I apologise if I was overly aggressive last evening in my defence of the Reverend Thompstone. As an old soldier yourself, you will understand that the scars he still bears are not all physical ones. You will also be able to understand another aspect of him, which might pass other old soldiers’ notice, but I will leave that for him to explain, should he want to. I have advised him that he’ll find you a sympathetic ear. He will be waiting in his little office off the chapel at ten this morning.
Fond regards
Ariadne Sheridan
Smiling, Jonty tucked the note into his jacket pocket, to share with Orlando later. What would that ‘other aspect’ prove to be? He could make an educated guess, but that was reading an awful lot into very few words.
Among the other items in his pigeonhole had been a letter of introduction from the vice chancellor, outlining Jonty and Orlando’s authority to conduct enquiries on any and all university premises. Jonty needed to produce this before he was even allowed to set foot inside the main court of the college next door; its porters seemed to be recruited from the burliest members of society and presented such an unwelcoming aspect that Jonty began to feel sorry for the poor undergraduates of the place. St. Bride’s porters were a much kinder and more sensible breed.
Eventually Jonty was granted access, and set off to locate Thompstone. He found the chaplain waiting in his office, with what smelled like a fresh pot of coffee and two cups on his desk. The array of clerical garb and theological books produced an atmosphere conducive to confidences, much to Jonty’s approval. Thompstone poured Jonty a drink, then shared a remark or two about their mutual friend Ariadne, before getting down to business.
“I understand that you’ll want to know all that I can tell you,” Thompstone said, cradling his cup. “Please don’t spare me any questions—I want the murderer to be caught.”
“The police believe they have already caught him.”
“I know.” Thompstone passed an expressive hand across his brow. Jonty had known plenty of clergymen over the years, from the portly and jovial to the spare and spiteful. While Thompstone was on the willowy side, he exuded an air of kindliness and calm. And his striking profile would have suited a medieval prior’s memorial effigy. “I had gone to speak to Owens—to discuss what we should do regarding the dead man’s family—when the constabulary arrived to question him. As he left, he passed me, and swore to that he didn’t do it. Alas, the evidence suggests otherwise. But the truth must out, mustn’t it?”
“It must. Or so we hope.” Jonty took out notepad and pen. “You discovered the dead man?”
“Yes. As Seymour was on the verge of being sent down, I felt it my duty to visit him. The door to his room was slightly ajar, so I pushed and entered.”
Jonty raised his hand. “Let me clarify. The door was ajar?”
“Yes. Perhaps six inches.” The chaplain clasped his hands together on the desk.
“And these doors. Once slammed, do they tend to stay shut?”
“Yes. Why—oh, I see. The student who heard the door slam, that was Empson. I suppose you might ask him if he heard it moving subsequently. It being ajar might suggest somebody had opened it after Owens had left and before I arrived.”
“We’ll make a sleuth of you yet.” Jonty smiled encouragingly. “Now the nasty bit. The body.”
Thompstone, shutting his eyes, shivered before responding. “Seymour was lying on the floor, head smashed, with blood and...and other matter on the carpet by him.”
“It seems churlish to ask, but did you check if he was dead?”
“I deliberately did not touch Seymour. It would have been pointless to check for signs of life, anyway. With those head injuries, he couldn’t have survived.” Thompstone attempted to still his shaking hands. “When I saw the body, it reminded me of a time out in France. I’d accepted a lift on a motorcycle and sidecar with a doctor and his patient. We were caught by an explosion. The doctor and I survived, but the young soldier was blown to smithereens. While the injuries were different, the emotion I felt was the same. Such a horror. Such a waste of young life.”
“Indeed. We saw plenty of that, didn’t we?”
“Aye.” The chaplain briefly glanced at the scar down Jonty’s cheek, then pushed a piece of paper across the desk. “I have made a diagram of the staircase, and who lodges where.”
“Thank you.” Jonty consulted it, glad that the conversation had moved on quickly. “Top floor, Howe to the left and Poulton-Brown to the right.”
“I’m pleased my writing is legible enough.” Thompstone placed a finger on the drawing. “Seymour was here, on the second floor, under Poulton-Brown—he told me he heard the argument, by the way. The lad opposite, Robshaw, is not in occupation at present. In the sick bay with chicken pox and has been since early Thursday.”
“Is his room locked?”
“I have no idea. You’re thinking perhaps that somebody might have hidden there?”
“I’m so pleased I’m not interviewing you as a suspect. You see through all my ideas.” And would the chaplain also see through the lie Jonty had just plied? “So, we come to the first floor. Stewart on the left, under the temporarily empty room, and Empson opposite him. Empson who heard the door slam, as you said. I don’t think this Stewart’s one of my mob.”
“He hasn’t mentioned it if he is. Although nobody here would admit to a St. Bride’s connection, would they?”
For all the rivalry between the two colleges, and for all the bad feeling that seeped over the walls from the St. Bride’s side, it still stung to hear that Jonty’s own college was equally loathed. He ploughed on. “There are no undergraduate rooms on the ground floor?”
“No. There are is a bathroom and some lavatories on Seymour’s side. I don’t know the exact configuration, but they back onto the library, which is located next door.”
Jonty nodded. That certainly provided a potential hiding place.
Thompstone continued. “There is a door opposite them into a room which the gyps make use of.”
“Ah. And what arcane practices do they use it for?” Jonty asked, with a grin.
“I have no idea. To my shame, I have never passed the portals.” Thompstone’s brow wrinkled in thought. “A storeroom? A workroom? Somewhere to make a cup of tea?”
“When I find out—as I will—you’ll be the first to know.”
“I look forward to expanding my education.” Thompstone inclined his head. “Would you perhaps like to join me for a spot of luncheon today in my rooms on B staircase? Investigating must be hungry work.”
“It is. And normally I’d be delighted, but I’m expected at the St Bride’s master’s lodge.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.”
Indeed, it would be. A quiet discussion over a meal might not simply be helpful in following up anything Jonty discovered in his investigations, but also be conducive to working out what on earth Ariadne had meant in her mysterious note. “Perhaps if you could organise a note of apology to send to Mrs. Sheridan, then I might be excused, on the grounds of this pressing business. She’s expecting quite a few of us so I won’t be missed.”
“I doubt that, but yes, I’ll let her know.”
“Splendid. I have some further questions to ask you although they’re better left until I’ve seen the lie of the land, as it were.” Jonty gathered his things together, then rose. “What time do you require me?”
“At any time that you’re ready. I’ve asked for a cold collation and a thermos of soup to be sent up. And sherry, naturally, gets neither overhot nor overcold.” The chaplain extended a hand to be shaken then escorted Jonty to the door.
As Jonty strode around the court—he might be allowed the privilege of investigating here, but not that of treading on the grass—he was certain the chaplain was watching him from the doorway, although he wouldn’t turn his head to check. Curiouser, as they said, and curiouser.
Jonty leapt, or the nearest he could get to leaping at his age, up J staircase.
Best to start at the third floor and work downwards, leaving that tantalising gyps’ room until last. Today being Saturday, Jonty hoped he might catch his quarry unless the students were out in the town, training on the sports’ field or still abed, although in the latter case he’d be rousing them out. He rapped at Poulton-Brown’s door, but answer there came none, even when he pounded on it again. He left a note to the effect that he’d called, that he needed to speak on important university business, and suggesting the student contact him via the porters’ lodge at St. Bride’s at the earliest convenient moment.
He found better success with Howe, who shouted “Come in!” at almost the first knock, perhaps forewarned by the racket Jonty had already been making across the landing. Jonty entered, introduced himself, shook hands, gave a brief but pertinent explanation of why he was there, then plonked himself in the chair he’d been offered. The chair proved lumpy—whether due to the springs or things stuffed under the seat, he couldn’t tell—although he managed to manoeuvre himself into a comfortable enough position. It was a typical student room, a mixture of college furniture and severe college architecture softened by the individual’s personal effects. The wash jug and bowl on its stand added an old-fashioned note; St. Bride’s had already upgraded to running water in the student rooms.
“What can you tell me about Thursday morning?” Jonty asked.
“Not much, I’m afraid.” Howe—a fresh featured, blond lad with a smudge on ink on his left temple—appeared disappointed at not having vital evidence to offer. “I was at a lecture, so I missed all the hoo-hah. The first I knew was when I returned and saw a crowd congregating at the bottom of the staircase.”
Into which anyone might blend, as they had at St. Bride’s. “You hadn’t seen or heard anything suspicious before you set off for said lecture?”
“No, not at all. It was just a day like any other. Raining on and off, as usual.”
“It was indeed.” Jonty had forgotten his umbrella when he’d left home and would have ended up like a drowned rat had a college porter not lent him the one he’d returned today. “What about afterwards? Did anybody say or do anything which made you think ‘that’s odd’?”
Howe shrugged. “Not really. Everyone was in rather a state of shock.”
Time to try another tack. “What about Seymour himself? Did he have any enemies?”
That question produced an unexpectedly enthusiastic response, Howe leaning forward eagerly in his chair, hands on knees. “Will what I say be treated in confidence?”
“As far as I’m concerned, yes, although I can’t make a promise for the police, should we need to pass the information to them.”
“Well, I hate to speak ill of the dead,” Howe remarked, signalling that was exactly what he was about to do, “but Seymour wasn’t...well, he wasn’t the type of man you’d like your sister to be acquainted with.”
At last they were getting somewhere. “I have a sister myself, so I can appreciate your concern. What made him so unpleasant?”
“He was lazy, for a start. Didn’t seem to be bothered with work, which is why he ended up in trouble with Dr. Owens. And he made such a racket. He thought he had a singing voice like an angel but it resembled a tortured hyena.”
“I’ve never heard one of those, thank goodness, although I can imagine.”
Howe sniggered. “It wasn’t only that. He could be charming, and he was a generous host when he wanted to be, but there was a dark side to him.”
“Go on.”
“I know more than one person who received the vilest letter from him.” Howe leaned closer again, lowering his voice. “Seymour alleged that a particular chap on G staircase had cheated in producing a piece of work, taking another man’s essay and passing it off as his own.”
“And had he done such a thing? I know it’s rotten to ask, but we must have the truth.”
Howe smote the arms of his chair. “No, he hadn’t. He may be on G staircase yet he’s as honest as the day is long, so honest that he took the letter straight to one of the fellows, who showed it to Owens. Seymour has—had—always had a reputation as a bit of a troublemaker and I think that escalated things.”
“Hm.” Jonty nodded. “It strikes me that Seymour had a reckless streak in him.”
“Yes, exactly. I’ve wondered since if he couldn’t help himself. If the impulse to do evil was irresistible.”
Jonty was about to say that there was always a choice to resist but that would sound platitudinous. He too knew of men who appeared to be consumed by their wayward desires. “Who else received these letters?”
“Empson, who lives on the first floor, and he raised a stink about it. That was the last straw. If Seymour’s father hadn’t been as rich as Croesus, he’d have been sent down there and then. As it was, he had a stay of execution. Oh!” Howe turned deathly pale. “I didn’t mean that, you know...”
“I understand. It’s times like this that make us realise how casual we are in our use of language.” Dunderheads particularly so, and often in the middle of an essay where they should have known better. “Did Seymour tell you all this? About being on the brink of being kicked out?”
“No. That was Robshaw who told me. He and Poulton-Brown seem to know everything. Only Robshaw’s in the sicker at present, spotty as a leopard. Or a ladybird. Or something that has red spots.” Howe, clearly flustered looked, to Jonty for rescue.
“Give up on trying to find the perfect analogy. As spotty as a man with chicken pox. I’ll have to risk the germs.” Jonty consulted his notes. “This letter to Empson. Was it blackmail?”
“I have no idea. Whatever the contents, Empson was fuming. He asked to be moved rooms, not wanting to be near the man he was sure had written it. I suppose he won’t need to be moved, now.”
“Unless the din coming up and across from the gyps’ cubby hole proves too much to bear. How did he know it was Seymour wrote the letter?”
Howe grinned. “Anyone could have worked that out. Seymour has—had—a distinctive way of writing the letters e and r.”
So distinctive that someone could have imitated it? Jonty jotted the notion down, but didn’t mention it. “And the second element of my question. Was there any suggestion of blackmail?”
“I don’t think so. No ‘pay me twenty pounds in sovereigns or I’ll tell Dr. Owens’ kind of stuff. Empson reckons it was written and sent out of sheer spite. Trying to generate smoke where there wasn’t a fire, if that makes sense.”
“It does.” Jonty had always hated the saying “There’s no smoke without fire”. It was a gossips’ charter, allowing them to spread all sorts of lies and still be believed. “Any idea if Seymour sent other missives?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if he had.” Howe rubbed his forehead, adding another smudge to it. “Do you think that’s linked to him being killed? There’s a rumour going around the college that Dr. Owens might not have been responsible for the murder, which means somebody else was.”
Jonty smiled at the lad’s staggering feat of logic. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions, shall we?” He rose. “Thank you for your help. I can only hope the other people I interview will prove as accommodating. Oh, and one more thing. The name board by the entrance to the staircase. Is it used? I ask because it said that Poulton-Brown was in and you were out.”
“I wouldn’t take any notice of it. There’s a bit of a war between J staircase and G staircase. They always interfere with our in and out signs.”
“Typical.” Jonty had indulged in much worse things, including the famous incident of the goat in the porters’ lodge. Perhaps he should
repeat that escapade in honour of Orlando’s next birthday. “This ‘bit of a war’. It didn’t happen to start when the nasty letters got written?”
“Oh, no. It’s traditional. My grandfather was here and it was customary even then. Probably goes back to the days of Shem, Ham and Japheth.”
Jonty gave an amused snort and headed off to visit his namesake.
Stewart was in, and after some reluctance to admit a St. Bride’s man to his room, was finally swayed by the letter of authority Jonty waved under his nose. If this Stewart was a family member, the famous Stewart looks—and charm—had clearly passed him by. He was tall, lanky, almost like a Coppersmith, and with the sort of face Jonty’s late mother might have described as unfortunate. This student also hadn’t been in his room at the vital time on Thursday morning, having been out on the river and then in the library doing some work.
“The library extends under Empson’s room, doesn’t it? Ah, no, I’m wrong.” Jonty consulted the staircase plan. “Those are the bathrooms. I don’t suppose the noise from Seymour’s altercation would have made its way down to the library?”
“No. The walls are thick so sound doesn’t penetrate. I did see old Owens, sorry, the Master, storming across the grass, gown billowing like a great black tail.” Stewart grinned, evidently pleased at his flowery description. Perhaps that was inherited with the name: of such persiflage Orlando accused Jonty.
“You say ‘storming’. Why do you choose that particular word?”
“Because his appearance oozed anger. Shoulders all hunched up and with a face like thunder.”
Jonty frowned. “How could you see his face, though? Surely from the library window you’d only have seen the back of him?”
“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, I’m afraid. Dr. Owens turned around, half way across the grass,” Stewart asserted, triumphantly. “I’m very long sighted, so I could see exactly how angry he was. And he was staring up at J staircase.”
“I stand corrected.” Jonty inclined his head, as humbly as he could manage. “Why had he turned to look back? Even though you couldn’t have read his mind, you must have formed an impression.”
Lessons in Loving thy Murderous Neighbour: A Cambridge Fellows Mystery novella (Cambridge Fellows Mysteries) Page 3
