperation. “The inquest said Reggie Tuffnell took his own life while the balance of his mind was disturbed. Why can’t you accept that?”

  “Because I can’t, dear. Please, let an old woman tell her story. If Richard and his boys think it’s a load of old nonsense at the end, then I
’ll not say another word about it. Is that fair?”

  “Eminently fair.” It was Beatrice, not her husband, who gave the answer. “Tell them everything. But don’t expect to convince them.”

  Alexandra took a deep breath. “Just after Easter, we had a house party. Just like the old days, when my Douglas was alive, although this time only seven or eight guests with all their retinue. The third morning they were here—it was a Friday—Reggie Tuffnell was found dead. He had apparently hanged himself from the top of the four-poster bed.”

  “You say ‘apparently,’” said Jonty. “But you’ve implied there was no ‘apparently’ at the inquest.”

  “There was not. Too much circumstantial evidence, by which I mean that although there was no note, it was generally known that he’d been extremely worried about something. It was one of the reasons Derek invited him here, so that he could offer help.” She turned to Mrs. Stewart. “Derek was terribly upset about it, you know.”

  “I am here, Mother, to speak for myself. I’m no longer seven and a half.”

  “I’ve always been seven and a half to Mama.” Jonty immediately regretted what he’d said. This seemed to be the wrong time for any sort of frivolity.

  Mrs. Stewart patted her godmother’s hand again. “Quite natural for everyone to be upset, dear. Such a thing to happen under one’s roof.” There was a look in her eye such as a prizefighter might have if he’d offered to fight all comers and was defying anyone to take him up on the challenge. “Did the nature of Captain Tuffnell’s worries ever come to light?”

  “Oh, yes. His brother Ronnie appeared at the inquest, confirming that Reggie had gambling debts he was likely to be unable to pay back. That would lead to the loss of his good name and make him a—is the word ‘pariah,’ Derek?”

  “As one who’s never had gambling debts in his life, I should be the last to know,” her son answered, occupying himself with a box of cigars. “But it seems as good—or as bad—a word as any. Horrible business.”

  Mr. Stewart replied in tones that made it plain what he thought of those who reneged on their obligations. “Would the subsequent shame really have been enough to prompt him to take his life? Some people seem to thrive on not paying their debts off.”

  “The captain was certainly one of the old school, like you, Richard. I have no doubt about his being ashamed should he not have been able to honour a bill.”

  Orlando was first in with the question that was probably on everyone’s mind. “So in that case, why do you think it wasn’t suicide?”

  “Because he could have paid off those debts, every one of them. At least he would have been able to do so had he just deferred the payment a few weeks.” As Alexandra spoke, Jonty kept his eyes on his hosts; they’d clearly heard this before and it cut no ice with them, unlike the Stewarts, who were surprised. “He stood to inherit a tidy sum from an uncle, one who was childless and intended leaving all his goods, chattels, and whatnot to his two nephews.” The dowager stopped and looked at each of her listeners in turn, triumphant.

  Orlando asked, “But he’d have had to be able to predict the future to know that, surely? Unless he had the intention of hastening the old man’s demise.”

  Mr. Stewart nodded his head gravely. “Occam’s razor, my boy. Please don’t multiply entities unnecessarily. One murder—if it is murder—is enough to be going on with. You’ve taken that into account, haven’t you, Alexandra?”

  “Of course I have.” The dowager rolled her eyes. “The uncle was terminally ill, everyone was aware of that. Reggie Tuffnell told me he was on his last legs—I heard that snort, Derek. Please don’t upbraid me for my choice of words.”

  Jonty repressed a snigger. Would he still be getting told off by his mother when he was rising sixty?

  “I apologise. I keep forgetting your trip around the world has enlarged your vocabulary.” The duke smiled, crossing the room and taking the unoccupied place on the sofa at his mother’s side. “Nobody wishes to make light of your concerns. Tell your story.”

  “Thank you, dear.” She kissed her son’s cheek. “To continue. Reggie knew he was due to benefit under the will. He told me so, in this very room.”

  Orlando rolled his eyes. “So why didn’t you mention that at the inquest?”

  “I was ready to, but Ronnie’s further evidence forestalled me. It wasn’t just gambling debts which were worrying Reggie, or so he said. He hinted at some deep-rooted personal anxiety blighting the man’s life. Derek also gave evidence to the same effect—he wasn’t aware of the gambling, at the time.”

  “I wish I had been.” The duke ran his hands through his hair—a fine thatch, still, even if turned to grey. “I might have been able to help him. He should have asked me. Too proud by half.”

  “Or maybe he didn’t ask because he knew he’d be solvent soon enough,” Alexandra retorted doggedly.

  Beatrice proved just as dogged. “You can’t deny that he was in low spirits. I’d noticed a distinct deterioration from when we’d seen him last autumn.”

  “No, dear, I can’t deny that he’d changed. Nor can I deny that he’d always been a little odd at times. That’s why I decided to keep my own counsel at the inquest. I had the feeling I was just being a daft old thing, seeing problems where there weren’t any.”

  “But you must have changed your mind subsequently? Or else why ask the boys here?” Mrs. Stewart turned and gave her hostess a sweet, piercing smile. If she’d held up a sign saying I believe your mother-in-law even if you don’t, she couldn’t have made her feelings plainer.

  “I don’t think it’s a case of changing my mind. I always had doubts, but I didn’t want to stir things up and cause trouble for the families concerned if I had nothing to go on but an old woman’s imagination.” Alexandra raised her hand. “And before you butt in, Richard, and make some remark about how I’m hardly an old woman, I would ask you to hold your tongue. You were always the smoothest talker of your generation, and I’ve noticed young Jonty is the same.”

  Young Jonty kept his eyes firmly fixed on his shoes. He didn’t need to look up to know that Orlando was smirking.

  “I’ll not say a word,” Mr. Stewart said, then immediately broke his promise. “Except to say that whatever your age, your wisdom and perception could never be doubted.”

  Alexandra appealed to Helena. “You see what I mean?”

  “They’re just men, dear. They can’t help it.”

  “So,” Mr. Stewart continued, “if you have concerns, they’re hardly likely to be groundless. Was it just the matter of the debts which concerned you?”

  “No. I’d not back a horse just on stable gossip. You need to know the ground conditions and the weights to get the full picture.” Clearly the dowager wasn’t ignorant of betting. “For a start, there’s the simple fact that the door to the bedroom wasn’t locked.”

  “Why should . . . Ah, I see your point.” Mr. Stewart nodded. “One might expect Tuffnell to have sought privacy if he’d decided to do the deed.”

  “Absolutely. And the absence of a suicide note bothers me, too, in the same way. I’d known Reggie when he was just a boy—he was a meticulous little chap then and nothing much seemed to have changed. Leopards don’t change their spots—and I’ve seen enough of the creatures, feline or human, to verify that. He was still just as careful and well organised, except in the matter of the gaming tables. The man was used to keeping a log, for goodness sake.”

  “A log?” Jonty felt he might have lost the plot.

  “He was a ship’s captain, dear. I should have made that plain.” The dowager tempered her words with a charming smile. “It simply would have been more in character for him to have left a note than not.”

  Orlando spoke before Jonty had the chance to. “Those are excellent points.” More than they’d had about Livingstone’s note. He’d produced a notebook and propelling pencil from somewhere. The risk of not being able to take notes had evidently outweighed the risk of spoiling the line of his dinner jacket.
He smiled at Jonty—a pale, troubled smile—before continuing. “Are there any more?”

  “Aren’t those enough?” The dowager tipped her head to one side, narrowing her eyes and fixing Orlando with an interrogative look. “Do you want it too easy?”

  “Of course not. Where’s the challenge in that?” Orlando wasn’t going to be browbeaten. “But the test has to be a fair one. How are we to contact all the guests who were here at the time? Surely the birds have flown?”

  “They have.” Derek spread his hands, apologetically. “You’ll be chasing up and down the country, I’m afraid. Although his brother Ronnie lives only ten miles away. He’s not yet moved into the house he inherited from that uncle. And all the staff who were here then remain in our employ, should you need to question them, although I’m not sure what they can add.”

  “Thank you.” Jonty felt he had to say something; he might have been asleep for all the contribution he’d made so far. Mustn’t let Mama’s godmother think he was a complete idiot. “May I just clarify some points about the finding of the body? Do you know if there was anything suspicious about the room? Something incongruous, for example?”

  “You would have to ask the staff about that, dear.” The dowager smiled.

  Derek sighed. “I’ll warn Hammond. He won’t like it, of course.”

  “Please assure Hammond,” Mr. Stewart chipped in, “that the lads have acted for the highest in the land, in a case of the utmost delicacy. They won’t be going down to the servants’ hall and spreading wild rumours about mass murderers abroad, if that’s his concern.”

  “I shall be my discreet and tactful best. And I’ll make sure Orlando does the same. He’ll put on his finest investigator manner and leave out all the bad words he uses to and about the dunderheads.” Jonty gave Orlando a sideways glance, but the man wasn’t rising to the bait.

  “I’m not worried about your friend.” Alexandra tipped her head to one side and peered, slightly shortsightedly, at Jonty. “I was speaking to Janet Allender only the other day and received a glowing report on Dr. Coppersmith’s undercover—if that’s the right word—work at the time of Jennifer Johnson’s death. Any man who can go into costume and play a role with such discretion and conviction must be admired. If you and Richard can fulfil your role as he did, then I shall have no complaints.”