Lessons for Suspicious Minds

by Charlie Cochrane

  “I suppose so.” Orlando wrinkled his nose, as though they were crossing a field full of cow pats rather than a grassy meadow. “But don’t you find it odd that murder seems to dog our tracks? Even if we’d had nothing to do with Tuffnell, if we’d just come here with your parents for a social call, we’d have picked up Livingstone en route.”

  “I know. I’m seriously contemplating wiring all of our hosts a fortnight in advance to warn them that they’ll likely have a corpse on their hands within days of our arrival, if not beforehand.” Jonty rubbed his forehead, leaving a trail of green smudges. He too had been playing with the long grasses. “It’s getting beyond a joke.”

  “Stop a minute. You’ve made a right mess of yourself.” Orlando licked the corner of his handkerchief and applied it to Jonty’s face. “Is it us, do you think?”

  “Thank you. And is what us?”

  “Is there something in our character which makes people want to go off the rails and stove in the heads of their nearest and dearest?”

  “No. It’s pure coincidence. Or a run of bad luck—like you had at the tables at Monte Carlo.” Jonty slipped his arm around his lover’s shoulders. “The famous system you worked out with Dr. Panesar.”

  Orlando sniffed meaningfully, although whether at the mention of coincidence or the remembrance of money gained and then lost, Jonty couldn’t tell.

  “And some of it I suppose can’t be avoided. If we get asked in to investigate a crime, then chances are we’ll find ourselves in the vicinity of another. Murderers do tend to repeat themselves. Think of that first case.”

  “I’d rather not, thank you.” Orlando shuddered.

  Jonty gave him a quick sideways glance, but nothing further seemed to be forthcoming. Maybe they’d negotiated the tricky bend in the psychological road that always came with the consideration of suicides. They had featured large that time, too. Best to keep Orlando’s thoughts on the present day and not let him get too maudlin. “Come on. I said I’d show you where we used to go and make dens. It’s just along here. Maybe we’ll find Clarence’s tooth.”

  “What?”

  “Clarence’s tooth. It was the last of his milk ones and still hanging on stubbornly, even though he was nearly twelve. We had this idea to tie a bit of thread to a tree and the other end to his tooth, then make him run, so either the thread would snap or the tooth be yanked out.”

  “And did your mad idea work?” Orlando looked as though he didn’t believe a word of the story.

  “We never found out. He wouldn’t play ball, no matter how much we tried to persuade him it was for his own good. Here.” Jonty stopped by a large, partly hollowed-out tree, where decay and the devastation wreaked by youngsters had created a wonderful wooden grotto. “What do you think?”

  “It’s smashing. Makes me wish I was eleven again.”

  Jonty cursed himself for having—again—touched on another painful subject. Orlando’s childhood hadn’t been blessed with many friends or happy hours, except in the company of his beloved grandmother. “I tell you what. When George is old enough to be let loose, we’ll bring him here and all four of us can play shipwrecks or pirates or Robin Hood.”

  “All four?”

  “Afraid so. Do you think Ralph would miss out on the fun? I seem to remember he was here. Yes. Of course!” Jonty slapped the tree trunk gleefully. “It was the famous day he threw the frog at Lavinia.”

  “Love at first amphibian?” Orlando eyed the tree branches, all of which seemed beyond boys’ reach. “So if the mad idea didn’t work, how did Clarence come to lose the tooth?”

  “Lavinia whacked it out. Hell of a blow. The item concerned went flying into the undergrowth never to be seen again.”

  “I’m not surprised. A chip off your mother’s block. Did she get a whack from him in return?”

  “Clarence wouldn’t have dared. And not just because Mama would have given him another clout for his pains. Lavinia was our heroine. Borne back to the house on our shoulders in triumph, like Cleopatra on her barge. That’s when Ralph fell in love with her, I suppose. It worked a treat. Maybe we could pretend to look for that tooth, which would explain any dishevelment or mud we might be displaying by the time we return to the house?”

  “Dishevelment?” Orlando checked his trousers and jacket. “We’re not . . . Oh. No. You can get any of that out of your head. These are my favourite trousers, anyway. Leave your adventurous ideas for tonight. You can’t get muddy in my bed.”

  “Spoilsport.” The slowly westering sun dipped behind a cloud, reminding Jonty that tempus was fugit-ing. “Come on. Mama and Papa won’t be late and neither should we. You don’t want me to carry you on my shoulders, do you?”

  “I wouldn’t deserve it. Not unless I solve both cases in the next five minutes. Maybe if I breathe in deep, I’ll get some inspiration, left over from forty years ago. When you were here as a youngster.” Orlando grinned, neatly sidestepping the whack Jonty sent his way.

  “I wish I had Lavinia here to sort you out.” Jonty took his lover’s arm as they set off once more. “She was magnificent. Kept telling Clarence he’d get such stick from the boys at school if he went back in September with the tooth still hanging there. How he needed to conquer his fear, do the decent thing, and get rid of it. When he wouldn’t, she said”—Jonty broke into a startling impression of a young girl—“‘I’ll have to take it into my own hands, then.’”

  Orlando stopped, looked at Jonty, looked at the tree, then shook his head.

  “What is it?”

  “Something buzzing at the back of my brain, like a small insect you can hear but can’t see to swat.” Orlando shook his head. “I seem to have lots of things buzzing about that don’t make sense. The wrong brother. Notes in waxed canvas.”

  “Maybe you should wrap those little notes of mine you keep in waxed canvas, so they don’t get spoiled,” Jonty suggested. “You know, in case you got a pint of beer thrown on you in the Bishop’s Cope.”

  “How do you know about those notes?” Orlando appeared both surprised and offended.

  “Ah. Well. I found them when I had to look after your things. When you lost your memory.”

  “And you never let on? I didn’t realise you had such self-control.”

  “I’d love to show you how much control I have, but unfortunately it’ll have to wait for tonight.” Jonty slapped his lover’s arm. “Maybe I should. If you’d been a sailor, you’d have thought of that before now.”

  “Well, I don’t have that specialist knowledge. Oh hell.” Orlando stopped in his tracks.

  “Oh hell what?”

  “Reggie Tuffnell. Captain Tuffnell. He was a sailor. He’d have known about despatches being trussed up. What if Tuffnell killed Livingstone and was himself killed in revenge?”

  “Hold on. Let me think.” Jonty switched his brain from romantic mode into investigational. “Are you saying he then testified at the inquest to ensure that a verdict of suicide was brought in? What motive?”

  “Maybe he was the one Tuffnell was in debt to? By killing Livingstone, he cleared the debt.”

  “Doesn’t work. Tuffnell was still apparently in debt when he died. And there’s more than that.” Jonty laid his hand, tenderly, on his lover’s shoulder. “You must be tired. I’m not sure your logic is at its sparkling best at present. Tuffnell was in France when Livingstone drowned.”

  “You only have his word and Ronnie’s for that.” Orlando seemed determined to fight his corner.

  “True. But he would know those facts could be checked, had we sufficient motivation to do so. It’s not like Ronnie was in France pretending to be Reggie or anything. They were both together.”

  “Oh, hell squared, then.” Orlando snorted as they walked on. “Back to the drawing board.”

  “Indeed. But we’ll get inspiration, never fear.” Jonty lowered his voice, even though nobody was in earshot. “Usually a jolly good rogering rouses up your wits. Let’s hope tonight does the trick.”

&nbs
p; The members of the council of war were looking—and feeling—more than a little tired for going into battle. Even Jonty confessed that he felt his elastic had snapped. An invigorating late afternoon sherry in the drawing room fuelled an enthusiastic sharing of information and the combination soon revived their flagging spirits, even though a damper was swiftly reapplied. Mrs. Stewart finished her evidence with the galling fact that Rodgers had confirmed the boy who’d been killed was an only child, that it had definitely been Ronnie at the reins, that the father had disappeared after making threats, and that the mother had seemingly been interested only in the compensation on offer. Derek, via Mr. Stewart, had confirmed that the woman herself had died of pneumonia not long after the accident.

  “So we have a possible motive for somebody wanting revenge on Tuffnell, but the person—by which I mean the chap whose girlfriend was killed—wasn’t alive to kill him. And someone with a further motive—by which I mean Ronnie—who’s supposed to have an alibi, but it’s for the wrong time.” Jonty counted them off on his fingers, theatrically. “And there’s another chap who might be harbouring a grudge—by which I mean the boy’s father—who is, as far as we know, still around, but he’s got a motive for revenge on the wrong man. Ronnie’s very much alive. Or was this morning when I spoke to him.”

  “I hope you didn’t have quite such a dirty face when you met him,” Mrs. Stewart said. “I thought you gave up climbing trees at thirteen.”

  “I was not climbing trees, Mama.”

  “How alike are they? Ronnie and Reggie?” Orlando chipped in, just in case the Stewarts took too much interest in what they had been doing. Or at least contemplating doing.

  “I have no idea. I mean, I think I must have met them both in the past,” Mr. Stewart added, “but I’m not aware of ever thinking ‘My goodness, those two brothers could be mistaken for each other.’ They could have grown more alike now, I suppose.”

  “You’re thinking Reggie might have been killed in error, aren’t you?” Mrs. Stewart spoke softly, in a voice that usually meant she had something unpleasant to impart. “I’m afraid that theory seems awfully far-fetched. You’d have had to get close to Reggie Tuffnell to have strung him up, and wouldn’t you have recognised your error? Or wouldn’t he have been alarmed at a stranger breaking into his room and raised the household? The archdeacon’s room isn’t the only one with a bell.”

  “You’re quite right, Mama.” Jonty sighed. “And we’re back to the method of death, again. If you wanted to get revenge on the man, then why not just shoot him out in the grounds, or run him down with your motorcar? Much less chance of being found out, and far easier to pass the thing off as an accident should you be caught. Which brings me to another puzzling aspect. I gave Ronnie a lead, asking about Reggie’s health. Easy enough to tell me he’d been ill and refused to see a doctor and then took his life as he was tired of suffering. Yet he didn’t.”

  “Maybe that would raise the question of his being eased out of his suffering by his nearest and dearest?” Mrs. Stewart suggested. “Although an overdose of morphine might have been more appropriate in that case.”

  “We should examine all of the illogicalities.” Orlando flipped his notebook open to a new page. “Maybe we can weave them together to make a logical whole.”

  “I admire your optimism,” Mr. Stewart replied. “Would we not be better to discard all of the anomalies and concentrate on what we know for a fact?”

  “What I know for a fact is that nobody is behaving as I’d expect.” Jonty blew out his cheeks. “If one of the Ambrosians did Tuffnell in, and the rest are covering it up, why haven’t they helped us go down a blind alley or two? Point us at any people who had a reason to wish Tuffnell dead.”

  “Because the culprit couldn’t have come in from outside.” Orlando tapped his notebook, as if that proved everything. “I had a word with the gardeners. Those bushes under the Grey Room window didn’t show any evidence of being trodden on at the time. Whoever did this would have had access to the house, or help from inside.”

  “Right,” said Jonty, starting to roll up his sleeves, only stopping when he saw his mother’s look of horror. “Ignore, for the moment, the boy. We have no evidence to link his death to Tuffnell’s. What next?”

  Orlando nodded his agreement at the application of proper method. “Livingstone’s note was still in his pocket.”

  “Ah. Now, I have a theory for that.” Mr. Stewart’s eyes shone. “We’ve been told he used to habitually read an old note to remind himself of how silly he’d been. What if he also habitually carried it around with him? The murderer wouldn’t necessarily have known that, so the note was simply there. A good red herring.”

  “That horse won’t run, Richard.” His wife waved her hand. “It doesn’t explain why it was all trussed up in waxed canvas or whatever the stuff was. That smacks of preparation.”

  Mr. Stewart ignored the setback. “What about the girl, Orlando? You said you were suspicious of her being so sure of the bridge he’d jumped off.”

  Orlando blew out his cheeks. “I was, but it seemed more a case of her embroidering the story than her having been involved in killing him. She didn’t seem to resent his interest in her. And it was the aunt who apparently sent him packing.”

  Jonty had finally got his cuffs back into order. “What about the only man who we know benefitted from Reggie’s death? Why would he have an alibi for the wrong time? Anyone have any thoughts?”

  “I do, but they make little sense.” Mr. Stewart wrinkled his brow. “Ronnie might have got people to say he was with them, then sneaked over here to do the deed but found that it couldn’t be carried out, so he had to return later, even though nobody could vouch for him in the middle of the night.”

  “But that makes entire sense, dear,” his wife said reassuringly. “It’s a splendid theory.”

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t, old girl. Nobody but a fool would plan such a crime to happen when the Fyfield household would likely be at dinner or swigging brandy or playing billiards. Tuffnell wouldn’t have retired to bed by then and even if he could have been lured away, his absence would have been noticed.” Mr. Stewart took his wife’s hand and patted it. “As would Ronnie himself, most likely, if he was lurking around the grounds when everybody was still up. The Ambrosians keep late hours. You wouldn’t happen to have a better theory to offer, dear?”

  Orlando gave Jonty a quick glance—that “dear” had sounded decidedly lacking in affection. This case was putting them all under strain.

  “Alas, I’m not sure I have. I can only imagine a scenario in which somebody set up a machine of some sort, activated by a timing mechanism, one that could deliver a deadly blow or a dose of poison or something.” Mrs. Stewart didn’t notice the rolled eyes from her husband and son. Orlando smiled, encouragingly. “Then the person concerned would need to be noticeably somewhere else when the thing went off.”

  “But that can’t apply in this case, Mama. How could you rig up an engine to ensure a man ended up hanged at a certain time?”

  “Hold on.” Orlando waved his notebook at his lover. “What if Ronnie didn’t do the deed, but knew that it was on the cards? Then, for some reason only his accomplice would know about, it happened at a different time to when Ronnie was so noticeably in another place.”

  “Oh, yes.” Jonty nodded eagerly. “I like that theory. I like that a lot. Something happened to delay the denouement, as it were, so Ronnie’s left with an alibi that’s worse than useless.”

  “And what if his accomplice was somebody on the Fyfield staff?” Orlando warmed to his theme. “That takes out all the problems about breaking into the premises or understanding the workings of the household.”

  “You could even arrange for the false ringing of Gray’s bell to add a touch of chaos to the scene.” Mr. Stewart rubbed his hands. “I like this, too. A person with motive but no opportunity and another with opportunity but no motive. Dovetails beautifully and deflects all suspicion.”

&nbs
p; “That might explain something else.” Jonty almost spilled the last of his sherry in his excitement. “Why ostensibly we’re supposed to be given free rein in investigating, but Derek clearly doesn’t want us to go poking around and Hammond is putting up barriers where he can. If they knew that a member of staff had been involved—one that’s perhaps now gone—they’d close ranks.”

  Mr. Stewart eyed his glass as though he couldn’t quite work out where the contents had gone. “He told us that every staff member who was here at the time is still here. Do you think he lied?”

  “I have no idea. I’ll get it verified by Hayes when he helps me get my tie on tonight.” Jonty gave Orlando a defiant glance.

  “Maybe Hammond’s reluctance to help us is nothing more than not wanting his staff upset. People can get awfully superstitious about houses where deaths have occurred, especially unnatural ones. He won’t want all the housemaids walking out on him, nor that excellent cook.” Mr. Stewart’s stomach rumbled, echoing his spoken sentiments.

  “Domestic arrangements and the harmonious maintenance of the same are never to be underestimated.” Mrs. Stewart spoke with authority. “But don’t let that stop you ploughing on. I don’t want the dowager left less than satisfied.”

  “I’m afraid she may have to be, unless we can get a breakthrough soon.” Orlando closed his notebook.

  Jonty got up, went over to the fireplace, and kicked idly at the firedogs. “Papa, I’m vexed about this Robbins chap who couldn’t bear to be in the same room as Reggie Tuffnell because of that boating accident. Derek was cagey with you about him, as Ronnie was with me. We need some more information, so we can at least eliminate that line of enquiry. Could you beard the lion again?”

  Mr. Stewart paled. “It vexes me to have to confess myself a coward, but might I decline that pleasure? I have an awful feeling he’d just fob me off again.”