Lessons for Suspicious Minds

by Charlie Cochrane

  “The germane point is actually an account of your worst moments, which you’ve kept close to your chest over the years. Would you care to elaborate?”

  “I don’t think I would, but I suppose I’ll have no peace until I do.” Mr. Stewart leaned over the table. “I was led astray by your Uncle Clarence.”

  “I’m not sure that can be entered into evidence. You never used to believe me if I said I was led astray by my older brothers. No wonder you named our Clarence after his uncle. Very apt.” Jonty waited as his father played his second shot as adroitly as the first. “Orlando, what are you up to?”

  “I never believed you because I’m positive that you’d have been the one doing the leading. On ninety-nine per cent of occasions.” Mr. Stewart lined up his next shot, then paused. “Orlando?”

  “Sorry? Is it my turn?”

  “Not yet. We just wondered what was absorbing your interest.”

  “It’s this picture. The Battle of Cape St. Vincent. Funny how that’s rearing its head again.”

  “Eh, what’s this?” Mr. Stewart laid down his cue. “I refuse to take any further part until you explain.”

  Jonty ensured the door was securely closed while Orlando laid bare their ideas about Tuffnell.

  “It’s monstrous,” Mr. Stewart said, once he’d got every bit clear.

  “I feel that I could do with a strong coffee. With a tot of whisky in it to settle me.”

  “Sun’s not over the yardarm, Papa. Damn! I can’t get ships out of my head.” Jonty grinned. “I could manage the coffee, though. Orlando, you’re nearest the bell.”

  “Maybe that bright young footman will bring it, and we can pick his brains again.” That seemed to be as good a prospect as the whisky.

  “We’ll have to promise him Hammond won’t find out. But I’d love to know his opinion on whether the business with the bells was arranged to keep Gray out of the way while”—Jonty gestured eloquently towards his neck—“whatever happened with Tuffnell went on.”

  “I have a different idea about that.” Orlando at last dragged himself away from the picture, although he hesitated to ring the bell. “What if Gray was in on it? Up to his eyeballs. All that stuff about being dead to the world was just eyewash—he’d rung his bell, all right. It wasn’t him they were keeping out of the way.”

  “This is the new Orlando, Papa.” Jonty gave a flourish of his hand as though he were introducing a stranger. “He constructs wonderfully impressive theories on no evidence at all. Come October, he’s going to change to teaching history. Talking of which, have you seen what’s next to this picture? A copy of Admiral Jervis’s despatches, after the battle.”

  “He never could concentrate on the matter in hand.” Mr. Stewart smiled at Orlando. “And a man is allowed to construct scenarios so long as he abandons them if the evidence points to the contrary. And nothing contradicts any of what you’ve laid before me today. Who were they keeping out of the way?”

  “I suspect it might have been one of the servants. Hammond, possibly, although the ways he’s been acting it’s more likely to be Hayes.”

  “Ah, that’s an idea. I—”

  “Hold on!” Jonty said. “Forget bells for a minute and read this.” He traced the words of the despatch with a chalky finger. “See? ‘I anxiously awaited the dawn of day.’ Where have I seen that before?”

  Before anyone could work out the answer, they were interrupted by a tap at the door, followed by the appearance of Hammond.

  The butler presented a calling card on a silver tray. “There’s a lady to see you, Dr. Coppersmith.”

  “A lady?” Jonty turned from the picture and beamed with delight. “Miss Blunstone, I bet.” He snatched at the card.

  “Manners, Jonathan!” Mr. Stewart brought him up short. “We’ll have none of your students’ habits slipping in.”

  “Thank you, Hammond.” Orlando mustered up his most dignified tone. “Would the duke mind if I saw her in the drawing room, or maybe the library?”

  “I should say the library would be most acceptable, sir. Shall I ask Hayes to bring you some tea?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Orlando replied, “and a pot of coffee, as well.”

  “It is Miss Blunstone.” Jonty waited until Hammond had gone back below stairs and Mr. Stewart had gone to share their latest ideas with his wife, if she hadn’t already left. “I saw the name. You made a conquest. I’ll arrange to have the banns read right now.”

  “You’ll get a kick up the backside.” Orlando led the way to the library. “And, Dr. Eagle-eyes, you’ve made a fundamental mistake. Want to come and see?” Orlando hoped that his own deduction had been correct or he’d be in deep trouble, both with his lover and with Miss Blunstone.

  “I shall be delighted to act as chaperone. Do say when you want me to look the other way.” The expression of glee on Jonty’s face disappeared when he saw their visitor.

  “Miss Blunstone? Delighted to see you again.” Orlando beamed and took “Aunty’s” hand with the intention of pressing it, deciding instead to kiss it as that would keep Jonty surprised. “This is my colleague, Dr. Stewart.”

  “Delighted to meet you.” Aunty offered her hand to Jonty and had it kissed a second time. “I hope you don’t mind me calling on you like this. Nor that the duke will mind me buttonholing his guests.”

  “I’m sure he won’t.” Jonty led her to a chair. “And I’m not sure if our host is actually at home at present. He, the duchess, and the dowager duchess are intending to take my mother to visit an old family friend today. I’m sure they’ll be sorry to have missed you.”

  Orlando, ensuring their guest couldn’t see him, made his do be quiet face.

  “Oh, don’t talk such rot.” Miss Blunstone was evidently delighted at the attention she was receiving. “I’ve come here on business. Your business.”

  “That’s what we hoped.” Orlando took out his notepad. “Some refreshments will be here presently.”

  “Thank you. A cup of tea would be most welcome.”

  “Our pleasure, ma’am. Miss.” Jonty produced his usual twinkling smile to cover his increasing confusion.

  “I suppose it would have been more appropriate to have asked you to call on me, but one can never be sure that Stella won’t be in the offing.”

  That made sense. Aunty sounded much more chipper than when in the presence of her niece.

  “I’d rather she didn’t hear this,” she continued. “She thinks she’s terribly bright and I suppose she is, compared to me. My father didn’t approve of women getting a proper schooling, so I’ve had to learn at the school of life.”

  Orlando inclined his head. Miss Blunstone spoke with quiet assurance and no hint of boasting, merely stating the facts as she saw them. The arrival of Hayes, with tea, coffee, and a smile he was evidently trying to hide, created a hiatus. By the time the rituals of pouring and the like had been completed, and everyone was settled with whatever they wanted to drink, the footman seemed eager to linger, offering all sorts of unnecessary domestic help. Orlando was delighted finally to usher him out.

  “We’re very interested in whatever you have to tell us. I assume it concerns Charles Livingstone?” Jonty took his place on the chair next to their guest. The bright morning sunlight on the gilt chair back created a sort of halo round his head; Orlando wondered if the avenging angel would appear today.

  “It does.” Miss Blunstone sipped her tea. “My niece is a lovely girl but she always thinks she knows best. It’s a fault some young women possess—some men, too, no doubt, although my experience of them is limited and therefore I have little evidence to go on. Livingstone was a chump.”

  “That’s pretty well the conclusion I’d come to after our last interview. Is there more to add?” The notepad was neatly balanced on the chair arm, ready.

  “He was a hypochondriac, for one thing. Always had something wrong with him and always had nothing wrong with him, if you get my meaning. Ringworm? It was heat rash.” Aunty raised her eyebro
ws. “Wanted to join the navy but said they wouldn’t let him because of his health. Stuff and nonsense. He could have run up a mast like a monkey up a tree. The trouble is that he got things into his head and girls like Stella fussing over him encouraged those beliefs.” She laid down her cup, narrowing her eyes and focussing on Orlando and his notepad. “Is what I’m telling you of no relevance?”

  “It is,” Jonty answered. “Of great relevance, in that it confirms what we’ve already been told. What we desperately need is what we’ve not yet been told.” Yes, here was a hint of the avenging angel; the suggestion of a halo had probably been right. Jonty leaned forward. “Was Livingstone enough of a chump to be persuaded to hold a lead for an invisible dog?”

  Aunty snorted. “If it was a pretty girl doing the asking, he’d have thrown an imaginary ball for it to chase.”

  “But only if a pretty girl asked him?”

  “Dr. Stewart, are you suggesting my niece had something to do with that young man’s death?”

  “No! No.” Jonty, clearly distressed, left his seat and moved to the windows. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to imply that at all.”

  “I should be the one to apologise,” Aunty said, after an uncomfortable silence. “I brought that on myself. I understand that you have to walk down every avenue—Dr. Stewart, will you forgive me?”

  “Of course.” Jonty turned and made a bow. He was still pale. “But be assured, we had never considered your niece as being implicated.”

  “And quite right, too. She’s not imaginative enough.”

  “Miss Blunstone, this investigation has been neither straightforward nor comfortable. I believe that what my friend intended to ask was would Livingstone have been so easily led by someone who wasn’t as young and pretty as your niece?”

  “Do you mean by Captain Tuffnell?”

  “We do, indeed.” Orlando looked at his lover, but Jonty showed no sign of returning to his seat.

  “We heard of Tuffnell before we ever met him. He was Livingstone’s childhood hero, with his tales of life at sea. I assume that at least some of them were true, probably the ones involving Nelson or the like, rather than the ones involving him.” Aunty sniffed.

  “You mentioned that Livingstone was particularly interested in the Battle of Cape St. Vincent?” Orlando asked.

  “Yes, he was. He used to say that one of his family had been killed then. At St. Vincent.”

  “Did you believe him?” Jonty at last abandoned his post and returned to his seat.

  “Stella did.” Miss Blunstone tipped her head to one side. “I never believed a word of it, but I’ve been doing some research, if I can use such a grand word for poking about in some old records. It was true.”

  “You joked that the date of the battle couldn’t have influenced the day of his death,” Orlando stated. “Have you changed your mind?”

  “I have. I’d think it more likely the choice of date was linked to the navy than to romance.”

  “Do you remember the letter?” Orlando wrinkled his brows. “Did Livingstone say something about having ‘anxiously awaited the dawn of day’?”

  “Yes. It was an extraordinary phrase, given that his prose was hardly flowing at the best of times. Is it important?”

  Orlando shrugged. “It’s possibly a very small dot on a circumstantial letter ‘i.’”

  “Ah. If I may continue, then.” Miss Blunstone folded her hands in her lap, as she might have done when regaling her niece with a fairy tale, although this story seemed to be absolutely true. “You will remember, Dr. Coppersmith, that we said Livingstone had been excited when he’d seen Tuffnell again, after what seemed to be a long time? Ignore what Stella said about it—she isn’t a good judge of character, bless her.”

  “You’re a better one?” Jonty said, not without a charming smile.

  “I’m a more experienced one, let’s say that. And being an outside observer, as it were, one has the benefit of objectivity.” Miss Blunstone poised herself, as though indicating that the crux of the interview had arrived. “His excitement did not seem altogether healthy. More nervous than exhilarated. As though Tuffnell was firing him up in ways which were not healthy.”

  “Your niece described Tuffnell as a nice old cove.” Orlando spoke quietly. “Would you agree with that?”

  “No, I would not. I had a cousin who used to delight in pulling the wings off insects and other nasty practices. He used to have a particularly devious look in his eye, especially when he’d persuaded my aunt that he’d had nothing to do with whatever mischief had occurred.” She leaned forward, confidentially, to deliver the final thrust. “I saw Tuffnell’s face, both when we met him in Maidenhead and after he’d given his evidence at the inquest. He had the same expression of triumph in his eye.”

  Orlando returned to Monkey Island with a strange feeling in his stomach, a feeling he tended to get only when he was close to solving either a particularly abstruse mathematical puzzle or a mystery. They had, if not proof of Reggie Tuffnell’s involvement in Livingstone’s death, an indication that he’d been up to something unpleasant. Could Covington provide them with another piece of the puzzle?

  He and Jonty found the lad tending the roses they’d so much admired when they’d come there for lunch, what seemed an age ago. A guinea for the head gardener and five shillings for the young man himself secured his services, and all they then required was a quiet bower in which to explain most of what they’d found out so far—with the exception of their theory that Tuffnell had suggested Livingstone kill himself. No point in leading a witness on.

  “And there you have it.” Jonty spread his hands as they finished the exposition, as if to show nothing more was left to explain.

  “I remember Tuffnell at the inquest.” Covington’s brow wrinkled in thought. “I thought he seemed shaken. He said his brother had made him have a holiday, so he hadn’t been here to get wind of Livingstone’s intentions and stop him.”

  “Hold on.” Jonty rummaged in his pocket. “Dr. Coppersmith, could you get out your notebook, please? I’d like to check something.”

  “Of course.” Orlando wasn’t sure exactly what was afoot.

  “Ronnie Tuffnell told me that Reggie had organised that trip to Paris, not him.”

  “Hold on . . .” Orlando flicked through pages until he found the ones relating to Strevens. “Yes. He said that at Tuffnell’s inquest, too. So one of them told a lie. That’s no surprise.”

  Jonty sighed. “I anxiously await the dawn of the day when men tell the truth. It’ll be the end of the world.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Covington looked as if he’d seen a ghost. “I’ve remembered something. That thing about anxiously awaiting the dawn.”

  “Yes.” Jonty nodded. “It was in Livingstone’s note. We know.”

  “Not just that. Tuffnell came up to me after the inquest. Said he was grateful for me having given my evidence so clearly. Said it must have upset me to find a dead body.”

  “Yes? And?” Orlando felt like a greyhound in the slips.

  “He said if I ever anxiously awaited the dawn of day as his friend had done, then there were worse ways to go than the one he’d taken. It made me feel uncomfortable.”

  “I bet it did.” Jonty was clearly trying to suppress a note of triumph. “You just try and forget everything you ever heard Tuffnell say.”

  Orlando had just washed his face and loosened his tie; lunch had been late, the afternoon had turned sultry, and he wanted nothing more than half an hour sitting in a chair with a nice bit of calculus and maybe forty winks. The bursting open of the door and Jonty bouncing into the room soon put paid to that.

  “Our guardian angels have been hard at work again,” he said, closing the door behind him with hardly a squeak.

  “They’ve inspired you to square away all the knotty bits of our cases?”

  “Not yet. They’ve summoned Papa off to a meeting with his man of business—something about rents or leaking roofs. We have the house to ours
elves for an hour or two.” Jonty eyed the bed.

  “Get that right out of your mind, young man. It was bad enough in the middle of the night—anybody could be prowling around now.” Discovery, disgrace, disaster. A man romping with his mistress might be a scandal, but he wouldn’t end up in prison, as they might. “What if they came to turn back the bed or change the towels or whatever they get up to in these big houses during the afternoon?”

  “Spoilsport. I feel so low, this would be just the sort of thing to raise my spirits.” Jonty ran his hand along the bedpost, perhaps in recollection of happy times the night before. “We could try locking the door. Or putting out a ‘Mathematician asleep—do not disturb’ sign. We’d have to be quiet, of course. And no thrashing about—we wouldn’t want you pulling the cord and setting off the bells. What would Hayes think if he walked in to see your bare bottom thrashing around?”

  “Will you not give up?” Orlando whispered, grinning despite the annoyance he felt. Raising low spirits? More a matter of raising other parts. “Go and take a cold bath or a dose of bromine. Or run round the grounds. Anybody would think that you wanted Hayes to catch us.”

  “Rather him than one of the chambermaids.” Jonty sighed, took one last look at the bed, then seemed to admit defeat. “He’s so well trained he’d probably just say ‘I beg your pardon, sirs,’ and make his withdrawal.”

  “Then spread the juicy gossip all round the servants’ quarters? No, thank you.” Orlando settled himself on the window seat, as far away from the bed as possible.

  “I think he’s too sensible for that.” Jonty took his place on the opposite corner of the seat. “I hate the thought of people duping him. I wonder if he’s thought about being a porter? I bet the money’s better at St. Bride’s, even if the food’s probably worse.”

  “It’s bad enough with the broadside we’ll be launching at the duke, let alone trying to purloin his staff.” Orlando ran his fingers down the windowpane. “Will we confront him tonight?”