Lessons in Loving thy Murderous Neighbour: A Cambridge Fellows Mystery novella (Cambridge Fellows Mysteries)

by Charlie Cochrane

  Lessons in Loving thy Murderous Neighbour

  By Charlie Cochrane

  Lessons in Loving thy Murderous Neighbour © Charlie Cochrane, 2017

  Cover art by Alex Beecroft

  These are works of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or establishments, events or locales is coincidental. All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Chapter One

  Cambridge 1922

  “Owens? Owens?” Orlando Coppersmith’s voice sounded louder, and clearer, from his chair in the Senior Common Room at St Bride’s than it had ever sounded before. And with good cause.

  “Steady on, old man. We’re in enough of a state of shock without you making sufficient noise to wake the dead.” Jonty Stewart smiled at his friend’s uncharacteristic outburst. Although friendship by itself would hardly be the most accurate word to describe their relationship. Even the description “lovers, companions, colleagues and partners in solving crime” didn’t quite cover the depth of the bond they’d build up in nigh on twenty years. If their hair bore the odd silver thread, their ardour hadn’t cooled.

  “Wake the dead or, harder still, wake some of the dons,” Dr. Panesar agreed, mischievously.

  “Good point, Dr. P.” Jonty sniggered. “Some of them give the impression they’ve been asleep since 1913.”

  A quick glance around the oak panelled room supported his assertion. St. Bride’s may have been one of the most forward looking of the Cambridge colleges, embracing the fact the year was 1922 rather than pretending it was still 1622, but some aspects of the university, including crusty old dons, seemed to be an immutable fixture.

  “In which case,” Orlando pointed out, “we’d have ten years of history to explain to them, much of it unpleasant, let alone this latest scandal. St. Bride’s men being asked to defend Owens. What is the world coming to?”

  “Technically, we’re not being asked to defend him, simply establish the truth of what went on. Can you not square that with your conscience?” Jonty tried his most winning smile, but to little avail.

  Perhaps Orlando had a point. Every decent St. Bride’s man loathed Dr. Owens, the master of the infamous “college next door”, a college so despised that it didn’t merit a proper soubriquet among its neighbour’s courts. He’d caused trouble aplenty over the years, perhaps his worst offence being an attempt to molest the wife of the present college master in the Fellows’ Garden, when she’d been younger and fancy free. She’d landed him a swift kick right between the two small forsythias, which was no more than the man deserved.

  And now that he’d been accused of murder most foul, any member of the St. Bride’s community might have been glorying in the prospect of the nuisance being removed.

  Except that Owens was allegedly innocent of the crime and Ariadne Sheridan—she of the forsythia incident, of all people—believed it. That had been enough for Jonty to promise to take a serious look at the matter, although he’d guaranteed nothing in the way of success. The police supposed Owens guilty, the road to trial and conviction appeared to be a pretty straightforward one, and the close contacts the fellows of St. Bride’s had once possessed in the local police force, who might have brought influence to bear, had long retired.

  “We would all do anything to serve Mrs. Sheridan,” Dr. Panesar said, with a twinkling eye.

  “Of course we would,” Orlando agreed. “She’s a pearl of great price.”

  “As are others of the ladies who grace our college.” Panesar averred.

  Jonty forced himself not to laugh. Everyone knew their eccentric colleague had long held a passion for the widowed college nurse, although whether her amply bosomed frame graced his bed—as many averred, but without proof—was a matter of debate. Jonty believed the pair were secretly married, having to keep the matter quiet not because it breached college etiquette, but owing to the potential scandal surrounding a union between Sikh and Christian.

  “We are truly blessed with our female colleagues.” Jonty nodded. “We must show them that the days of chivalry are not dead.”

  “Glad to hear it.” The soft but authoritative voice announced the arrival of the master.

  “Dr. Sheridan.” Orlando rose, shook the man’s hand and indicated an empty chair. “Would you have a moment to join us? I for one would value the opportunity of elucidating further information about this Owens business.”

  Jonty suppressed another snigger, this time at the way his partner in investigation—and partner in bedroom athletics—had adopted his most pompous tones, always an indication of deep emotion.

  “I’d be glad to, although I’m hardly the person to shed much light on the matter.” Dr. Sheridan declined the offer of a chair with a gracious inclination of his handsome head. “Might I suggest we repair to the lodge, where Mrs. Sheridan can brief the four of us?”

  The offer was received with the nearest thing the St. Bride’s Senior Common Room had ever witnessed to a rush for the bar during the interval at a music hall.

  Mrs. Sheridan either had telepathic powers or knew in advance that her husband would make the invitation, because she was waiting in the elegant drawing room of the master’s lodge with a pot of coffee, a decanter of port and a plate of small sugary biscuits, exactly the type Orlando adored and which, he swore, aided the mental processes. She fulfilled the role of hostess with aplomb, what she lacked in beauty—which many a society woman relied on to enhance her position—being compensated for by wit, brains and common sense.

  The assembled party couldn’t be said to be in their first flush of youth, Panesar being the youngest and he wouldn’t see forty-two again, but their minds were as fresh and as incisive as people half their age. And it certainly seemed like they’d need all that accumulated brain power, combined with the wisdom of experience, to tackle the problem they’d been presented with.

  “Let us consider what we know so far.” Dr. Sheridan stirred his coffee meditatively. “Or should I say, what is being spoken abroad in the streets of Cambridge. That might not be as accurate as one might hope.”

  A murmur of agreement and nodding heads greeted the master’s words.

  “An undergraduate, by the name of Olivier Seymour—I think we can take that part as correct—was found bludgeoned to death in his room, early yesterday.”

  “Who found him?” Orlando asked. “As you say, rumour is rife and I’ve heard variously that it was a friend, a college servant and Owens himself.”

  “It was the college chaplain.” Ariadne’s voice carried as much authority as her husband’s. “I know this because he told me. We’re very old friends.” She took a sip of port, perhaps to fortify herself. “Seymour had got himself into trouble, cutting lectures and the like, and was on the verge of being sent down. Thompstone—the chaplain—went to visit him to see if there was anything he could do in the way of practical or spiritual assistance. He was too late to provide help of any kind.”

  Sheridan laid his hand on his wife’s arm. “Take your time, my dear. These things are never easy.”

  Ariadne’s fond smile transformed her. She’d never be beautiful, but late flowering love had seen her blossom, too. “Thank you. It’s not the details that distress me; it’s the thought of a young life cut short, when it was so full of potential.” She took a deep breath and continued. “Seymour’s head had b
een staved in, using a weapon he’d had on display.”

  “A knobkerrie, I’d heard.” Jonty remembered some of his men carrying something similar, out in France. “That was found bloodied beside the body.”

  Ariadne nodded. “There is no doubt it was the instrument of death, and when it was checked for fingerprints it apparently bore various sets, including the victim’s. It appears that he’d been fond of showing it off to his friends.”

  “Were the prints clear or smudged?” Orlando queried.

  “That I don’t know. You would need to ask the police. Thompstone tells me he has heard there was no evidence it had been wiped clean, but that is hearsay and perhaps not admissible to this part of the conversation. And he made sure not to touch the weapon.” She favoured Orlando with another of her dazzling smiles. “He’s heard all about your adventures and knows not to interfere at the scene of death.”

  “So how did Owens get implicated?” Dr. Panesar, bouncing in his seat, was clearly trying—and failing—to hide his enthusiasm.

  “They’d been heard having a heated argument at ten o’clock, in Seymour’s room, about twenty minutes before the body was discovered.” Ariadne, smile now just a memory, laid down her glass. “They’d argued before, and not only because Owens was losing his patience with a lazy and discourteous student. There is history of discord between the two families, I believe.”

  “Discord?” Jonty, who’s been looking out of the window to where the top of the college next door’s chapel tower could be glimpsed, turned his gaze back to his hostess. “That’s the first line we should pursue.”

  “But given that Owens has been arrested, there must be more to it than an argument,” Orlando insisted.

  “Indeed, there is. Seymour’s door was heard to slam shut at the end of the altercation, soon after which Owens was seen striding across the middle of the court. Rumour has it Seymour was not heard or seen subsequently. And,” Ariadne added, with a shudder, “although again this is hearsay, Owens’s fingerprints are among those found on the weapon. The police believe they have their man.”

  Jonty said quietly, “But you don’t?”

  “No.” Peaks of colour flared on her cheeks. “Owens may be a scoundrel but he isn’t stupid. Why make no attempt to cover his tracks? He could have both wiped his fingerprints off the weapon—and anywhere else he’d touched—and made himself less conspicuous afterwards. But no, he traipses along where everyone can see him. Perhaps most pertinently, my friend Thompstone is convinced Owens hasn’t got it in him to do such a thing. He sees quite a different side to the man than any of us have ever done.”

  Orlando snorted. “Isn’t that a chaplain’s job, to see the best in everyone?”

  “Perhaps so,” she conceded, “but Thompstone reckons Owens is as loyal to his college and its inhabitants as any St. Bride’s man—or woman—is to theirs. And, apparently, he can be the life and soul of the party. I’ve been told does a wicked impression of you, Professor.”

  “The swine,” Orlando fumed, while Jonty had yet again to stifle a chuckle. It could be worth clearing Owen’s name simply for the pleasure of hearing his party piece in payment.

  “This certainly doesn’t sound like the man. It would be exactly in keeping with what we know of Owens’s character,” Panesar pointed out, “for him to commit a crime in anger, and then whack himself about with the knobkerrie. He’d call for assistance from the porters, saying that the dead man had attacked him and he’d had to defend himself.”

  “Absolutely.” Ariadne agreed.

  Orlando, fingers steepled under his chin, asked, “Is it possible that Seymour killed himself, and did it in such a manner as to implicate Owens?”

  “That’s the first thing I thought of, but Thompstone says the wounds were too severe to be self inflicted,” Ariadne averred. “He saw many an injury, when he was a padre out in France.”

  Orlando narrowed his eyes. “We must still consider the possibility, however unlikely. And we must also consider the chance that the altercation wasn’t with Owens. If Seymour lodged in the oldest part of the college, the walls might be as thick as a dunderhead’s skull, and the sound would be muffled.”

  “Quite right,” Jonty agreed, “and in addition we should think about whether somebody took advantage of that very noisy argument—and Owens’s presence—to slip in and deliver the fatal blow, knowing the evidence would automatically point elsewhere. There is a third scenario we must contemplate, too.” He turned to his hostess. “Much as it pains me to ask this, I must. Could Thompstone himself have killed the lad?”

  The colour on Ariadne’s cheeks flared again. “That’s the second thing I considered. But if it’s out of character for Owens, it’s more so for my friend. He was an exemplary padre—I’ve met two men he ministered to and they said he was the most peaceable soul they’ve ever been blessed with meeting. I know you’ll think I protest too much, but it’s impossible to believe Thompstone did it.”

  Jonty inclined his head; such testimony should be taken seriously, although they’d still have to regard the chaplain as a suspect.

  “Will you take on the challenge?” Ariadne asked.

  “We will,” Orlando averred, “if we have authority so to do. It’s not our college, and we’ve not been officially asked to investigate.”

  Dr. Sheridan cut in. “Actually, we have. I spoke to the vice chancellor this afternoon and he’s beside himself. He asked if you might be able to make some discreet enquiries. I realise it’ll mean swallowing our pride, but it’s for the sake of the university.”

  Orlando, nodded solemnly. “The vice-chancellor also believes Owens is innocent?”

  “No.” Sheridan smiled, ruefully. “He thinks him guilty as sin, and wants all the evidence in place so the matter is absolutely cut and dried in court.”

  ***

  By the time they left the lodge, Orlando and Dr. Sheridan had agreed to try and see Owens the next day, using the combined power of the university and the dropping of the names Wilson and Cohen, police officers they’d worked with in the past. Jonty would be going into the lions’ den to talk to Thompstone and, he hoped, the student who had heard the argument. Jonty had resisted making the usual “college next door” related jokes, about how he’d need to wear a mask and surgical gloves to avoid being infected. A dead body was no laughing matter, and St. Bride’s itself had been deeply affected by the murders it had experienced as 1905 ran into 1906.

  Orlando was quiet as they strode along the Madingley Road, brain clearly whirring under salt and pepper curls all the way back to their shared home, Forsythia Cottage.

  “Lovely night for looking at the stars,” Jonty had ventured at one point, before giving up trying to produce a response. He could wait until they crossed their own threshold.

  Once they were ensconced with steaming cups of cocoa, from a thermos their housekeeper had left them, and in front of a banked down fire suitable to the slight chill in the air, Orlando seemed ready to have a question or two posed.

  “Interesting conundrum, eh?”

  “It would be,” Orlando agreed, “were it anyone else but him involved.”

  “Ah, yes. I understand.” Jonty remembered well an incident between Orlando and Owens which had happened only a few years previously. An incident which had been perilously close to blackmail on Owens’s part and which had required counteracting by something perilously close to blackmail in return.

  “I knew you would.” Orlando sipped his drink.

  Jonty and Orlando’s long term romantic relationship put them in a vulnerable position, which any man of such an inclination might feel the burden of, but which Orlando found particularly onerous. “Remember, we’re not doing it for him. Not really. It’s for Ariadne and the university and for truth itself.”

  Orlando harrumphed, clearly not convinced by any of those arguments. It would be better to let him work the morality through on his own, tempting him in the meantime with the intriguing aspects of the case. He’d not be able
to resist those for long.

  Jonty took a draught of cocoa, and then said airily, as though simply speaking to himself, “I’ll start by investigating those who share Seymour’s staircase. They’d have had the best opportunity of taking advantage of random chance, then slipping back to their rooms unnoticed.”

  “Without leaving a trace behind?”

  Jonty made a silent crow of delight at Orlando’s so easily won surrender to the lure of the mystery. “The most successful murderers are surely those who are very clever or very lucky. Even in the case of the college next door, we must accept the first as a possibility.”

  “Hm.” Orlando stared into the embers of the fire. “We pondered earlier why Owens didn’t seem to have bothered to cover his tracks, and the same question applies to our mystery man.”

  “We don’t know for certain that no attempt was made to cover tracks. We’ve not inspected the room itself.”

  “True. I hope the police will see fit to enlighten us on the point.” Orlando finished his drink and laid down the cup. “And I suppose if Seymour and the mystery man—I can’t keep saying that, let’s call our suspect ‘Blinker’, shall we?”

  Jonty sniggered, in recollection of Room 40 days. “Blinker it is.”

  “I f Seymour and Blinker had been friends, and if Seymour had been the kind of undergraduate to have a string of chaps in and out of his room on social calls, then traces of Blinker might legitimately be all over the place anyway, so he’d see no need to remove them.”

  “Including on the knobkerrie.” Jonty nodded. “Hiding in plain sight, I suppose? Like I will when the temptation to do away with you becomes too great. I shall be like Niobe, all tears, except that inside I’ll be cackling.”

  Orlando snorted. “Behave. And concentrate on this murder. We’ll have to ask if anyone else was seen to leave the staircase. Although a porter or gyp might pass unnoticed.”

  “Indeed. If there was anywhere for Blinker to secret himself away—a store room or the like—he could stay there until the initial kerfuffle had died down. I wonder if a crowd formed?” Jonty shivered in remembrance of their first murder case, when a throng of distressed undergraduates had gathered on a cold night, the murderer among them. “Blinker could simply emerge and blend in with the ghouls and gawpers.”