“Absolutely,” Orlando agreed. “Therefore, the means of committing the crime is no longer an adequate method of elimination. And the fact of the malicious letters widens the field of those who might have had motive to kill the man. Beyond that staircase, beyond the court, perhaps beyond the college walls.”
“Ah, that’s not quite correct, though.” Jonty wagged a finger. “The killer would still have to get in and out of both the college and J staircase itself unseen, even if they were fortuitous enough to have happened upon Robshaw’s room to hide in. A student or porter might pass without comment, perhaps without consciously being logged. A stranger could not.”
Ariadne, who had clearly been enjoying the verbal tennis between Orlando and his friend, outlined with her fork handle on the tablecloth a typical college court. “This is not quite a locked room mystery, but perhaps it’s almost a locked college one. It is not unreasonable to suppose that the killer is somebody who is a habitué of the place. Although, that doesn’t narrow the field nearly enough. How much time do we have to solve this, my dear?”
“We have a little breathing space,” Dr. Sheridan confirmed. “The great and good of the university have found a sympathetic ear or two amongst the police, so Owens won’t be charged just yet. But that space won’t be infinite, no matter how much light—or confusion—we cast on the matter. And we must consider that while we might succeed in introducing sufficient doubt to get him released, that would not be an ideal solution to the problem. He would have to live with that stigma over his head, as would Assumption, were another culprit not found.”
Not a situation anybody would want to find themselves in. The fear that would result among the college community would exceed what even a St. Bride’s man would wish on their long-time enemy. More importantly for Orlando, he wouldn’t want a failure, and a failure in such an important case, on their previously impeccable investigational record.
“As we have opened up the possibilities, including that of dramatis personae,” he said, “then we must endeavour to narrow them down again, to those who were definitely present that morning. Owens, the chaplain, a gyp—two gyps—the college nurse, although she was there much earlier, and then there are students themselves. Have I missed anyone?”
“Don’t forget the porter who took the original message from Owens and was sent away with a flea in his ear,” Sheridan reminded them. “So we can be absolutely clear, are we certain the staircase is the only means of access and egress to that set of rooms?”
“Short of climbing over the roof and through a window on the top floor landing, yes.” Jonty confirmed. “And anybody climbing over wet tiles on a morning like that needs their head examining, unless they’d been driven to desperation. They’d have been in view from the court, anyway, so, I’d keep to those already mentioned. I’m pleased to note you included Owens and the chaplain.” He gave his hostess a fleeting glance. “We must keep an objective and open mind. It is entirely possible that Owens himself committed the deed, then donned gloves to obscure the prints, discard the weapon and create a story for himself. It also possible that Thompstone pretended to find Seymour dead. If the blow struck the victim as he was sitting, that would suggest the culprit was somebody in whose company Seymour felt no sense of threat.”
“I take the point, Dr. Stewart, and while I would hazard a guess that things have passed between you and Thompstone that you’d not be prepared to relate even in this private and discreet group, I understand why you can’t be entirely candid. I also understand why, given the tale of the poison pen letters, the chaplain might feel under threat if he’d received one.” The steely glance she gave her other guests ensured none of them would probe her words further. “So, what is our plan of action? I believe we need further information than we have at present to be able to form a robust theory.”
“We do.” Jonty acknowledged. “There are those two students I still have to track down, although I would venture to say that Robshaw should be ruled out from suspicion because he was apparently hardly in a fit state to walk, let alone wield a knobkerrie, and both Howe and Stewart said they were out at lectures or on the river that morning and so their whereabouts can be easily verified.”
“I’ll make tactful enquiries on that count.” Sheridan could no doubt be relied on to make enquiries so tactful they’d hardly be interpreted as such.
“And I’ll tackle the remaining students,” Orlando offered, reluctant to face Owens again. “A different person might get a different slant on what the general mood is.”
Dr. Panesar wagged his head eagerly. “Very wise. It can be concluded that where two different people ask the same questions they can receive totally different responses, and in both cases I doubt the person being interviewed is aware of the fact.”
“It was raining on Thursday,” Ariadne’s sudden change of tack took everyone by surprise. “Albeit in showers, but when you caught one they were sharp.”
“I know.” Jonty mimicked opening an umbrella. “I would have been soaked had it not been for the intervention of the porters.”
“I don’t think our hostess has made that point to illustrate your lack of foresight on the umbrella front,” Orlando said, with a snigger he couldn’t quite hide. “Are you thinking of Owens standing in the middle of the court, Mrs. Sheridan?”
“I am indeed. Would he have been using an umbrella and, if so, could his face have been plainly seen enough to be lip read? And if not, why did he risk getting wet?”
“Perhaps he stormed out of the lodge without a second thought, his urge to confront Seymour stronger than that to keep himself dry. The gyp said it was merely drizzling—although his being a Scot that might have meant it was coming down in bucket loads.” Jonty chuckled. “A hardy breed, my fellow countrymen. And women.”
Orlando snorted. Jonty was only a Scot by family, not by birth, although it didn’t stop him getting all sentimental about Hogmanay, haggis and Rabbie Burns. “We’ll need to question Owens about that. As well as asking him what he was shouting.”
“Moccasin and magazine seem ridiculous words for anyone to use in such a situation.” Dr. Sheridan poured from the coffee pot which had glided noiselessly into the room in the hands of the butler. “Is it preposterous to suggest that Owens had temporarily taken leave of his senses and had begun to rave?”
Dr. Panesar coughed politely, studied his coffee cup, and then said, “I would think it likelier that the student misread what Owens said. It had been raining heavily, albeit not at the time, so the library windows would likely be wet. What he thought of as ‘moccasin’ could have been a name like ‘Mike Hussein’. Maybe there is a student of that name at Assumption?”
“Or it could have been ‘Mackeson’. Perhaps Owens felt in need of a drink?” Ariadne didn’t appear convinced by her own explanation.
“Or ‘My cousin’,” Panesar responded.
“Fitzpatrick!” Jonty almost spilled his coffee in his eagerness. “I’m sorry to be so melodramatic, but when you were talking about Owens’s aunt it occurred to me that ‘Fitzsomething’ is a name those born the wrong side of the blanket tend to be given. Fitzroy, the king’s bas—by-blow. I know that Professor Coppersmith will roll his eyes at me for making all sorts of theories based on so little evidence...”
Orlando, who’d managed to stop himself in the commencement of the very act of eye rolling, waved his hand for his partner to continue.
“I was thinking that if Owens’s aunt was deflowered, perhaps she ended up with child, and said child would be Owens’s cousin.”
“And you think Fitzpatrick could be her son?” Sheridan asked.
“It’s possible. He’d be about the right age.”
“But what is the right age?” Ariadne’s gaze swept her assembled guests. “We don’t know if Owens’s aunt was relatively young or old compared to him. We mustn’t make assumptions. Excuse pun. We aren’t historians,” she added, with a mischievous twinkle of her eye.
“I stand corrected.” Jonty mad
e an elaborate bow. “But Fitzpatrick is worth following up. He was there that morning, and can’t account for every minute of it. Yes, I appreciate that I have a reputation of not believing alibis, and I also appreciate that perhaps only a guilty man covering his tracks might be able to give an account of every minute of any given time, although—”
“Although what?”
“Although I’d feel happier if I knew more about him.”
“And I’d feel happier if I knew whether Owens was wearing gloves,” Dr. Panesar chipped in. “Am I the only one who feels that—innocent or not—he is still obfuscating matters?”
“Not alone at all,” Orlando concurred. “Dr. Sheridan remarked, as we made our way here, that Owens didn’t appear to be trying that hard to stave off the threat of the noose.”
“Perhaps he’s covering up for his cousin. Yes,” Jonty raised his hands in mock surrender, “we don’t know he even has a cousin, but we must at least admit the possibility that he has a suspicion of who committed the deed.”
“If I may go back a moment.” Dr. Panesar, despite making no notes, had clearly missed nothing, “Owens told you that Seymour came to Assumption with a glowing reputation, one he failed to live up to. I wonder what that was based on. Had he simply gone astray when loosed from the bounds of school—which we have seen happen here—or is it possible he was using his talents as a writer of offensive letters to get one of his masters to produce a fulsome reference?”
“I’d have thought that entirely possible,” Jonty concurred, “and Seymour being sent down would reflect badly on said referee. Now, if this were not a ‘locked college’ case and the means of murder had been different, such as the envelope method by which I will have to murder Professor Coppersmith should he become unbearable, one might consider investigating the school connection, but I fear we have no time to go casting our nets for red herring.” He took a deep breath, which allowed his listeners to fathom their way through the convoluted sentence.
“What envelope method?” Orlando asked, less bothered by the threat of murder, which wasn’t unusual, than the fact Jonty might have devised a foolproof means of doing so which he hadn’t already worked out.
“Oh, I’d send you a letter purporting to be from some other Professor at another University—I rather fancy St. Andrew’s—inviting you to come and give a prestigious lecture, all expenses paid. I’d include a stamped envelope for you to make your reply and in the gum of the seal I’d include some untraceable poison. One lick and—” Jonty made a cutthroat gesture.
Orlando rolled his eyes; that was really quite ingenious. He’d have to come up with something superlatively inventive with which to trump it. “I shall use a moist sponge for all such dealings from this day forward.”
“One moment, please. In all this persiflage, we appear to have missed a vital point in Owens’s favour.” Dr. Sheridan’s face bore the happy look of the academic who has snapped up an unconsidered trifle of a fact. “Seymour was first struck while seated at his desk, perhaps facing away from his assailant. He and Owens were heard to have a blazing row, during which Seymour is supposed to have tried to assault Owens with the weapon, which was allegedly ripped from the student’s grasp. Would he then calmly return to his desk and his newspaper, sitting down with his back to his enemy, allowing himself to be attacked? Only a fool would do such a thing.”
“Very good point. I also find the notion of the family feud and hurling of insults and protection of his aunt’s memory unconvincing as a sufficient motive for Owens to commit the murder. This is Cambridge, not the court of the Medicis. And,” Jonty drummed on the table to emphasise his point, “Owens held all the power in the situation. He could sling Seymour out, no matter how much the student tried to cling on to his place. A couple of burly porters could have seen to that. Owens wouldn’t need to kill him.”
“Unless he feared exposure for something else.” Orlando pointed out.
“Gentlemen, we appear to have reached an impasse.” Ariadne eased her chair back from the table. “Shall we reconvene over lunch tomorrow, to share what new information you’ve accumulated?”
Orlando nodded. “That sounds sensible, as long as we’re not imposing on your hospitality?”
“Not at all. I wish I could make a better contribution than providing refreshments and joining the discussion but I fear certain of ‘the great and good’, as Dr. Sheridan refers to them, would be scandalised by a woman taking an active role in investigating a murder.”
“More fool them. My mother and sister enjoyed themselves hugely doing just that, and were highly effective agents.” Jonty rapped the table. “Now, what are our tasks for the rest of the day? You’re chasing up the two remaining students, Professor Coppersmith?”
“I am indeed. I may have to camp out on the staircase until they appear.”
“Camping out in the local pub might be a better strategy.” Jonty sniggered. “In which case, perhaps I should go to the police station and tackle Owens afresh. See if he has any light to shed on Fitzpatrick, among other things. The picture of what happened on J staircase on Thursday morning is becoming clearer but we haven’t got every little scene in the act or every line in the scenes plain.”
“Oh, that it were as simple as a stage play. Life rarely is.” Sheridan sighed. “I shall visit the vice-chancellor to brief him on our progress.”
Ariadne, with a sympathetic smile for her husband and the ordeal he’d have to face, said, “And I must see Thompstone. This business is weighing on him and he has no other female ear into which he can pour his troubles.”
Jonty gave her a surreptitious wink, which only Orlando seemed to have noticed. What else was there about Thompstone that needed to be revealed?
Dr. Sheridan, evidently oblivious, ploughed on. “What about you, Dr. Panesar? What aspect do you fancy taking up?”
“None of those so far mentioned. I have another hare I’d like to chase, with a man who is quite deaf. I intend to consult him.”
“Extraordinary!” Jonty exclaimed. “Enlighten us, please.”
Orlando had already guessed what the answer might be, but kept his own counsel. This was Panesar’s chance to shine.
“He reads lips. He can tell what someone says as accurately as if he had heard it. I wonder,” Panesar added, with a twinkle, “what other word or combination of them might read like ‘moccasin’?”
Chapter Five
Jonty didn’t know Owens well, and hadn’t had any call in the past to take much notice of the man’s welfare, but he was immediately struck by how weary the master of Assumption appeared as he was brought, by a burly constable, into the little room at the police station. Presumably this was the same room in which Owens had previously faced Orlando and Dr. Sheridan, so perhaps he had good reason to dread the place. Jonty thrust out a hand to shake, then gestured towards the chair located the other side of the table.
“Sit, please do. You must be tired.”
“I’m exhausted, to tell the truth, although I’ve done little the last few days other than sit and think. And answer questions from St. Bride’s men,” Owens added, with a spark of the old spirit.
“You’ll no doubt be sick of the sight of us. Although I assure you we’re trying to act in your best interests. Nobody wants to see a man accused of something he didn’t do. And this case appears to be much more complex than some people might give it credit for.” Jonty raised his voice and aimed his comments in the direction of the constable, who remained unperturbed. “Of course, yours and Seymour’s are not the only fingerprints on that weapon.”
A slight flinch from the police officer showed that not only had he registered what Jonty had said, but he might be wondering how such an important fact had leaked out. Assuming he wasn’t simply surprised to discover something that a man of his rank wouldn’t necessarily be told.
“I believe you handled it in self defence?”
Owens nodded. “I did.”
“Did you take off your gloves so to do? Or were
they already off?”
“Gloves?” The question had clearly wrong footed him. “How am I supposed to remember if I wore gloves?”
“It was only two days ago, not a month. If you recall, the weather was inclement, and I have a clear recollection of what leaving home without my umbrella meant. Did you carry yours?”
Owens, evidently made ill at ease by the line of questioning, squirmed in his chair. “No, I forgot mine. What is this all about?”
“I’m trying to sort out some little puzzles. Details that may or may not accord with the whole. I’ll come back to that.” No matter how much Orlando had tried to drum it into his head that enquiries should be done in a logical manner, Jonty’s brain couldn’t help skipping hither and yon; it was his own special logic, he insisted, and too advanced for mere mathematicians. “We know that Seymour was fond of sending offensive letters. He sent one to you.”
“I don’t know whether to be impressed or angry that you’ve found that out so easily.” Owens drummed on the table, then withdrew his hands sharply at a “tut” from the constable. “Yes. After that there was no going back.”
“What did the letter say?”
Owens paused, evidently torn between candour and privacy. Eventually he confided, “It made noxious comments about my aunt. I suppose your colleagues have briefed you about her and the connection to the Seymours?”
“They have. Please go on.”
“I’d rather not detail what the letters said, as I refuse to have her name besmirched, even at such a remove. I will happily swear there was no truth in anything he alleged.”
Jonty leaned forward, lowering his voice, although he held out little hope of the constable not hearing. “Did it by chance claim that she had borne a child out of wedlock?”
“What?” Owens, initially aghast, shook his head, then started to chuckle, the laughter welling up into a full-blooded cackle. “I’m sorry. That’s such a ludicrous idea. Where did you drag that up from?”
Lessons in Loving thy Murderous Neighbour: A Cambridge Fellows Mystery novella (Cambridge Fellows Mysteries) Page 6
