Lessons for Suspicious Minds

by Charlie Cochrane

  “He won’t, I promise you.” Mrs. Stewart clasped Orlando’s hand tighter. “And if he does I shall slap him. I’ve done it once and won’t hesitate to repeat the procedure.”

  Jonty rubbed his head again. “My thoughts turned to my undergraduate days. The incident of the goat in the porters’ lodge. I kept the pail, as my token of success. Mrs. Ward seems to use it for mopping the flagstones.”

  “I never knew that.” Orlando, with not a hint of eye-rolling in sight, seemed awestruck.

  “Exactly. Only I know the significance of the thing,” Jonty added, not without pride. “I wondered if it were just possible that Livingstone was murdered, and if the killer ensured that note was left on the body as a sort of equivalent of my pail. Proof he or she had done it and nobody the wiser.”

  “Oh!” Mr. Stewart, looking bright-eyed, sat up straighter. “That’s possible. I’m sure I’ve read a book about a murderer who left some sort of signature, as it were. Purely in the interests of research, I hasten to add.” He eyed his wife sheepishly. “It’s an idea to consider.”

  “I just wish we had some proper evidence to consider.” Orlando put the final dampening touch to a dismal sort of day.

  A distant bell struck eleven thirty, and the Fyfield household had apparently settled for the night. Orlando was due to risk the corridor run on this occasion, although they’d changed their cover story, just in case Denton was hovering about again. Orlando had to pass Jonty’s room to reach the toilet, so if caught this time, he could be shown to be going in the right direction—his dressing gown, slippers, and pyjamas had been chosen as being the correct outfit for that activity. And, of course, they were so much easier to dispose of once in (or on or at least vaguely in the vicinity of) Jonty’s bed.

  It was only as he eventually got along the hall, passed through the door, and reached a spot in front of Jonty’s fireplace that he realised he’d been holding his breath the whole way.

  “What are you up to? You’re as red as a beetroot.” Jonty came over, slipped his arms around him, and let out a sigh. “It’s been at least a million years since I last held you.”

  “Idiot.” Orlando leaned down slightly to kiss him. “And don’t exaggerate. Only a thousand. How’s the head?”

  “Better now, thank goodness. Come over here.” Jonty drew them towards the bed. “I don’t want to lean against the bell pull and find we’ve summoned somebody unawares, as Gray did. Hayes. Or the ginger one we had to bribe. Us. Flagrante delicto.” He shuddered.

  “It could be worse. Imagine if your mother caught us. She has the hearing of a bat.”

  “Don’t! You’ll put me off the idea altogether.” They’d reached the bed, so it seemed natural to sit on it. “Now, talking of altogether . . .” He tugged at Orlando’s dressing gown. “Sharp’s the action, old thing.”

  “What happened to romance? The slow buildup towards the final act or whatever it is you call it when you’ve been reading the Bard?” That’s what Jonty always seemed to prefer, taking their time, making the most of each moment.

  “Romance turned pragmatic. Circumstances alter cases. The less time we spend together here, the less chance of being caught. Especially important when we’re half-dressed and writhing about. There’ll be time for tenderness afterwards, when we’re dressed again and could pretend to Mama or whoever that we’re just talking.”

  “You’re acting out of character again. Another red-letter day for me when you’re the one who’s being so skittish.” Not that Orlando hadn’t entertained the same wary thoughts—although he wasn’t going to admit that fact now. Rarely did one triumph over Jonty Stewart, so each victory had to be savoured.

  “I know.” Jonty sighed. “I’ve been thinking about this all day, but being in the presence—or at least the house—of Mama’s godmother makes me feel that I have to be on doubly good behaviour or she’ll know. She wouldn’t blame you, of course, even if they caught us at it. Say I’d led you astray or some such nonsense.”

  “Then shut up for once and make it a self-fulfilling prophecy. At least the at it bit.” Orlando took another kiss, then pulled Jonty back onto the pillows. “Time to lead me astray.”

  “If you insist.” Jonty peppered kisses along Orlando’s jaw. “And we’ll ignore any knocks at the door. Which is still unlocked!” he added, almost knocking his lover off the bed in his hurry to get up and secure the thing.

  “Now what if somebody takes it into their heads to go and check the doors? Won’t they find it suspicious if the usual . . . Oh!” Orlando’s flow of words foundered at the sight of Jonty slipping off his pyjama jacket—the magnificence of that chest was always a wonder to behold—and following that with the rest of his clothes. If Orlando hadn’t been fully prepared for battle before, then the spectacle of his lover—primed and clearly ready for action—ensured his loins girded (or ungirded) themselves for the fray.

  “And should you not be following my suit, young man?” Jonty came over to tug at Orlando’s jacket once more. “I can’t be doing with all these things. Time-wasting obstructions.”

  “Maybe I should keep everything obstructed. Make you work for your enjoyment.” Orlando pulled his dressing-gown cord closer around him, even though his physical condition meant that it didn’t sit as closely and neatly around his nether regions as it should.

  “So it’s like that, is it?” Jonty pounced, launching an assault consisting of pulling at clothes, tickling, and saying “Shhh!” all at the same time.

  Orlando decided the easiest and most profitable strategy was just to lie back and let him get on with things, especially as his own fit of laughter meant he couldn’t put up any sort of a reasonable defence.

  “Anybody would think you didn’t want to be at it. And after all that smutty talk when we were walking in the grounds. And wanting to roll in the grass, to boot.” Jonty won his fight over the dressing gown and started on Orlando’s pyjamas.

  “I wasn’t the one who wanted to . . . umphmphm.” Any further talk was cut off by a huge, slobbery kiss, one that soon transformed into something much more romantic and appealing. When Jonty wasn’t using his mouth for wittering, he was a supremely accomplished kisser.

  There seemed no point in further discussion, not when they were both stripped down, primed, and ready for action. They were young, their appetites yet to be jaded, and both their enforced abstinence and the possibility of getting caught added to the excitement, and therefore the speed at which the engagement commenced. A slight hiatus was occasioned as the delicate matter was sorted out of exactly which one was doing the boarding and which was lowering their colours, before the action was brought to a swift and satisfying end, the great guns adequately exercised and explosions on both sides.

  “That was quite astonishing,” Jonty said, once he was in a fit state to say anything at all.

  Orlando rubbed Jonty’s head, which was nestling on his chest. “It must have been. You didn’t prattle.”

  Jonty often interspersed their conjugal relations with poetry or prose or—most disconcertingly—references to the work he’d been doing in the garden or something extraordinary he’d seen on King’s Parade. While sonnets or sweet words were romantic enough to fire up a man’s desire—often more than once—stories of ants’ nests or idiots on bicycles threatened to dampen ardour. Although Orlando couldn’t really conceive of his passion for Jonty ever being totally dampened; whether it was the height of love or the depth of folly, the man possessed part of his life, his soul, which nobody else had.

  “Stop it.”

  “Stop what?” Orlando already knew the answer.

  “Thinking things. You once said—on a memorable occasion, etched forever on my mind as it involved you and a fire and the first time we did it—that you didn’t think you’d have another sensible thought after having sex. But it seems to set your brain going like billy-oh sometimes.” Jonty reached up to rub Orlando’s forehead. “Alas, it doesn’t feel like investigational thoughts going on in there.”
<
br />   “I was thinking about you. Although why I should admit that when you’re such an annoying toad beats me.” In contradiction of his words, Orlando held Jonty closer.

  “Because my love is passing the love of women? Not that either of us would have much to say on that score.”

  “No, I was thinking how you rarely stop talking. Case proven.” Orlando stretched and yawned. “I should be getting back to my room.”

  “Two more minutes.” Jonty snuggled down again. “And don’t count off the seconds in your head. I’ll know.”

  “You always know what I’m thinking. It’s disconcerting.”

  “Would you like me to sow some seeds of thoughts in there?”

  “What, like working out who—if anyone—killed Livingstone? I have that trying to germinate already.”

  “I was thinking more of how we tackle Derek.” Jonty sighed. “I’m dreading it.”

  The business with Derek kept buzzing through Jonty’s brain, holding sleep at bay even in his state of postcoital relaxation. Orlando had departed a good half hour previously, leaving his lover to spruce himself up, don his spectacles, and get his nose into a book, but even that routine wasn’t having a soporific effect. He’d just decided that the only solution might be to ring the blessed bell to see if somebody could find him a cup of warm milk, when the door to his room flew open.

  A brief, confused thought that Hayes might have turned telepathic and had come with said drink in hand was banished by the appearance of Orlando’s face round the doorframe. “I’ve swatted that insect.” He looked triumphant, even if he seemed to be talking rubbish.

  “What on earth are you on about?” Jonty, who’d got himself ensconced with Baroness Orczy, wondered how a man would ever get himself to sleep at this rate.

  “The insect of an idea that Lavinia’s whack and the tooth made me think of.”

  Jonty laid down his book. The Old Man in the Corner would have to give precedence to the young man in the doorway, even if it meant his head was likely to explode. “Come in here and explain. In simple words.”

  Orlando made himself comfy on the bed, wrapping his dressing gown round his legs before continuing. “Remember our conversation down by the river? Not the bits about rolling in the grass.”

  “I do. Oh, yes.” Light dawned. “Lavinia saving the day and all that.”

  “Precisely. And me saying that talking somebody into killing themselves would be a tidy way to murder them. I thought that, if they didn’t oblige after all your persuasion, then the murderer might have to, in the words of your sister, take things into his own hands.”

  Jonty took off his spectacles and laid them aside. “I was wrong. I thought rogering would rouse your wits but it’s deadened them.”

  “You’ve not let me finish. I think we’ve been looking at things arsy-versy. Forget all our previous theories and consider this.” Orlando turned onto his side, leaning on his elbow. His face was alive with the thrill of a problem perhaps on the way to solution. “The Ambrosians. We’ve been looking at their escapades in terms of whether rigging up the anvil could be linked to rigging up a hanging. Or where they’ve created enemies. Why not consider the invisible dog?”

  “Sorry?” Jonty wondered whether he’d fallen asleep and this was simply some bizarre dreamworld where Orlando had abandoned all logic.

  “If you can persuade somebody to hold the invisible lead for an invisible dog, then maybe you can do other things. Like persuade someone to take their own life.”

  “Are you saying one of the Ambrosians talked Tuffnell into committing suicide? It would clear up a lot of the difficulties about method and the like. What a wonderful way to commit murder, as you said. Is that one of your preferred methods for doing away with me?” Jonty cuffed his lover’s arm.

  “Don’t talk rot. This is no laughing matter. And no, it wasn’t Tuffnell I had in mind, not on the receiving end, anyway. Livingstone.” Orlando shivered.

  “Hold on. Reggie Tuffnell wasn’t in the country when Livingstone died. And as far as we know, he had no motive.” Yes, definitely a bad dream. Surely the real Orlando wouldn’t be so obtuse?

  “That’s the beauty of the method. If you could convince somebody to take their life on a certain day, you could be miles away and beyond suspicion. Evidence of absence isn’t absence of evidence, to paraphrase Gray.”

  Not so obtuse on that front, then. “Like Mama’s marvellous engine idea? It could work, you know. But where’s the motive?”

  “What if there isn’t one?” Orlando pulled the edge of the cover around him. “My grandmother used to tell me about an old friend of hers who was going a bit dotty. The woman had been a pillar of society, but as she lost her faculties, she lost her moral compass with it. Stole things. Hurt people.”

  Jonty nodded. “I’ve come across similar cases. But how does it relate to this one?”

  “What if you had a taste for practical jokes in your youth, which in your old age turns sour? You seek more and more audacious stunts to pull, until you find the ultimate one? Maybe when Derek said that more than one of the Ambrosians had turned funny he wasn’t thinking of Robbins, but Reggie.”

  “Oh. That’s horrible.” Jonty swallowed hard. “And, you know, it would concur with what Ronnie said, maybe. About getting the old Reggie back. Maybe he’d become a monster, like your grandmother’s friend.”

  “I could imagine that you might get the taste for it. The feeling of power combined with an almost untraceable modus operandi.” Orlando couldn’t hide the horror in his voice. If this was true, it was cold-blooded murder at its worst.

  “And no traceable motive, either, just the taste for death. It’s hideous. And it would provide a reason for somebody wanting to take their revenge.” Jonty rubbed Orlando’s forehead contemplatively. “But we have no proof. Maybe if I confront Ronnie again, and call his bluff, we can get to the truth.”

  “Good luck with that.” Orlando snorted. “The problem is that all the Ambrosians have been less than candid with us. We have nobody to hand who knew Tuffnell and who might give us some impartial information.”

  “Now in that, you’re wrong,” Jonty replied smugly. “Miss Blunstone senior would strike me as being an unbiased witness, although her knowledge of Tuffnell is limited. And Strevens seemed fairly astute. Perhaps somebody else who’d been a neutral observer at the inquest could give us the clue we’ve been missing.”

  “You have someone in mind?”

  “Of course. That gardener, Covington. That’s where the business started and maybe that’s where we’ll find the beginning of the end.”

  “Ever the optimist.” Orlando leaned in for a goodnight kiss.

  “Of course. What else is there to be?”

  The atmosphere over the bacon and eggs in the Fyfield breakfast room wasn’t exactly so thickly uncomfortable you could cut it with a knife—everyone present was far too well-mannered even to imply that there was anything out of the ordinary. The artificial air of extreme politeness and of forced levity, and an unusual preoccupation with the stories in the newspapers, carried on until the dowager—who usually breakfasted in her room—made an unexpected appearance.

  “Mother!” Derek rose and offered her a chair. “How lovely of you to join us. Coffee?”

  “No, thank you. This is but a passing visit. I have my seamstress coming.” She fixed Jonty and Orlando with an unreadable gaze, then smiled. “I hope that Helena passed on my message? About my expectations regarding Tuffnell?”

  “Ah, yes. Thank you.” Jonty wished the ground would open up right there and swallow either the dowager, Derek, or him.

  “The boys are hard at work, dear.” Mrs. Stewart leaped to the rescue. “I understand they’re on the verge of something momentous.” Not quite to the rescue, then: the fire looming before, worse than the frying pan.

  “Yes,” Mr. Stewart said, rising from his seat again. “We were just about to go and discuss it over billiards. To aid the thinking process. If you’d excuse us.”
/>
  “Of course.” The dowager gave assent for the whole company. “And while you’re there, think about your title, dear. I know you’re not bothered about using it, but I’d hate young Helena here not to benefit from what she’s entitled to.”

  “I . . . I . . . Yes, I’ll think about it.” Mr. Stewart backed out of the door, motioning for the lads to come with him.

  Jonty tried not to be too obviously keen to scramble out of his seat and to safety. He took a surreptitious glance over his shoulder as he left the room, to see his mother looking embarrassed, her godmother looking righteous, the duchess confused, and Derek pale, as he’d been since the point where Mr. Stewart had mentioned their repairing to the billiard room.

  The billiard room felt like a paradise, away from determined women.

  “What was all that meek and mildness about with the title?” Jonty fiddled with his cue. “I’ve never seen you be browbeaten about it by anyone.”

  “She knew me as a boy.” Mr. Stewart produced a handkerchief, wiping the perspiration from the desert acres of his pate. “This estate saw some of my worst moments, and she must remember all of them.”

  “That bad?” Orlando absentmindedly chalked his own cue while admiring the naval painting.

  “Worse.” Mr. Stewart put the handkerchief away. “But Fyfield saw my best moment, too—I first met your mother here, Jonty, when I was barely in long trousers. Just there, among the poplars.” He waved vaguely in the direction of the gardens. “I’d never seen anything so beautiful. She was . . .”

  “You’re changing the subject.” Jonty grinned. “I’m sure Mama was as stunning at first sight as . . .” He narrowly avoided saying, “as Orlando.” Even considering how broad-minded his father had become, there were some things that were simply not done. “. . . the dawn over the Riviera as seen from the overnight train from Paris. But that’s not the germane point.”

  “The germane point is that I never suffered any physical violence at Helena’s hands, unlike her many other suitors. That’s how I knew we were meant for each other. Such a shy little thing. With me, that is . . .” Mr. Stewart added, dreamily.