“I don’t doubt you. Dr. Coppersmith, we can sort the bells out later.” Jonty addressed him in the tone of voice that always meant You’ll take note of this and take note of it now. “We’ve more important fish to fry. So when did you discover that Captain Tuffnell was the one in trouble?”
“Not until much later. Mr. Hammond was so shaken about the whole episode with the archdeacon, we made ourselves a cup of hot milk with a tot of brandy in it.” Hayes smiled in what seemed like pleasant recollection. “Then we decided that maybe we should check the house over. Mr. Hammond could remember when this group of gentlemen stayed before and there’d always been shenanigans going on. He wondered if they were playing a trick on the archdeacon and wanted to check they hadn’t got up to worse.”
“We need to ask Hammond to share some of those stories with us. If we have the time. For the moment, let’s try this.” Jonty tugged at the bedpost and then reached up to pull on the rail. “Would this really take a man’s weight?”
“No ‘would’ about it, sir.” The footman’s face had drained of its natural healthy colour. “I can vouch for that myself. I helped to get the poor man down.”
“And how would somebody rig themselves up if they intended to take their own life? Alternatively, how do you fake a hanging? I’m sorry to be so ghoulish, but that’s the point which I stick on.”
Orlando smiled, no longer surprised when his lover’s mind worked along the same lines as his own.
“I’ve thought about that myself, sir. Might I be bold enough to say that it’s a relief to be able to discuss the subject with someone? It’s strictly subject non grata below stairs.” Hayes eyed the rails between the bed’s four posts. “I’m about the same size as the captain was, if a bit heavier set. Should I climb up and show you?” Hayes’s disquiet seemed to be subsiding now he had something practical to set his mind to. Before he was answered yea or nay, he’d hopped onto the bed and was soon pulling himself up and down from the top of the frame as though executing a gymnastic manoeuvre.
“So Tuffnell would have had to make a noose, twine the rope round the wood, put his neck in and launch off the bed.” Jonty shivered. “And I guess the rope would have had to be secured somewhere as well?”
“It was here, sir.” Hayes was back on terra firma, indicating a scuffed mark on the end post. “These old pieces were built to last, although I daresay the man who made it didn’t intend it to be put to such gruesome use.”
Orlando tried to work out the power needed to lift a partially drugged man up on a rope, a man who might well have been fighting back. Was it a job for two pairs of arms? “Was there any sign of a struggle? The bed much dishevelled?”
“It was a right mess. I drew Mr. Hammond’s attention to the fact but the duke said that was to be expected.” Hayes looked down, clearly on uncomfortable ground again. “It takes a while, he said. For the end to come.”
“Not like the drop. It’s the hangman’s mercy to his victim, Dr. Coppersmith, making the end a swift one. The long, struggling death is not something I want to contemplate.” Jonty’s voice was low and constrained. They’d sent a few men to the gallows in their time; at least one of them had maybe deserved Jonty’s vengeance, but neither he nor Orlando took delight in a man’s death, lawful or not. “I wonder . . .”
Orlando narrowed his eyes. “You wonder what?”
“I wonder whether one could strangle a man and then haul him up on a rope. The marks on the neck would be covered by the ones the rope made and any signs of distress might also be put down to the drawn-out nature of death.”
“And if there was enough evidence that the deceased wanted to take his own life, nobody might bother to look further . . .” Orlando glanced up abruptly from his notes, fixing his eyes on Hayes. “You were here. Ignore the appearance of the body, or the room, and concentrate on the atmosphere. Then and for the next few days. Was there anything suspicious?”
Hayes tipped his head to one side. “Only that we weren’t encouraged to talk about it below stairs. Not then and not since and not just out of respect for the dead. It was like . . . like when you’re naught but a child and all the adults are keeping a secret from you. There’s nothing you can pin down, but you know that something’s amiss.” He raised his hand to stifle further questions. “Please don’t ask me who or what or why. I couldn’t have said then and I’m no wiser now.”
“But . . .” Orlando began, only for Jonty to interrupt him.
“Let’s go and see those bells, Hayes. If Dr. Coppersmith can get his mind around them, then he’ll see how you were so certain. If Mr. Hammond will allow us to come and see how the system works.”
“He seems a bit reluctant to allow any of your sleuthing, sir. I suppose he just doesn’t like people invading his kingdom.”
“Should I get my mother to ask him? I’m sure nobody could resist an entreaty from her, whether through affection or blind terror!” Jonty grinned.
“Perhaps that could be our backup, sir. If all fails.”
Luckily, the heavy artillery didn’t need to be called up. Hammond had been summoned to the duke to discuss a possible change of wine suppliers, so access to the nether regions of Fyfield was unimpeded. Close by the foot of the stairs, on a wall of honey-coloured stone, a staggering array of bells was laid out—beautifully logically numbered and labelled bells, as Orlando observed with pleasure—each of which, he was assured, possessed a distinctive tone.
“That’s how they know.” Jonty waved his arms airily. “To see the things going like the clappers you’d have to be standing here or somewhere in the corridor. There’s no scope for dawdling in a busy household, nor to have the lights blazing all night, I’d guess, so the staff have to learn which is which by sound alone. We have a similar arrangement in both London and Sussex.”
Orlando gave his lover an old-fashioned look. “How do you know so much about it? I thought the divide between house and domestics was never to be crossed?”
“Where did you get that idea? Not from the Stewarts. There was never any problem about us drifting below stairs when I was a lad.”
“Then you were lucky, sir.” Hayes smiled ruefully. “I suspect it’s less the duke’s doing than the tradition of the servants’ hall, but Fyfield would never tolerate such fraternisation.”
“Then we were lucky.” Jonty had made as if to touch one of the bells, then drawn his hand back swiftly, maybe afraid to leave a fingermark on the gleaming brass. “Not everyone is as enlightened as my family, recognising that their children should develop the skill of talking to anybody, king or commoner.”
Hayes nodded his approval. “Very wise.”
Jonty grinned. “And there were advantages—being allowed to lick out the cook’s mixing bowl and such other delights. So I got to know how things operated.”
Orlando could imagine it. Always alert, the boy Jonty would have soaked everything up like a sponge, ready to let things seep out when the occasion demanded. Like now. “I suppose you learned how the operation kept working so smoothly?”
“Operation?” Jonty snorted. “You make it sound like a factory. Or perhaps a battalion going into action.”
Hayes came to Orlando’s rescue. “If I might interrupt, gentlemen, I think that’s a very fair description. What goes on to keep the household running is like a business, or how I imagine a good one would be run. Very efficient.”
“I’ll accept that everything runs on very well-oiled lines. But this”—Orlando pointed at the bells—“I can’t believe.”
“Right. We need proof. Hayes, would you be willing to take part in an experiment?” Jonty asked.
“Like a shot.”
“Right—strict test conditions as would be approved of by Dr. Panesar.” Jonty rubbed his hands. “Hayes, can we find somewhere you can hear the bells but have no means of observing them?”
“We can, sir. To make it fair and add a bit of veracity, I’ll go back to where I was that night, in the pantry. Oh, and maybe I should send a warnin
g to the rest of the staff, or there’ll be a tumult of them sent out on wild-goose chases.”
Orlando wondered whether Hayes had swallowed a dictionary at some point, or what other strange story could lie behind his surprising range of vocabulary.
“That’s the ticket.” Jonty rubbed his hands together. “Hayes, you deliver the warning. Dr. Coppersmith, prepare for a bit of campanology!”
The next five minutes would have delighted both Dr. Panesar (for their experimental rigour) and the audience at a comic play (for the amounts of comings, goings, and heads poking around doors).
A deep resonant tone.
A voice from the pantry. “Dining room.”
A light tinkle.
“Her ladyship’s bedroom.”
A clear, sonorous note.
“The Grey Room.”
Note after note, some repeated throughout the experiment, all identified without hesitation, except for some confusion over the nursery and the bedroom once belonging to the daughter of the household, which were probably out of Hayes’s purview. Orlando—who could follow the rhythm and pattern of a tune beautifully, especially on the dance floor, but who couldn’t really carry a melody to save his life—was amazed at the spectacle.
“So we’ve established that it’s highly unlikely you could have mistaken the two bells,” he conceded.
“No, sir. And even if I had done, Mr. Hammond wouldn’t have done the same.” Hayes bridled. “Not that I ever get it wrong, but we had a new footman once who not only forgot to knock but barged into a room he shouldn’t have barged into and saw things he shouldn’t have seen because he got the bells wrong. Mr. Hammond says he saw the archdeacon’s bell going, so even if my ears had deceived me, his eyes couldn’t very well have done the same.” He stopped, eyes narrowed. “You’re suggesting it was Captain Tuffnell ringing his bell, aren’t you? Because he changed his mind halfway through . . . it . . . and wanted to be rescued? That we made an awful mistake which cost a man’s life.”
“I won’t lie, Hayes, although it’s not quite as you put it. I wondered if Tuffnell might have been attacked and called for help, but having seen this”—Orlando swept his hand towards the array of bells—“I know I’m wrong.”
“Thank you, sir. People don’t always recognise that I might have a serviceable brain.” Hayes took a deep breath. “Might I be so bold as to tell you what I think happened?”
“Tell away.” Why miss the chance of picking Hayes’s very serviceable intelligence?
“I think the archdeacon sleepwalked, sir. Or should that be slept walked?” Hayes looked puzzled, turning to Jonty for an answer to his grammatical dilemma.
“I have no idea.” Jonty shook his head. “They don’t have the word in the sonnets, so it’s out of my sphere of expertise.”
“What about Lady Macbeth, then?” Orlando felt incredibly smug at having perhaps caught his lover out.
Jonty turned to the footman. “It’s likely there’ll be a definite murder committed, right here, in about thirty seconds. Could you testify that Dr. Coppersmith accidentally fell on a knife I happened to be holding?”
Hayes grinned. “I’d offer my services but the dowager thinks the world of your mother, sir, and as Dr. Coppersmith is her ward, I wouldn’t risk the wrath of either.”
Funny, and fortunate, how the ward story continued to circulate. Mrs. Stewart had produced—in a typical stroke of genius—a convincing reason why the man was so often their guest, and explained the almost brotherly closeness between him and Jonty. Orlando recognised how unusual it was for their relationship to have been accepted so readily among the Stewarts, but they’d proved to be a truly Christian family.
“Sleepwalking?” Orlando said, before anything untoward came out or he accidentally voiced his thoughts.
“Yes, sir. Maybe the archdeacon heard something from Tuffnell’s room, or perhaps he felt something—he’s a man of the cloth and they have funny things happen to them at times. Voices in the night and all that. He rang his own bell in response.” Hayes looked so pleased with his theory Orlando didn’t have the heart to tell him how thin a theory it sounded.
“Dr. Coppersmith doesn’t believe in angelic messages, although I’m convinced we have a pair of guardian angels looking over us. In fact—” Jonty’s pontifications were interrupted by the arrival of Hammond, with a face like thunder—quickly hidden—and a voice like Jove.
“Hayes? Are you still helping our guests? Haven’t you jobs to do?”
“Sorry, Mr. Hammond. It all took a bit longer than anticipated . . .”
Orlando took up the battle. “It’s our fault, Hammond. We had many more questions to ask than young Hayes had accounted for. He’s been very helpful.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Hammond’s piercing gaze belied his words. “If there’s anything else we can help with—although I can’t for the life of me imagine there would be—don’t hesitate to let me know.”
And with that expert way of pretending to be helpful while entirely intending to prevent any further interrogation of the staff, Hammond bowed and led Hayes away.
Thank you, Jonty mouthed at the butler’s back, before Orlando hauled him away with a whispered, “Behave!”
“Interesting stuff,” Orlando continued, once they were back in the main part of the house.
“Confusing stuff, certainly.” Jonty stopped by the shameless Apollo once more. “Hayes’s little brother. I was thinking about him. Or rather what Reggie Tuffnell said about his illness. Could he have been suffering from something which made him want to take his own life? Are we barking up the wrong tree?”
“Are you asking me or your little naked stone friend?”
“I’m asking anyone who might give me a sensible answer.” Jonty shrugged. “It looks like I’m out of luck.”
Derek was at his desk in his study, looking every bit the working, as opposed to the dilettante, duke. He’d finished dealing with wine suppliers—assuming that hadn’t been a ruse to get Hammond out of their way—and was available to be badgered. Orlando had gone to survey the Grey Room (and rooms of various other shades) from the outside of the house, so Jonty was left to obtain the name of the reporter who’d covered Tuffnell’s inquest, should his host remember it.
“Of course I do. The chap’s called Strevens. He covers all the local inquests, and other delicate stuff. I’d been reading his articles in the local rag for years. Didn’t realise how sensible he’d prove in real life.” The duke rummaged in one of the desk drawers, then produced a card. “I kept this, in case I ever needed to avail myself of his services.”
“That’s a useful bit of foresight.” Jonty wondered what services he might want to call on—one of the Temple family causing mischief and the story having to be hushed up, maybe.
“Not that I thought we’d ever need it,” Derek added, maybe just a touch too quickly. “The number of the newspaper office is on there. You can ring from the extension in here if you wish.”
“Oh. Thank you.” Jonty got on with the task, not entirely happy to be within his host’s earshot—but it would have looked bloody rude to insist on ringing from the hall or wherever the main telephone was located. Luckily Derek decided to take himself off as Jonty asked to be put through.
The call to the newspaper office was made, a meeting with Strevens arranged, and the prospect considered of killing two birds with one stone. If the reporter covered all the inquests, then maybe he’d have some information on Livingstone, as well. Jonty had asked, Strevens had promised to haul out his notes, and they’d left it at that. Jonty didn’t think that even he and Orlando (who’d ridden their luck till the poor thing had almost been exhausted) could be so fortunate as to find a witness who’d inform them about both cases, but you never knew unless you tried.
The hotel they’d agreed on for the meeting place, situated down a charming country lane, looked a lot quieter than the ones Jonty said he would usually associate with Maidenhead. John Strevens was waiting at the bar, portly, j
ovial, and—if his nose was anything to go by—more than fond of a pint or two. Jonty bought him one, while he and Orlando settled for a pot of tea, the contents of Fyfield’s wine cellar having been much in evidence the night before and likely to be so again this evening.
“Thank you for seeing us,” Jonty said, as they moved to a convenient table. “We’ll make no bones about it. Those two suicides I mentioned—we’ve been asked to look into them. They might not be what they seem.”
“You think the two cases are connected?” Drinker’s nose notwithstanding, Strevens seemed a shrewd enough customer.
“We don’t know. It’s just very odd that within the space of a few hours we had two such similar cases land in our laps, thrown there by different people. Within a few miles of each other.” Jonty puffed out his cheeks, then exhaled, as he might have done at school when he couldn’t understand his physics prep.
“I’ve brought my notes from both inquests.” Strevens produced a leather case and took from it two notebooks, with pages marked. “I keep all my court dealings.”
“Very wise.” Orlando eyed the notebooks greedily, wishing he could be allowed a free rummage through them. “Can you remember if anything in either case raised your suspicions at the time? You must see a lot of inquests and trials—you’ll have developed a nose for things not being quite right.”
“Oh, I have. And this was no exception. Which first?”
“Tuffnell,” Orlando replied, before Jonty could muddy the waters.
“Reginald Tuffnell . . .” Strevens opened one of the notebooks. “He of the lack of suicide note, although everybody said he was in debt and ashamed about it. There was something odd about his brother.”
Jonty almost dropped his teacup in his excitement. “Really? What?”
“I see lots of witnesses at inquests. It’s a sombre business, and you tend to get sombre testimonies. Or sensational ones, people trying to apportion or deflect blame. Ronnie Tuffnell was almost clinical. No, that’s not the word. He gave the impression he’d known that his brother was likely to take his life and had given up trying to do anything about it. He said he’d always been prone to times when he was greatly depressed, and these had become both more frequent and more profound. They’d taken a holiday together, earlier in the year, in order to raise the man’s spirits, but to no avail. Very matter-of-fact testimony, as though he were discussing a racehorse for which there was no other future than the knacker’s yard.”
Lessons for Suspicious Minds Page 6
