“I was here. My housekeeper can vouch for it, as she’d made dinner for myself and a friend, then served it to us. Jones stayed over, and Mrs. Morfew dished out the breakfast for us, too.”
Did the answer come just too quickly and too glibly?
“I’m sure she can vouch for it, as can your friend, no doubt, but either of them might be willing to lie for you. We’ll be double-checking.” Jonty rose from his chair, determined to make a striking exit.
“Will you? Will you really?” Ronnie appeared less concerned than amused, seeing the bluff for what it was. “Your father was always a silken-tongued man, or so I’ve been told. Perhaps he could find a chink in their armour, but I doubt it. I was not at Fyfield. I did not kill my brother.”
Just like he’d not been in the country to kill Livingstone either, even if he’d had reason to kill him. What was left to say? Jonty made his good-byes and left, deciding on walking the two miles to the station so he could get his poor thoughts straight. Give half his fortune to have his brother back? He’d have forfeited that if Reggie had lived, anyway. Odd turn of phrase, though, the bit about getting the old Reggie back, as opposed to just old Reggie.
That readily produced and comprehensive alibi bothered him most of all. Partly by dint of its existence—it had always been his view that a wholly innocent man was unlikely to have such a robust explanation that he was somewhere else entirely at the crucial time.
He was halfway along his journey when he realised that, of course, the alibi itself was meaningless. If Reggie Tuffnell had died sometime during the night—which accorded with the medical evidence presented at the inquest—then Ronnie could easily have sneaked out of his house and headed for Fyfield on horseback, or by cycle, or car or whatever he fancied. He could have done the deed and returned, and nobody the wiser, assuming his guest had already gone to bed. Only poor dead and departed Reggie would have known what happened, and he wasn’t giving any testimony.
Which just raised another glaringly obvious question. Why have such an elaborately constructed alibi for times when Reggie hadn’t been killed?
Meanwhile, Orlando was trying to cast off his slough of despond with two of the three things he enjoyed most. As he couldn’t get into bed with Jonty, he took consolation in sleuthing, with some pleasant contemplation of three-dimensional geometry en route. By the time the duke’s carriage had transported him to the outskirts of Maidenhead, he was in surprisingly good spirits, not least because he’d come up with a stinker of a problem to set the dunderheads at the start of next term.
He found the house, knocked at the door, and was ushered into the morning room. There an enthusiastic lady leaped up to greet him, while a more placid one, huddled by a low-burning fire, favoured him with a toothless grin.
Stella Blunstone, the younger of the two, was pretty—or at least Orlando supposed she was pretty. He had trouble judging women in that way, certain only that Mrs. Stewart was beautiful—especially in her youth if the portraits were accurate—yet her daughter Lavinia wasn’t. Although maybe Mrs. Stewart’s resemblance to her youngest son might have influenced this viewpoint. Miss Blunstone was of the type that he’d seen men get into a lather about (like the barmaid at the Bishop’s Cope, who got many a heart a pounding) so he could understand how she’d ended up with rivals for her affection.
Orlando made a bow, with gloves and hat in his hand; Jonty always said that made him look appealing. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”
“That’s quite all right. Do take a seat.” The girl smiled. “I wouldn’t normally allow a stranger to call, but when I saw your card and got your message, we felt it was appropriate. Didn’t we, Aunty?”
The lady appealed to, who seemed to be a touch deaf given the way she inclined her head as if straining to hear, favoured Orlando with another toothless grin and carried on with her knitting.
“We’ve been asked to make absolutely sure that Charles Livingstone’s death was really due to suicide. There seem to be some elements of doubt which have arisen.”
“About the note? Aunty and I were just discussing it.” Miss Blunstone’s directness took Orlando off his guard. “Charles was just the sort of chap to have left it in his pocket rather than leave it on his desk or send it.”
A loud sniff came from Aunty, although she kept her head over her knitting. Not so deaf, after all?
“It’s true. Remember that business with the lost papers, at his work?”
Orlando made sure he had his notepad ready. “Is that the same business we came across?” he lied, smoothly.
“Probably. He got into terrible trouble at the office, even when the things turned up wedged between the desk and the wall. They must have just fallen down there.” She shook her head, then looked at him sidelong, in what seemed a consciously flirtatious manner. “I did wonder if something similar had happened again, and it had driven him to the edge. They wouldn’t have been so lenient a second time.”
Another reason for suicide and none for murder. Would they ever make headway?
“Why did nobody mention that at the inquest?”
Miss Blunstone waved her hand, vaguely. “Oh, because that might have caused great embarrassment for the firm. The coroner is thick as thieves with Mr. Wood, who was Charles’s boss. These people stick together, you know. Happens all the time.”
Another sound from Aunty, this time a snort. She clearly found that reasoning as weak as Orlando did.
“Besides,” her niece carried on, “the weight of other evidence was so great, it wasn’t needed. Three good men and true, including my Bernard, stood up, and none of them spoke against Charles having been minded to kill himself. He’d threatened to do it before in just such a way, from the very same bridge.”
“How did you know which bridge he jumped from?” That hadn’t been mentioned at the inquest, as far as Strevens’s notes were concerned. Was that a slip of Stella’s tongue, the first glimmer of light in the case?
“I don’t know for certain, but he went off walking in that direction, the last night he was seen. By friends, when they left the public house.”
“Let me clarify. I believe the coroner was simply told that Livingstone was seen in Maidenhead, heading along the main road. There was nothing said about bridges.”
“But that’s the direction he was taking.” Miss Blunstone waved her hand dismissively. “And he wasn’t seen again, so he must have gone there and jumped off. And it was February the fourteenth.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t quite get the significance of that.”
“Oh, I don’t believe you,” she said archly, while Aunty made another snort. “It’s St. Valentine’s Day. Poor Charles had nobody to be his sweetheart. It must have all been too much for him.” Miss Blunstone produced a handkerchief and wiped what appeared to be a completely dry eye.
Aunty suddenly chipped in. “It was also the anniversary of the Battle of Cape St. Vincent, with which young Livingstone was so obsessed. Although I don’t suppose he threw himself off the bridge at the thought of British Jack tars going down with their ships.”
“He might have,” Stella rallied. “One of his family died there, and Charles often regretted that he’d never been able to serve his country when so many good men and true had gone to their deaths.”
Orlando wasn’t convinced by either of the niece’s wavering versions of Livingstone’s motivation—but Valentine’s Day was worthy of consideration. He’d contemplated chucking himself in the river when he’d thought—admittedly mistakenly—that he’d lost Jonty. He changed tack. “Did he ever mention a man called Tuffnell? Captain Tuffnell?”
“Oh, yes. Was that the nice old cove who was at the inquest? Such a handsome gentleman for his age.” She sighed. “Remember him, Aunty? We saw him a few days later, and he was so polite and charming.”
Aunty looked up, narrowed her eyes, nodded, and went back to her knitting.
“And Charles had mentioned him in the past?”
“Yes.” Stella Blunstone seem
ed to be racking her brains for the exact occasion. “It was the back end of last year, or maybe the start of this. I don’t recall. Charles seemed . . . agitated or excited or something. He said he’d met up with an old friend of the family, somebody he’d not seen since he was a boy.”
“And you’re sure this was Tuffnell?”
“Absolutely. At least I think it was. This man used to regale Charles with tales of the sea when he was small, apparently. There were sailors in the family—more than one of them fought at that battle Aunty mentioned. I think that’s why Charles was excited to see him again. Tuffnell had been a sort of childhood hero. Charles hung on his every word.”
“Ah.” Orlando scribbled some notes. “You know that the captain seems to have killed himself? Not long after Charles died.”
“Oh, yes. It’s so sad. We went to the inquest, seeing as he was practically a friend.”
Seeing as you’re probably a ghoul, Orlando thought, then felt guilty. Why did this girl put his back up so much? He cast a glance at Aunty, who was looking at her niece with an unreadable expression. She suddenly turned her head and fixed him with the same intent gaze. He swallowed hard and ploughed on.
“Do you know if either man had any enemies? Somebody who’d have benefitted from their deaths?”
“I don’t think so. They said at the inquest that Tuffnell had got himself into money troubles, and that he’d got a broken heart. Over a lady he loved but couldn’t have.” Stella Blunstone leaned forward confidentially. “Aunty and I don’t believe that.”
“Really? Now that interests me greatly, you clearly being ladies of great perspicacity.” That time posing as a dancing partner hadn’t been wasted. “Would you share your theory with me?”
“I think the old chap was upset at Charles’s death. It was the last straw, on top of the other things. Broken hearts. How sad.” She sighed overdramatically, then flashed her eyes at him.
“Captain Tuffnell didn’t seem that upset when we met him down on the towpath.” Aunty’s voice—surprisingly deep, clear, and authoritative—cut into the conversation like a knife. She clearly didn’t share her niece’s theory.
“He was one of the old sort, Aunty. Trained not to show his feelings.” Stella evidently wasn’t going to concede the point. Like one of the dunderheads, why should she spoil a nice idea with hard facts?
“As you wish, dear. You might want to tell Dr. Coppersmith more about your Charles. How he was the biggest fool in Christendom.”
The niece flushed. “Aunty!”
“You can’t deny that he was gullible. Not at the details of his work, Dr. Coppersmith—sharp as a pin where money or the law was concerned, as far as I can make out—but scatterbrained, as he proved with those papers. And liable to be taken in by the silliest piece of nonsense.”
“That’s not fair. Who’s been spreading such wicked lies?”
“Mr. Wood, for one, my dear.” Aunty finished off a row with a flick of her ball of wool. “Next time I see him shall I tell him you think he’s a liar?” She turned her head, to address Orlando. “There is a certain sort of man who is too trusting. Too easily taken in by a sad tale, particularly from a client. Livingstone was one of those.”
Could one of those stories have led to his death? If he’d been inveigled into believing in something that had turned out to be fraudulent, would he have taken his own life to avoid disgrace?
“No.” Orlando stopped, horrified that he’d voiced the thought out loud.
“I beg your pardon?” Aunty said, fingers halting mid-row.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t disagreeing with you, only myself. Perhaps I should explain.”
“I wish you would.” Aunty suddenly produced a charming smile, much more charming than her niece’s flirtatious one. Orlando had never felt at ease when the female of the species was trying to catch his eye, and he found the aunt much more congenial.
“I was speculating—always a dangerous thing, which I warn my dund . . . students against unless it’s based on reasonable assumption. Did Mr. Wood suggest any instances of Livingstone being too trusting which might be linked to his death?”
“A fraud, do you mean?” Aunty continued to prove how much more sagacious she was than her niece. “Not that I’m aware of. Are you supposing he got out of his depth, realised the truth of the situation, and was killed to keep him quiet?”
“Exactly that.” Orlando wished he’d had the idea first.
“That might be so, although I know nothing of it. Perhaps you might talk to Mr. Wood?”
“I shall. Is there anything else you feel I should know?”
Aunty looked at Orlando, at her niece, then back at him again. “Not at present. I believe the weight of evidence indicates that Livingstone took his own life, but I’d advise you to carry on with your commission. He may have been unwise, but there was no harm in him.”
Stella Blunstone, looking slightly confused at what had gone before and clearly wanting to get back onto familiar ground, said, “Unwise. Yes. That was a good word to describe him. That’s why I wouldn’t let him come courting. We wouldn’t want to marry a fool, would we, Aunty?”
“I would never have married a fool, certainly. Which explains, Dr. Coppersmith, the lack of a wedding ring on my finger. Too many men are idiots.” Aunty smiled again and gave what seemed alarmingly like a wink. “Present company possibly excepted. And I seem to remember that I wouldn’t let him court you, Stella dear. Do try to get your facts right.”
At which Orlando decided this was the ideal point to say his good-byes.
The clerk in the accountants’ office showed no surprise at the arrival of Mrs. Stewart. Maybe, given that it was Maidenhead, he was used to dealing with elegantly turned-out women—ones of evidently excellent breeding, wearing priceless although remarkably discreet jewellery. Ones with loud, penetrating voices and a manner resembling HMS Dreadnought in full steam.
He did, however, register shock when the visitor introduced herself and immediately asked to see Bernard Goode.
“Are you sure that you have the correct name, madam? Not Mr. Goodenough? He’s our senior partner.” The clerk rubbed his hands nervously.
“I’m sure he is, but it’s Mr. Goode I wish to speak to. Not on business—I have an excellent accountant of my own, probably almost as capable as Mr. Goodenough. It’s about a mutual friend of ours. Mine and Mr. Goode’s, not Mr. Goodenough’s.” Mrs. Stewart nodded her head, smiled sweetly, and sat down to wait. There would be no argument.
Mr. Goode was summoned, but not before Mr. Goodenough had appeared and tried to ingratiate himself—perhaps he recognised his visitor's name and wanted to take this opportunity of getting into the good books of an earl’s daughter. He was sent off with a polite flea in his ear. On Mrs. Stewart’s insistence, she and her interviewee were also given somewhere to talk where they wouldn’t be overheard, and a large pot of coffee to sustain them. This interviewing lark seemed a doddle, so long as one remembered to brook no nonsense.
“You’ll forgive me appearing out of the blue like the good fairy in the pantomime,” Mrs. Stewart began, “but I have some questions to ask about Charles Livingstone. Did he really kill himself or was that all a cover-up?”
Jonty and Orlando would no doubt have been horrified to see such a bullish approach, but Mrs. Stewart was pleased to see it work, clearly rattling Goode’s composure.
“Yes, no. He killed himself. Sorry?” He ran his hands through his thinning fair hair. “I’m really not sure what this is about, or what I can tell you.”
“It’s about Charles Livingstone. We’ve been given to understand that his death may not have been at his own hand. Some doubt about the suicide note. And the evidence given at his inquest.” Mrs. Stewart didn’t share her husband’s scruples about embroidering the truth.
“We? Who is ‘we’? I mean who are ‘we’?” Goode’s brief fighting rally floundered in the heavy seas of unusual grammar.
Mrs. Stewart puffed up with maternal pride. “T
wo of the most eminent private consulting detectives in Britain, for whom I am working in a delegated capacity. So we’ll have no nonsense, and just the truth. All the things you didn’t tell the coroner,” she added, in a stroke of what turned out to be genius.
“How on earth did you know?”
Mrs. Stewart didn’t answer, just inclined her head as if to say, How could we not know? We are Stewarts. Or, perhaps more accurately, How could I not know? I have three sons and can spot a lie a mile off. And in dense fog.
“I should have been more forthcoming about my friendship with Stella. We’d been walking out together on and off—more off than on—for much longer than I admitted to. It didn’t seem important.” Goode had turned pale, his freckles standing out like poppies in the barley.
“Only you and I would know how important it is,” Mrs. Stewart said conspiratorially, although it did seem like very small beer. What would Orlando say if that was all she had to report from her enquiries? “Now, the rest of it, please.”
She waited. The longer she let the silence stretch, the more likely something important would emerge. It always had with Jonty.
“About the note?” Goode replied eventually.
“Precisely that.”
He looked even more uncomfortable. “Charles wrote it. He may not have written it at the time, but he showed it to Stella ages before. When he was first threatening to kill himself.”
“He seems a remarkably thrifty soul, to have saved the note to use again.”
“That’s the solicitor coming out. He’d had a problem when he’d mislaid some documents. As a result, he’d become almost obsessive about keeping things.”
“Was he always so meticulous?”
“Usually. Everything in its place, and a place for everything. So he didn’t lose anything else important in future.”
“Then why leave the note on himself and not on the kitchen table or in the post or wherever any sensible suicide would have put it?”
Lessons for Suspicious Minds Page 11
