Lessons for Suspicious Minds

by Charlie Cochrane

  Goode studied his hands. “I don’t know. I’ve gone over it again and again in my mind.” He suddenly looked up. “Mrs. Stewart, may I be frank with you?”

  “That’s what I’ve been waiting for, yes.” She debated taking his hand but decided that would be overdoing the sympathy.

  “If he hadn’t gone and done it, I’d have sworn he’d changed his mind completely. Charles had got over Stella and was mooning over some actress he’d seen in a play up in London. He had plans to buttonhole her at the stage door once he’d got over his ringworm.”

  “Ringworm?” Was detecting always as confusing as this? And why hadn’t Jonty warned her?

  “Livingstone had a bad case of ringworm, and he didn’t want to risk—if you’ll excuse the expression—chancing his arm with the lady in question while his neck was still such a state.”

  Memories of Lavinia having ringworm, and the vile concoction she’d been given to treat it, flooded back.

  “He wasn’t upset about the ringworm itself? I would imagine it could be highly embarrassing for a young man.”

  “Oh, no. As far as I knew, he just wanted to be rid of it as soon as possible.” He shrugged. “But there, perhaps I got it all wrong. I’ve never been much of a one for knowing what other folk are feeling. He must have been plunged back into the old slough of despond.”

  “Why didn’t you mention any of this at the inquest?”

  “Because I was third into bat, so to speak, and the opening pair had already insisted that his mind had been made up to kill himself. I’d have looked a right fool muddying the waters. Stands to reason he did it, doesn’t it?”

  Mrs. Stewart wondered if the dunderheads her lads had to deal with were quite so lacking in brains.

  “You still haven’t adequately accounted for why Livingstone kept the note. If he really had changed his mind—even if he changed it back, which we doubt”—Mrs. Stewart was amazed at how powerful a half truth, uttered with force, could prove—“why keep such a thing? I don’t believe it was just his making a resolution to be more careful in the office.”

  “Yes, well.” Goode studied his shoes, the wall . . . anything but face his interrogator directly. “You see, he used to look at it and say how much it reminded him of what an ass he’d been. How he’d nearly made the worst possible decision and to remind him not to do so in future.”

  “Oh, for goodness’s sake!” If Mrs. Stewart had been given to employing oaths, she’d have used a particularly strong one at this point. “Don’t you see how suspicious this looks?”

  Goode sat in silence, head down and hands between his knees. Mrs. Stewart had seen that pose many a time before, from one or another—or all at the same time—of her sons. “I suppose it is,” he said at last. “Maybe there is some doubt. I should tell Stella, I suppose.”

  “Maybe you should go and tell the coroner. No—” Mrs. Stewart raised her hand “—not yet. Not until we’ve run all our foxes to ground. If we can amass a convincing body of evidence to hand him, so much the better.” And better not to risk Goode going on his own. The man seemed so weak willed and muddleheaded he’d probably be easily talked into reversing his viewpoint, and they’d be back to the start.

  “Those other men seemed so convincing.” Goode was evidently trying to justify himself. “Harry Palmer was as good a pal to Livingstone as I was, maybe more so as they’d known each other since childhood. Then when that captain stood up and said Livingstone had worries about gambling debts, I wondered if I’d actually known half as much about Charles as I’d believed I had.”

  Yes, weak and vacillating. If at that inquest he’d followed a witness who’d introduced uncertainties, no doubt he’d have been vehement in saying that Livingstone hadn’t intended to kill himself.

  “Well, Captain Tuffnell is himself dead. Did you know that?”

  “No!” If Goode was pale before, now he was ashen. Even the freckles had turned chalky. “Did somebody kill him, too?”

  “That’s precisely what we’re trying to find out. Another case of apparent suicide. Very suspicious.” And very enjoyable, this investigating lark, so long as one didn’t think too deeply about the fact that two men had died. “Had you run across him? Before the inquest?”

  “No. Although I think Harry might have, given that the connection was through Charles’s father.”

  “Perhaps I should ask Mr. Livingstone senior directly. And your friend Harry.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll find that difficult.” Goode mustered a weak, sickly smile. “Old Mr. Livingstone died last year. He’d always had a weak heart. And Harry’s in India. Or I think he is. Might still be on the ship somewhere rounding the Cape.”

  “How very vexatious.” What right had people to go off gallivanting—whether to the subcontinent or Heaven—when she had important questions to ask? “I suppose there’s no point in my asking whether you can remember anything about Captain Tuffnell being involved in pranks around here when he was younger?”

  Goode drew himself up in his chair. “Actually, I’m just the right person to ask about that. My father told me about the wild bunch at Fyfield—the present duke and his cronies in Oxford days—and how they’d make a gang of cockney pickpockets look like the Salvation Army. It was when he’d read about Tuffnell being at the inquest.”

  “And . . .?” Mrs. Stewart waited again.

  “He said that he hoped the man and his friends had grown some manners and some brains. They’d made his sister’s—my aunt’s—life a misery one afternoon, down by the river. Her and her friends. Inappropriate remarks or some such nonsense.” Goode made a fist and tapped it into his other palm. “He said he wished he’d horsewhipped them.”

  “And was that all? Just young men being obnoxious?” She’d known a few in her time, and laid out at least one of them, stone cold, with a fist probably more powerful than anything Goode could muster.

  “No-o.” Goode looked at the door, as though to check it was completely closed. “He told me there’d also been an accident. With a carriage. The horse got spooked and bolted, and a little boy was killed. It was one of the Fyfield carriages and the present duke’s friends had been driving it. I think it’s possible Tuffnell was one of the men involved.”

  Mrs. Stewart resisted the temptation to smile at such shocking news. At last she’d have something to report to the boys.

  Mr. Wood agreed to see Orlando as soon as his card was taken in to the office. Such was his enthusiasm, he almost bowled his clerk over in his haste to usher Orlando in.

  “Am I talking to the Dr. Coppersmith? Of Stewart and Coppersmith fame?”

  “Indeed you are,” Orlando replied, as courteously as was possible towards someone who’d got their surnames in the wrong order.

  “I’ve read about you in the Times. Excellent stuff. I suppose you’ve taken on a commission now? Hence your visit?” Wood suddenly remembered his manners. “Do sit down. Tea?”

  “Yes, please.” Refreshment had been lacking at the Blunstones’ house; Orlando hadn’t realised how parched a man could get in the wilds of Berkshire. “I’m investigating two cases. Both apparent suicides that might not be.”

  “Young Livingstone?”

  “Yes.” Orlando fetched out his trusty notebook. “And one of the men who testified at his inquest.”

  As they waited for the arrival of the tea, Orlando presented a basic outline of the two cases, leaving out such points as the mysterious bells, the broken heart that probably wasn’t, and anything that reflected badly on his hosts at Fyfield. “I wanted to follow up on this business of the misplaced papers. Sometimes something as seemingly unimportant as a document going astray can be vital.”

  Wood rested his elbows on his desk, steepling his hands to his chin. “I don’t think they were germane. An uncharacteristic moment of distraction, and the papers themselves were a routine rewriting of a will. I understand Livingstone was having . . . um . . . romantic difficulties, if you follow me, at the time he was dealing with them.”
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  “Not gambling worries? I believe he’d had those too.”

  “Now, that did take me by surprise.” The inopportune arrival of the tea put a temporary end to conversation, leaving Orlando’s pencil poised—frustratingly—over his paper.

  “You were telling me about his gambling debts,” Orlando said, once the business of pouring had been done and his throat wasn’t quite so parched.

  “Yes. I’d not been aware of them until they were mentioned at the inquest.” Wood stirred his tea thoughtfully. “But then I suppose I’d have been kept in the dark about anything like that, wouldn’t I?”

  “One could well imagine so. Did you ever have any suspicions that Livingstone might have been involved in anything that could leave him in a compromising position? Given his job here?”

  “No. Absolutely not. He always had an eye for the girls, of course, but it never interfered with his work. An exemplary employee, I’d have said.”

  “Even if a gullible one?”

  “Oh, so you’ve heard about that?” Wood smiled in avuncular fashion. “Learned his lesson, I suspect.”

  “Would you care to elaborate? We’ve heard the story but not the detail.” As Orlando’s pencil was poised once more, he thought of Stella Blunstone. “Was it a pretty girl with a pretty story?”

  Wood nodded. “You seem to have a fair idea of what he was like. A client’s daughter, trying to get her hands on money she wasn’t entitled to. And her story was convincing enough, on the face of it. Luckily I became involved early enough, saw through her, and ensured there was no harm done.”

  “Were there any unfortunate consequences?” Orlando felt another lead slip through his fingers.

  “No. Only good ones, in that young Livingstone had a dose of ‘once bitten, twice shy.’ He was warier after that.” Wood took a long draught of tea.

  Orlando laid down his notebook, despairing at ever having anything useful to write in it about these cases. “Mr. Wood, is there anything at all you can tell me about Livingstone which might suggest somebody could want to kill him?”

  “Nothing whatsoever, I’m afraid. I racked my brains at the time—that business with the note in his pocket bothered me as much as it does you.” Wood pushed his cup away, then sat back in his chair. “Tell me about the other suicide, though. Tuffnell, you said his name was?”

  “Yes.” Something in Wood’s voice raised Orlando’s hopes, but he didn’t reach for the notepad yet. That would be to tempt fate.

  “There was a Tuffnell who made himself unpopular here, but that was thirty, maybe forty, years ago.”

  Orlando sat forward. “Old hurts linger long. Could you tell me some more about it?” The voice of reason—which said that anybody Reggie had made an enemy of back in those days would quite likely be too long in the tooth to hoist him up on a rope, even if they were able to get into the house—was ignored.

  “As much as I can. The wild crowd up at Fyfield, of course. They were out driving a carriage—Tuffnell at the reins and like Jehu with the wind behind him, most likely—and ran down a little boy. The lad’s natural father moved away not long afterwards—heartbroken, they said—although the mother stayed. Much more hard-nosed. And pragmatic.”

  “Pragmatic?”

  “It’s amazing the effect that a little money can have, Dr. Coppersmith, in soothing certain grieving hearts. She might not have sought revenge, but the father made threats at the time. Said he’d kill the man who’d done it.”

  A motive, a palpable motive, at last. “Would you have this man’s name?”

  “Alas not, but your friend at the newspaper might well be able to find a report of the incident.”

  “I shall go and ask him, now.” Orlando rose. “Thank you for your help. I was beginning to think nobody wished Reggie Tuffnell harm.”

  “Reggie? No, that wasn’t the man’s name.” Wood creased his brow in thought. “I remember because it was the same as my uncle’s. Ronnie. Ronnie Tuffnell.”

  Orlando sighed. The visit to the newspaper office could wait. He needed to talk to Jonty.

  Mr. Stewart looked out of the study window; even the magnificent Fyfield gardens palled on a day like this, when everybody was out investigating and he was the poor chap who’d been left behind, like when he’d had measles as a child and not been allowed out to play. Surely there was something he could be doing? He contemplated going and bearding Hammond, but decided that would be counterproductive as the man would no doubt both clam up and report the line of questioning to Derek. The same would be true of Beatrice.

  Mr. Stewart sighed, got out his notepad, and opened it arbitrarily. On the page he found the name Rodgers next to the enigmatic, In brown room. Check if heard anything.

  Maybe this was an investigational equivalent of the sortes? In which case, he had to find the duke.

  “I’m afraid you’re going to have to face a journey on the train to get your hands on Rodgers,” Derek said, when Mr. Stewart had run him to ground in his study. “He lives in Wales. Shall I fetch the Bradshaw?”

  “Can’t I just ring him? Surely St. Sebastian’s men are sufficiently up-to-date to possess a telephone?” The Stewarts had installed one as soon as it had presented itself as being a valuable method of keeping an eye on their family. Especially the youngest son.

  “Most of them. But Rodgers is a bit eccentric. Even more than the rest of us.” Derek smiled, ruefully. “You could send a telegram, I suppose. He doesn’t mind those.”

  “I can hardly ask him all I want by telegram.” Mr. Stewart puffed out his cheeks. “Is there nowhere he could be contacted by telephone? Is Wales still stuck in the nineteenth century or is there a convenient establishment we could send him to so we could talk?”

  “I suppose you could try to reach him at his club. They could at least get a message to him to contact you here.” Derek avoided his gaze. “I have the name of the place somewhere.”

  “I would appreciate that, thank you.” Mr. Stewart frowned, frustrated that the duke hadn’t mentioned that in the first place. He waited as Derek found a little address book and copied the details down.

  “The operator should be able to find a number for you.” He passed the scrap of paper across the desk. “I don’t suppose you fancy a tot of something? I need to warn you about Rodgers, and it might be more civilised over a preluncheon drink.”

  “Yes, please. On both counts. If I’m to enter the lions’ den, I’d like to be on my guard.”

  “Less the lions than Daniel himself.” Derek poured them each a small glass from the whisky decanter, rather than the sherry one. He must be feeling tense if he was turning to the grain rather than the grape. “He’s become a bit of a recluse. I suspect he regards the telephone as being the devil’s instrument, so I hope that the people at his club can persuade him to talk to you. If they can’t, you’ll have to go up on the train or forgo talking to him altogether. Water?”

  “A splash, thank you. Don’t want to drown it.”

  “Quite.” Derek handed over the glass. “You know, Rodgers was possibly the wildest of all the Ambrosians in his day. Scrapes with women, things just short of criminal damage, and other escapades for which his parents ended up having to fork out. He mellowed with age.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “Most of us, although some of us have—well, if we were talking wine I’d say they were corked.” Derek immediately looked as if he regretted making that remark. “Look, Rodgers has turned a bit odd. Went evangelical or something and denounced all his former activities. Now he tries to lead a blameless life, without any kind of sin.” The cynical expression on the duke’s face suggested that Rodgers’s trying fell short of achievement.

  “Living without sin? Is that actually possible?”

  “What, you mean that you’ve not attained that blessed state? I thought you’d got there years ago.” Derek smiled, cuffing Mr. Stewart’s shoulder. They moved over to the window, looking out over the grounds and the efforts of the gardeners to keep the lawn
under control.

  “But Rodgers was here for your reunion,” Mr. Stewart continued. “Doesn’t that count as sinful?”

  “Apparently not. Or maybe he thought that his being here would help the rest of us to see the light.” Derek contemplated his glass. “He’s not a bad sort, actually. Eats and drinks and plays billiards with the rest of us, although not to excess. And always draws apart when any racy stories get bandied about. Ronnie’s, usually. I’m not sure they can abide each other anymore, to be honest.”

  “Only Ronnie? How did he get on with Reggie?”

  “Absolutely fine.” The duke gave him a sidelong glance. “He didn’t see himself as an avenging angel or anything like that.”

  “I didn’t think that for a moment,” Mr. Stewart lied, something that was becoming worryingly habitual. “Although I did assume that Rodgers would have disapproved of the gambling and the women.”

  “Of course he did, but he always says, ‘Love the sinner even if you despise the sin.’ He appears to mean it.” Derek ran his fingers down the windowpane. “This Tuffnell business is a bloody mess, isn’t it, Richard?”

  “It does appear to be.” Mr. Stewart felt torn between holding fire at the moment and letting Derek express in his own time whatever was clearly on his mind or to press on with questions. When the silence between them had gone beyond the point of comfort, he continued. “Tell me, old friend to old friend. Do you really want the lads to find out what happened here? Ignore the bee in your mother’s bonnet.”

  “I wish I could.” The duke knocked back the rest of his drink. “If I had the choice, I’d get your lads to stop right now. He killed himself, Richard, as God’s my witness. Reggie took his own life, and I wish everybody could be persuaded to leave well alone.”

  Mr. Stewart kept his eyes fixed on the grounds, although the gardeners could have been herding elephants for all the notice he took. “They’ve the bit between their teeth, and I couldn’t force it out of them. Helena could probably charm them into leaving it be, just for her, but she’d be caught between a rock and a hard place. If we try to exert pressure on your mother, she’ll only become more suspicious, and she’ll make that plain to her goddaughter. I hate to say it, old chap, but I’m more than half persuaded that the dowager already thinks you’ve got all the barriers up.”