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

by Charlie Cochrane

  “I did indeed. As I said, he seemed livid, jabbing his finger towards the window and saying something. I couldn’t hear what, obviously, but when I was younger I had problems with my hearing and so I got used to trying to make things out from the movement of people’s lips. It seemed like he said ‘moccasin’ or ‘magazine’ and then something else I couldn’t make out.”

  It would be easy enough to ascertain from Owens what he had said, assuming the master of Assumption hadn’t been so angry that he’d no idea of what he’d blurted out, or it would be so incriminating that he refused to divulge it. Although what moccasins or magazines could have to do with the business remained a mystery. Jonty made a note of the words—which appeared to delight his namesake—then took his leave, keen to catch Empson, whom the name board proclaimed as out so might well be in. For once the board was right, so Jonty would have to add Empson’s name to Poulton-Brown’s as those students to be caught later. He pushed a note under the student’s door, descended the stairs, eyed the entrance to the essential domestic facilities, toyed with the idea of poking his nose in there but then immediately rejected it. He turned, preparatory to knocking on the door of the gyps’ room, only to find one of them coming out, wearing the kind of scowl Jonty had been expecting to see on the face of all denizens of this college.

  “Can I help you?” The broad Scottish, extremely frosty tones suggested the last thing the speaker intended was to be helpful.

  Jonty contemplated putting on his brightest smile then decided that would probably cut no ice with the man. He opted instead for turning his face so his battle scar was displayed to its best advantage, before launching into his prepared spiel concerning the important business he was about.

  “Harrumph.” The Scottish chap’s frown deepened. “I’m not sure there’s anything I could be telling you that would help.”

  “If you’re a gyp—forgive me if I’ve made that assumption in error—I’m sure you see and hear all sorts of things which might be relevant, despite not appearing to be at first sight. And while I wouldn’t ordinarily ask you to break a confidence, a man’s life might hang, literally, on some small but vital detail.”

  “Hmm.” The Scot considered the matter. “Is that scar on your cheek from the war or is it from some nonsense gone wrong?”

  Nonsense? Had Jonty’s reputation preceded him? Fortunately, he could quite truthfully aver, “The war.”

  The Scot nodded. “I can give you five minutes. You’d best come in here.”

  Jonty’s family had insisted that servants were human beings too and that visits below stairs were to be encouraged, albeit regarded as a privilege to the Stewarts rather than the reverse. As a result, he’d seen many a place which some of his peers may not have, although even he had never been in such surroundings. The gyps’ room, spotlessly clean and smelling fragrantly of polish, was a mixture of comfort and practicality. This must have been where they kept dusters and brooms and other tools of their trade, but it was also clearly where they put their feet up.

  “I’m Fitzpatrick, by the way.” The Scot extended a brawny hand to be shaken. “You’ve guessed correctly what my job is. I’m the one who tends the young men on this staircase.”

  “Ah. Were you here on Thursday, when Seymour was killed?”

  “As I don’t know exactly when that act occurred, I can’t say for certain one way or the other. I can give you an account of my morning, though.”

  “I would appreciate that.” Jonty produced his trusty notebook, suddenly feeling that he needed to employ his best handwriting, as he might in an examination.

  “I had been about my normal business, making morning tea and the like, and by just gone half past nine I’d tidied the chambers of those gentlemen who’d gone out. I’d attempted to get into Seymour’s room but he’d sent me away with a flea in my ear. He’d not have won any charm contests, that young pup.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Jonty grinned. “What evidence we have suggests Seymour must have been killed at some point between ten and twenty past ten. Did you see or hear anything unusual during that time?”

  “I saw Dr. Owens come storming up the stairs on the warpath. That would have been a bit before ten o’clock, because the college clock struck not long after.” Fitzpatrick nodded slowly. “I couldn’t miss him, as I was on my way down here to drop some mending off on behalf of young Poulton-Brown. He’s a good lad, the sort our seamstress is happy to help out. I put the kettle on, as I’d not wet my whistle since breakfast time, and then set about cleaning the windows outside. Incontinent birds, Dr. Stewart. They’re a menace.”

  “My housekeeper would agree with you.”

  “Hmphm. Well. I’d not been long washing them when Dr. Owens came out, fuming and muttering to himself. I kept my head down, not wanting to risk being in the firing line. Then I went to get my tea and a bite to eat.”

  “Can I clarify something which might seem trivial? Was it raining when you came out to do the windows?”

  The question had clearly puzzled the gyp. “It was drizzling a bit. Nothing that a decent raincoat couldn’t keep off. Why?”

  “It might be relevant, it might not.” If the windows of the library were wet, it would make it harder to read a man’s lips accurately when looking through them. “What happened after Owens had gone?”

  “Harris—another gyp—came over from A staircase and we had a chat. He was still here when the chaplain came flying down the stairs screaming blue murder. I thought the man would faint clean away.” Fitzpatrick glanced at the door, as though he might expect Thompstone to make a repeat appearance. “Once we understood what he’d found, Harris went across to the porters’ lodge to call for the police, I settled the chaplain in here, and then I kept watch at the bottom of the staircase. Just as well, because we soon had our share of gawpers.”

  Jonty nodded. A crowd of gawpers into which somebody could have slipped unseen? Although where would they have hidden themselves in the interim? Not in the gyps’ room, unless both gyps were implicated. “Did you see anyone acting at all suspiciously?”

  “No, I didn’t. I was too busy trying to deal with all these people, many of whom were acting like a load of Jessies.” Fitzpatrick glared out of the window. “There’s not a lot of backbone in this generation, I’m afraid.”

  Jonty reserved passing judgement. One couldn’t help being scared or confused at times: he knew that from bitter experience. “Is there anywhere a murderer could have hidden, biding their time until escape was possible?”

  “Not in here, and not in Seymour’s room, either, I’d have said. Harris escorted the policeman here and he made sure they searched under the bed and in the wardrobe. Although whether they checked the other rooms, I couldn’t say.” Fitzpatrick considered. “Some of the young men would have been out, at lectures and the like. If they’d left their doors unlocked, yon murderer could have slipped in to bide his time, but that would have been taking an awful risk.”

  “What about Robshaw’s room? Could the killer have got in there?”

  “Not if Robshaw locked it Unless the murderer possessed a key or had managed to get his or her hands on mine, which I assure you they hadn’t.” Fitzpatrick’s expression would brook no argument. “Mind you, that lad’s such a nincompoop he might have left it open, especially if he wasn’t feeling the best. Very bright, you know, as bright as any of your lads, but not a scrap of common sense.”

  “Alas, we find those at St. Bride’s too.” Jonty, raising his eyebrows, grinned. “You haven’t been in there to tidy up?”

  “I’ve not touched it. Under orders.”

  “Police orders?”

  “No. A much more powerful authority. The college nurse.”

  “Ah.” Jonty’s grin broadened.

  The gyp favoured him with a conspiratorial wink; the ice was evidently melting. “The lad came over all spotty during Wednesday night. I was the one who found him, moaning and drenched with sweat, at seven in the morning. I went straight to the sick bay to
fetch Nurse Haveland, and when she got here she feared he had the measles. There was a lad died of that here, last year.”

  “A horrible disease. A chap at school with me succumbed to it. As healthy as they came and yet...” Best not to dwell on such morbid memories. “So, the nurse dragged him off to the sick bay on her broomstick?”

  Jonty feared he might have overstepped the mark with that last quip, but Fitzpatrick chuckled and said, “You’ll be aware of the type? I daresay they’re all made from the same mould. Mind you she ended up having a busy day, what with having to console a number of distressed students later on, after the news got out. Her and the chaplain both—they’d have had to put an arm around many a shoulder.”

  “Not an easy matter to deal with.” Jonty agreed. “What’s the mood in college like? When we had those murders at St. Bride’s the atmosphere turned fearful, everyone watching their backs.”

  “Hmm. It depends whether you think Owens did it, in which case you’ll be trundling on happily, certain that the danger is no longer present. Not many in that camp, though. Others are warier.” Fitzpatrick gave him another long, hard, appraising look. “You’ll be doing us all a favour settling it one way or the other.”

  “With that in mind, we’d better get back to that morning. What happened when Robshaw was taken off?”

  “Yon nurse gave me my orders. She said I was to touch nothing in his rooms, in case the place had to be fumigated or some such. She didn’t want it spreading. She also sent me off to leave a note for Dr. Owens, in case we saw an epidemic.”

  “And as it was, you saw worse.”

  “You take the words from my mouth.”

  Time for Jonty to chance his arm. “I know you’re pressed for time, but if I could prevail upon you for one last thing...”

  “Hmphm?”

  “May we go and check on Robshaw’s door?”

  Fitzpatrick nodded. “Aye. Let’s see if they managed to lock it between them.”

  The heavy oak portal appeared to be firmly shut, which matched the chaplain’s assurance that once slammed, these doors remained closed, although this one gave easily enough at the turning of the handle.

  “Don’t go in,” Jonty urged, laying a restraining hand on the gyp’s arm.

  “Whyever not? I had measles as a bairn and I’d not think you could have it twice.”

  “I was less thinking of the measles as of what happened to Seymour. Someone could have found this door open and used the room to hide in.”

  “Ah, I see. We’d not want to disturb any evidence that the police might find. Although,” Fitzpatrick added wistfully, “It wouldn’t hurt to have a wee peek in, would it? I mean to say, what if yon killer is himself injured and has been lying for days needing help? It would be our Christian duty to help him.”

  “It would,” Jonty agreed, delighted to have found a kindred spirit. They nudged the door open but—as expected—they weren’t greeted with a cowering murderer, only a simple scene of hasty early morning departure from a sickbed.

  Fitzpatrick, fingers working as though itching to get the place set to rights, said, “The sooner the police can come and do what they need to do, the better. This is in no state for the lad to come back to when he’s supposed to be recuperating.”

  “Precisely.” Jonty surveyed the scene. Had anything been moved by an intruder since Robshaw and the nurse left, and how could he ever find out? “I have a notion, though, that it might be as well for the police themselves to leave things as they are. Only Robshaw can tell us if anything is amiss, surely, and we don’t need stray boots stomping all over the place, do we?”

  “Might you be suggesting we don’t tell the constabulary yet?”

  “I am indeed, if you can square your conscience with the notion. Lock the door, and keep the key safe. Although you and I have seen things as they stand, and nothing obvious strikes us, we can’t risk that somebody returns to remove any traces they left behind.” Although any sensible man might already have done that, unless he’d arouse suspicion for subsequently being on this staircase without good cause. “There is another place where somebody could have hidden. The bathroom facilities. One assumes they are kept unlocked at all times?”

  “Aye, normally, but I’m afraid you’re chasing a wild goose there. The cistern is blocked—I have a suspicion someone from G staircase may be responsible—so we’ve had to lock the whole thing until we can get it mended. The students have to go next door to H.”

  Damn. Such things happened, but why did they have to happen on this case? “How long have they been off limits?”

  “Since Wednesday afternoon. We were due to have a plumber in on Thursday, but had to cancel him, as you can imagine. He’ll not be back until Monday.”

  “Poor Robshaw, with that to add to his troubles. Just as well he was whisked off to the sicker.” So, presumably the murderer would have had to hide in Robshaw’s room or take his chances. “One final question. It appears that Seymour was fond of writing rather offensive letters to other students. Alleging things which were nasty but untrue.”

  Fitzpatrick, face giving away nothing, merely nodded and replied, “I have heard that said.”

  “Awfully unpleasant to ask this, but were you one of the people he targeted?”

  “No!” Fitzpatrick’s response caused Jonty to flinch. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to be so loud. Poison pen letters are one of the vilest deeds a man—or woman—can commit. I have to confess that if I’d received one, and knew who the author was, I’d have taken him over my knee and given him six of the best, irrespective of age or condition.”

  Jonty couldn’t hide his guiltily amused and highly sympathetic grin. “I take that as a ‘no’?”

  “Hmphm.”

  Jonty thanked Fitzpatrick for his help, noting that the man hadn’t quite provided himself with an alibi for all of that morning, there being gaps in the account to allow for times when he would have been on his own. And he was certainly brawny enough to lay Seymour out with ease.

  ***

  Nurse Haveland, who was much younger than Jonty expected, yet still possessed of almost as impressive a bosom as the doyenne of the St. Bride’s sick bay, proved unimpressed with Jonty’s credentials—and his most winning smile, and his scar—but succumbed at the mention of Dr. Sheridan. He clearly made many a lady’s heart pound. The nurse said that her patient was not to be bothered unduly, murder or no, then expressed a belief that Owens himself had committed the crime and who could blame him? She’d once had to tend Seymour, for a sprained ankle, and a more vexatious patient she had never known. Jonty felt sure a story, and quite likely a sordid one given the flush to the nurse’s cheeks, lay behind that claim although he wouldn’t pursue it at present. Perhaps he could get Dr. Panesar to interview the lady, he being an expert in the field.

  In contrast to the nurse’s reception, Robshaw—pale but spotty yet in good spirits—greeted Jonty like a long-lost friend, that enthusiasm mounting when he heard what the visit was about.

  “I missed it all, Dr. Stewart. I’d been taken ill early on Thursday and was brought here. They thought I had measles.”

  “Thank goodness you didn’t.”

  “Oh, yes.” Robshaw lowered his voice. “Nurse Haveland told me she feared she might have overreacted when she saw the spots, but she had a daughter who died of measles before she even reached the age of five. I feel so sorry for her.”

  “So do I.” Such a thing might also explain the nurse’s overzealous protection of her domain. “Anything else you can tell me about Thursday?”

  “Alas, no. I was sleeping on and off for the rest of the day and not allowed visitors, so I didn’t find out what had gone on until yesterday, when Howe dropped in and told me the whole sorry tale.”

  Jonty had already noted the three other beds in the sickroom, and the fact they were empty. “Have you been here on your own all this time?”

  “I believe so. At least, I know so for today and yesterday. All the king’s horses and all
the king’s men could have been here on Thursday for all I was aware of, although Mrs. Haveland tells me I’m her first customer in days.” Robshaw almost seemed proud of the achievement. It would certainly be a treat for any young man, far from home, to enjoy some maternal comforts. “You’ll have to ask one of the others. Poulton-Brown misses very little.”

  “I’ve heard the same said of you. And perhaps it’s as well we’re alone at present, because we can speak frankly.” Jonty lowered his voice, nonetheless. “I believe Seymour wrote some nasty letters to some of his fellow students?”

  “He did. It started as a joke—revenge on the chaps on G staircase. Do you know about the rivalry between us?”

  Jonty nodded. “I have been told about the business with the in or out signs. It sounded like typical student ragging.”

  Robshaw grinned. “That’s all it is, really. A bit of silliness. So, Seymour wrote some notes, saying daft things, which he put under their doors. Stuff like alleging they were keeping a rhinoceros in their room. They guessed it was us, and then managed to pin it on Seymour because of his distinctive handwriting.”

  “I’ve heard about that, too. Could any of these letters have been forged?”

  “Only by an expert, I’d have said, although what do I know? His style really was very peculiar. Anyway, he took things too far, as was his wont, with one of the letters turning distinctly nasty. I have no idea of the content but it was enough for the recipient to report it to Owens.”

  “Do you have any idea what made him drop the daft and pick up the horrible?”

  “I’m afraid not. Perhaps it simply appealed to him.” Robshaw picked at the coverlet. “He wasn’t a very nice person, Dr. Stewart.”

  “So everyone tells us. He wrote one of his letters to Empson?”

  “Yes. I was there when he shoved it under the door, although like an idiot I just thought it was one of the silly ones. I had no idea of the content until Empson showed it to me. Seymour...Seymour said that Empson was lewd. That he was possessed of unnatural affections.”