“Oh, hush,” the alluring item replied, delighted. “And I’ll have to add a bit about us relying on Covington’s discretion. How he was right but must manfully resist the inclination to boast about it.”
“Good stratagem. Do you think he’ll be satisfied?”
“He’ll have to be, or else we’ll set Mama on him.” Jonty warmed to his theme. “As a bribe, we’ll send him a St. Bride’s scarf to wear on special occasions. Mrs. Sheridan can parcel it up for him. She’d like that.”
“She’d like him.”
“Oh, so you noticed he was a good-looking boy, too? And all that nonsense you gave me about Hayes. Pot. Kettle. Black.”
“You forgot ‘calling.’” Orlando held up his hands. “Guilty as charged.” He grinned. “So you write to Covington, and we’ll leave your father to talk to your fancy-boy, Hayes.”
“I do not fancy Hayes. I don’t want to play kissy-kissy with anybody but you.”
“Kissy-kissy?” The ridiculous phrase, combined with the grin on his lover’s face, got Orlando into even more of a romantic lather. That bed might be seeing some action pretty soon, once he’d sorted out the other mystery. “You seem unusually agitated. What’s up?”
“To be frank, I’m not sure.” Jonty held out the envelope, probably the better to read it, given that his spectacles hadn’t come with him. “This got forwarded here. It’s from MacBride. The solicitor.”
Not just any solicitor; MacBride had handled Orlando’s grandmother’s affairs.
“It surely isn’t a problem with the trust fund? He’d have written to me about that. Unless you’ve taken to opening my post?” Orlando added, with an attempt at levity. From the look on Jonty’s face, this was serious stuff.
“It’s addressed to me.” Jonty forced a smile. “Primarily, I suspect, because I was the last person in contact with him on the matter, even though it directly concerns you.”
“What on earth are you . . . Oh.” Light dawned. “My grandfather?”
“Your grandfather. Or perhaps I should say your grandmother, as I can see her guardian-angelic hand in this. Although maybe I’m wrong, as I’m not sure she would approve, given the circumstances.”
“Now you’ve lost me entirely. Can you not explain logically, chronologically, and lucidly?”
“I don’t think I can.”
Orlando couldn’t help smiling at his lover’s confusion. Jonty was even more attractive when perplexed—and, of course, he couldn’t act on that attraction until they’d sorted out whatever it was. “What’s this about?”
Jonty fished the letter out of its envelope with unsteady hands. “Read for yourself.”
“Thank you.” Orlando took it, turning the paper to the light.
“You should sit down. Maybe I should go to the drawing room and pour you a sherry.” Jonty lifted himself off the pillows.
“No. I’d rather have you with me than rely on Dutch courage. Or Spanish courage.” Orlando looked up. “Is it that bad?”
“I honestly don’t know. At one point it would have been a matter for rejoicing. After your decision at Fyfield . . .” Jonty shrugged.
“Maybe I shouldn’t read it.” Orlando forced his eyes not to look at the writing. “If we ignore it, will it go away?”
“Don’t be an idiot.”
Orlando didn’t bother with a reply; insults generally passed between them without response. He got his head over the letter, hardly noticing as Jonty gently rubbed his shoulders. The solicitor’s letter gave all that he could have hoped for in the way of explanation, telling its peculiar story with clarity.
MacBride had received a letter from a solicitor in Hampshire, someone who’d spent two years trying to locate the potential beneficiaries of a small estate, the testamentary details of which had been strange: the money had been willed via the deceased’s cousins. Enquiries—tortuous, difficult, often finding a clue just too late to make use of it—had led the solicitor to conclude that his client had two relatives who had definitely survived him, and one other line that was possibly of interest.
Two and a half pages of exposition later, which Orlando worked through patiently, afraid to miss even a single word, came the bombshell. One of the cousins was almost certainly Orlando’s grandfather. MacBride gave the man’s surname—Griffiths—and both a place and a possible date of birth, at which point all the letters and numbers on the page started to dance about, beset by flickering stars, as a loud buzz sounded in his head.
“Orlando! Orlando!” A dim and distant voice cut through the fog. “Wake up.”
A vile, pungent reek invaded Orlando’s nostrils, forcing his eyes open.
“What is that disgusting stuff you’ve stuck in my face?” Orlando batted his lover’s hand away.
“Sal volatile. Mama swears by it. It may be vile, but it works a treat. You fainted.”
“I’m aware of that.” Orlando rubbed his brow, trying to rouse his wits. “How did you happen to have a bottle to hand?”
“Ah. Well. When I first read this letter, earlier, I thought I’d better be prepared.”
“You expected me to faint?”
“I was just covering all the possibilities, considering past experience.” Jonty stroked his arm. “And I was right to, wasn’t I?”
“I suppose so.” Orlando couldn’t argue with the logic.
“Come on, let’s tuck you up. Need to keep warm in times of shock.” Jonty, ignoring any protest, bundled him—trousers and all—into the bed, then joined him. “Remember what you said about your father not taking your ambitions seriously? Somebody in the Griffiths family did, though. How extraordinary that the money was earmarked for the legatees to receive a decent education. Reaffirms my faith in guardian angels.”
“You’ll talk about guardian angels once too often and I’ll have to resort to undetectable murder method number three.” Orlando smiled. “But I appreciate the point. Somebody had faith in me.”
“I always have faith in you, you big daft lemon. From the moment I accidentally stole your chair and you came over to beat the living daylights out of me, I believed you were special.”
Orlando ignored the lie. “Thank you. And thank you for helping me make my mind up on this.”
“Me? I wasn’t aware I’d helped make any decision.”
“You didn’t. But I remembered what you said.” Orlando shut his eyes, recalling the conversation—one that seemed so long ago. “‘Familial loyalty is a noble thing, but it shouldn’t blind one’s eyes to objective assessment.’ That’s what you said when we were looking at the gardens, the day we arrived at Fyfield.”
“Did I say that? That sounds a bit too bright for me. Must have been one of my better moments.”
“I suspect the champagne helped. But say it you did. It helped me make up my mind then, and I see no reason to change it now. The money referred to here”—he waved the letter—“can go into my grandmother’s fund for clever but impoverished students. Thereby it fulfils the original intention of the man who left the money and, technically, without me having to have further business with my grandfather, keeps the inheritance within the family. Sort of. Almost.”
“It certainly does. Excellent solution.” Jonty turned onto one elbow, using the free hand to drum along Orlando’s arm. “Does it close the chapter?”
“It closes the whole book. I could find out about him if I want, now I have a name. But I don’t want.”
“No. Quite. Brave boy.” Jonty ran his hand up to his shoulder. “Why not put that letter on the bedside table? All the house seems to be abed, you know. If you felt like . . .”
Orlando did feel like, not least because he always found it such a comfort. “Dr. Insatiable.”
“If that’s what you think, I’ll go . . .” Jonty replied, although he didn’t move an inch.
“Don’t go. Not now. Not yet. Afterwards.” Orlando spoke the last few words against Jonty’s neck, following them up with a kiss.
“You have no idea how invigorating I fin
d the word ‘afterwards’ in this context.” Jonty’s body, pressed against his, proved just how invigorated the man was feeling. “It’s the promise of ‘befores,’ of course.”
“Shh!” Orlando silenced him with a kiss, sometimes the only effective way to get the little toad—a handsome, annoying, magnificent toad—to be quiet.
“Hmm.” Jonty, when they at last broke contact, sounded wonderfully dreamy. “If you ever got tired of mathematics, you could make a living selling kisses at village fairs.”
“And you could make a living talking twaddle, if you’d ever find someone daft enough to employ you. Although,” Orlando added, with glee, “that’s exactly the situation which applies, isn’t it? St. Bride’s pays you to talk piffle.”
“Right.” Jonty pounced. He worked with silent application until he’d wrestled off—admittedly with little resistance—Orlando’s shirt, trousers, and drawers, losing most of his own clothes in the process. “What sort of ‘befores’ do we require? A light entrée before the main course? Or straight into the solid British beef?”
“If your beef gets any more solid it’ll never make it to the serving dish.” Orlando repressed his laughter. How could Jonty always find so many double entendres to season sex with?
“Oh, I’m the waiter doing the serving duty tonight, am I? Or am I the cook stuffing the Christmas goose?”
“You’re neither,” Orlando replied, voice hoarse with desire. “You’re my very own lover, and if you don’t get about ‘doing your duty’ right now, I’ll probably expire.”
“I could never be so cruel.” Jonty laughed.
He didn’t utter another word until duty had been done to both of their satisfactions.
“I should go back to my own room.” Jonty, still warm and befuddled from testing the bed springs, showed no signs of moving.
“Two more minutes.” Orlando snuggled closer.
“It feels odd not to have a case to discuss. Although there’s one more . . . No, ignore me.”
“You were going to say something important.” Orlando, immediately alert, wouldn’t be fobbed off. “What was it?”
“I wanted to say there’s one more ‘t’ to cross, but it’s something too awful to contemplate.” Jonty shivered. “Back at Fyfield, Derek talked about stopping Tuffnell before he killed again. I was wondering if they’d considered whether he’d already done so. Before Livingstone and apart from Harroway?”
“Good grief. I hadn’t thought of that. It’s entirely possible.”
“Of course it is. He could have been doing it for years, talking unhappy blokes into taking their own lives. Easing down the path of despair, as it were.” Jonty wondered whether he could risk spending the whole night with his lover. The thought of his own big, empty bed wasn’t appealing.
“We wondered whether the letter might have been a sort of signature—do you think we should look for more of those signatures, scrawled over other cases? Or find out if he’d been associated with any other suicides?”
“Dear God, no.” Jonty grabbed Orlando’s arm, just in case he was going to rummage out his notebook. “It’s not like anyone could take action against Tuffnell now—except for any judgement he has to face with the ultimate judge.”
“Then why did you raise the matter? It carries such a stigma, suicide. Shouldn’t the names of the victims be cleared? Or at least appropriate doubt raised?”
“It would be a nightmare, Orlando. Leave it be. God will know and that’s what matters.”
“What about those left behind—don’t they matter too?”
“They do, but maybe they’re best left. It’s a horrible thing, grief. You know that. If somebody’s come to terms with their loved one’s death, then we should think carefully before reopening those old wounds.” Jonty swallowed hard. This fence had to be taken, even at the risk of falling. “Imagine it had been your father. Some idiot comes barging in suggesting he’d been coerced into taking his own life, but they’ve got no proof and—by the way—the man concerned has himself gone to his long home. Would you have wanted that?”
Orlando sighed. “No. You’re right, as ever, when it comes to people. I should leave that part of the business to you.”
“Has it taken you so long to learn that?” Jonty rubbed his arm. “Sometimes things are messy. There’s no right nor wrong, just a great sea of half and half. One does one’s best.”
“But is one’s best enough?”
“That’s a question for a philosopher, Orlando. Or a theologian.” Jonty smiled. “Far too complicated for a mathematician or a Shakespeare scholar. Your best is always good enough for me. Is that a sufficient answer?”
“Better than sufficient.” Orlando quickly squeezed Jonty’s hand. “Perfect.”
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Novels
The Best Corpse for the Job
Lessons in Love
Lessons in Desire
Lessons in Discovery
Lessons in Power
Lessons in Temptation
Lessons in Seduction
Lessons in Trust
All Lessons Learned
Lessons for Survivors
Lessons for Idle Tongues (coming soon)
Lessons for Sleeping Dogs (coming soon)
Paired novellas
Second Helpings
Home Fires Burning
Standalone short stories
Awfully Glad
Promises Made Under Fire
Tumble Turn
The Angel in the Window
Dreams of a Hero
Wolves of the West
Music in the Midst of Desolation
All That Jazz
The Shade on a Fine Day
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Lashings of Sauce
Tea and Crumpet
British Flash
Encore Encore
I Do Two
Past shadows
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As Charlie Cochrane couldn’t be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice—like managing a rugby team—she writes. Her favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries.
Charlie’s Cambridge Fellows Series, set in Edwardian England, was instrumental in her being named Author of the Year 2009 by the review site Speak Its Name. She’s a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, Mystery People, and International Thriller Writers Inc., with titles published by Carina, Samhain, Bold Strokes Books, MLR, and Riptide.
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