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

by Charlie Cochrane

  Jonty, bridling, drew himself up in his chair to the nearest his full five foot eight—and a half, or he insisted to Orlando—that he could manage. “It is not an unreasonable suggestion, given the circumstances.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Owens continued to chuckle to himself. “But wide of the mark in this instance.”

  “Do you have any cousins?” That question did hit the mark. Before Owens could hide his surprise, Jonty followed up with, “and do they have a connection to Assumption?”

  “I have two cousins,” Owens replied, “one is married to a solicitor and lives happily in Portsmouth, if anyone can live happily in that place.”

  “And the other?” Jonty pressed, when any prospect of a further answer seemed to have dwindled.

  “The other does indeed have a college connection. I refuse to give specific details because to do so would expose them to potential dishonour.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t do, Dr. Owens. Your honour is at stake here, as well as that of Assumption. Dear God, man, your very life is at risk.”

  That too made an impression: after some further hesitation, Owens relented. “My cousin’s honour revolves around their legitimacy. We may be in a brave new modern world, Dr. Stewart, but there are still some things which haven’t changed. My cousin was born the wrong side of the blanket, sired by my uncle, and while this person wasn’t formally acknowledged, the family has supported them in whatever way they could. Including facilitating their employment at Assumption, which has long had a connection with the family Owens.”

  Jonty noticed the lack of “him” or “her” but did note the use of “employment”. “Was he called Patrick, your uncle?”

  “Patrick? No. He’s Hugh. Whatever...ah, I see. The gyp, Fitzpatrick, on J staircase. An elegant bit of deduction, given that he too is a by blow, but not from my family. I tell you all this in the confidence that none of it will become common knowledge,” Owens swung around to address the constable, “and I include you in that expectation, officer.”

  The constable flushed, cleared his throat and nodded.

  “You have my assurance,” Jonty confirmed.

  “Good. And no, Fitzpatrick is not my cousin and I steadfastly refuse to tell you who is. It has no relevance to this investigation.”

  “Really?” If Owens believed his cousin was responsible for Seymour’s death, it would certainly give a sensible reason for why he’d made so little apparent effort to defend himself against the accusations. Perhaps he was simply relying on the police not being able to prove his own guilt sufficiently to have him convicted, but that was a risky game for anyone to play. “Do you deny that you turned around and shouted up at Seymour’s window when you were halfway across the court? Saying something about your cousin?”

  “I did what?” Owens almost leapt from his chair. Guilt? Shock? Some violent emotion, certainly.

  “You were seen to turn and shout up at the window. The witness believed you said ‘moccasin’ or a similar word, but it could have been ‘my cousin’, couldn’t it?”

  “It could, but it wasn’t.”

  “So, what did you say?” Jonty pressed on, sure that they were making a bit of progress.

  Owens put his head in his hands, as though trying to force the answer to come by kneading it out of his skull. “I have no idea, I swear. I was so angry I might have said or done anything. No!” He raised his head, “not commit murder. Give me time to think. Please.”

  He placed his elbows on the table, sitting with head in hands again for so long Jonty wondered if he’d had some sort of a breakdown. He certainly wasn’t helping his own cause with such rash admissions. Finally, Owens’s story resumed. “I have thought and thought but genuinely don’t remember. I may have said something like ‘My God, someone needs to teach you a lesson’. That was certainly what I was thinking. And I didn’t act on the thought, either.”

  The answer seemed completely believable. Jonty was beginning to think that with the rain on the windows and the distance and the thinking time in between, Stewart the student might have completely misinterpreted the words spoken. As, he conceded to himself if not to Owens, the brains of St. Bride’s might have been deceived by the “my cousin” hypothesis. And yet there was a cousin in the case, just as Jonty had surmised.

  The words he’d thought about the chaplain that very morning—curiouser and curiouser—flitted through his mind afresh. And thinking of curious things...

  “Can anyone vouch for your lack of umbrella? Or, more pertinently, gloves?” Something about them was clearly important, because once again Owens almost winced at the mention of them.

  “I’m certain they can.” Owens shifted in his chair. “Although perhaps I did take the gloves with me, in my coat pocket. Yes, now that I think of it, I stuffed them in there before I knocked on Seymour’s door. I couldn’t be so rude as to deliver even a dressing down without removing them.”

  “I see.” Funny how the story had changed, under Jonty’s pressure. Although things still made little sense. Owens may well have put the gloves back on for the killing itself, although that might argue against it being a spontaneous act, but how could—or perhaps, why would—he have also left his own fingerprints? “So, now that you have a clearer recollection of that morning, what happened to the gloves?”

  Owens opened his mouth, shut it again, then leaned forward onto the table, putting his head into his hands. “Dr. Stewart,” he said at last, “that’s what I’ve been racking my brains to work out. I was less than honest with you earlier, for which I offer no excuse other than the predicament I find myself in. I do remember slipping on my gloves as I left the lodge, and cursing myself half way across the court for forgetting my umbrella. I do remember taking the gloves off when I got to Seymour’s door, and slipping them in my pocket. What I do not know is what happened to them subsequently.”

  “Is that the truth?”

  Owens looked up, eyes wide with dread. “It is. And I wish with all my heart it were not.”

  ***

  Orlando didn’t have quite as much of a struggle as Jonty had experienced to enter the college next door, despite the fact he didn’t have Sheridan with him to facilitate opening doors. The porters must have been getting accustomed to the invasion of their piece of turf, although they did check his credentials and make him sign the visitors’ book. On his way to the now infamous J staircase he spotted the chaplain scurrying around the court, black gown swishing at his back and his fingers flicking against his thumbs. The man seemed distracted, as well he might be with one of his flock struck down in his prime and Thompstone being the one to have discovered the body.

  Reaching J, Orlando proceeded—partly out of cussedness because Jonty had started at the top—to the first floor and to Empson’s room. The student still wasn’t in, so Orlando trudged up the stairs, stopping briefly as he passed Robshaw’s door; it was now locked, as he found by gently jiggling the handle in a gloved hand. He then halted on the landing where Owens said he’d flung the knobkerrie. He couldn’t spot any evidence of blood, nor of disturbed dust, but Orlando had grudgingly to confess that the landing was kept as clean as any at St. Bride’s might be.

  Poulton-Brown was in residence, inviting Orlando in to his room once he’d heard what he’d come about, and offering tea, which was politely refused on the grounds of following too shortly on the heels of lunch.

  “Excuse me a moment while I finish off this sentence or else I’ll lose my flow.” Poulton-Brown picked up his pen—in his left hand, Orlando noted—jotted down a few words, blotted them, then turned in his chair. “I was here on Thursday morning. You’ll want to know what I saw and heard.”

  “That would be very helpful.” Orlando settled in his chair, trusty notebook in hand. This was a pleasant room, well lit, with a theme of cricket about its decoration, with prints of players—and school elevens—on the wall, a bat propped up in a corner and a distinct whiff of linseed oil in the air.

  “I wish what I have to say cou
ld be more helpful than I suspect it will turn out to be. I saw nothing, apart from Dr. Owens stomping across the grass, after he’d argued with Seymour.”

  “You are certain it was Owens you heard arguing? This might sound vaguely insolent, but it is easy for a witness to make a back attribution, due to the coincidence of timing. ‘Logically it must have been this I heard, therefore it was this I heard.’”

  “Not insolent at all, sir. That’s the rigorous type of question an Assumption man might ask.” Poulton-Brown had a handsome grin, although Orlando felt the urge to punch him right in the middle of it. Did everyone here regard St Bride’s as a haunt of idiots and layabouts? The student, oblivious to the reaction he’d produced, carried on. “I’m certain it was him arguing. Owens has a distinctive voice—when he gets angry it’s as though he’s addressing five year olds. And it was definitely Seymour arguing back. Nobody could mistake his whine. I’ve had to put up with it long enough.”

  “After the argument, we believe Owens slammed the door shut on his way out?”

  Poulton-Brown nodded.

  “And did you hear anything else from Seymour afterwards?”

  “No, I didn’t. But that means very little. I’d better explain why.” The student rummaged in a little pot on his desk, producing a pair of small objects, which he held out for Orlando to inspect. “My uncle invented these for me, because I’m so sensitive to sound. They’re made of beeswax.”

  Orlando poked one of the strange items. “What are they?”

  “Ear plugs. For cutting out any unwanted noise.”

  Orlando drew his hand away as swiftly as he might have done had the ear plugs come to life and bitten him. “Ingenious.” If disgusting.

  “I had some work I needed to finish and I’d been disturbed enough that day—poor old Robshaw got carted off to sick bay at some unearthly hour and the hubbub woke me, although I didn’t know what was happening at the time. I’m never a deep sleeper and the slightest thing makes my eyes spring open. The rest of the morning seemed to be a mass of comings and goings. Very annoying. So, I stuck these in,” he brandished the ear plugs again, “as a result of which I didn’t hear anything else until Empson came banging on my door like the four horsemen were coming for lunch. I’d missed all the hoo-hah.”

  How frustrating. Poulton-Brown would have been in prime position to overhear had another person visited Seymour, or indeed to confirm that the victim had still been alive and moving about after Owens had gone. “And did you not see anything apart from Owens in his fit of temper?”

  “No. I’d had my head down over my work. Or else I might have something to offer that would help Dr. Owens, if such a thing exists. I suppose he must have done it, even if it takes a while to believe the fact, sir. I know he isn’t very popular at...at your place,” Poulton-Brown had clearly just avoided calling St. Bride’s by whatever insulting name it was referred to in Assumption, “and I suppose he’s noted for his anger. It must have been provocation beyond what any man could bear that made him do it. He loves Assumption, and values its reputation. He surely would have been at his wits end to do something to harm that.”

  Orlando found the student’s assessment of the situation intriguing. He’d never been able to stand Owens, an attitude that would likely never change—especially given the story of the man’s imitation of him. He’d have been happy to assume the man’s guilt, yet others had been adamant it couldn’t be so. But this student seemed to be the only other person, apart from the police and, admittedly, the vice chancellor, who gave much credence to the notion of his guilt.

  “If we assume for one moment that Owens might be innocent, who else,” Orlando asked, with a touch of desperation, “might have killed him?”

  “Hmm.” Poulton-Brown picked up his pen, twiddling it in his fingers. “Anyone who received one of those awful letters he wrote, I’d have said.”

  “Ah, but could all of those recipients have passed without notice on this staircase? People seem to have seen and heard both Owens and the Reverend Thompstone, yet nobody else has been pointed out to us.”

  “Harris the gyp was here, too. At least he was later, because we all ended up congregating by the entrance to the staircase and Harris was hovering about. I think he may have been sent to call the police at some point.”

  Now they were getting somewhere. “Was there a big crowd assembled?”

  “Yes, eventually. At first it was Empson and me from this staircase, then some chaps from H turned up.” Poulton-Brown shut his eyes, perhaps reconstructing the scene. “Folk must soon have noticed something was wrong—they filtered out of the library and then, I guess, they emerged from all over the place. The chaplain was doing his best to keep a sense of calm, as was the college nurse. Some of the younger chaps were rather upset and scared and needed a bit of consolation.” He paused, tight lipped, before saying, “is it wrong of me to hope that Dr. Owens did commit the deed? People here could be beside themselves with fear otherwise, thinking that a murderer might still be at large.”

  “Then we must hope to find a solution quickly, one way or the other.” A repeat of the terror which struck St. Bride’s during the killings wasn’t a pleasant prospect. “One last thing. You must have passed Seymour’s door on the way down. Did you notice anything odd?”

  “Now, Professor, it’s funny you should say that.” Poulton-Brown’s admission sent Orlando’s ears pricking like a racehorse’s when rounding Tattenham Corner. “Clearly, I didn’t know what had happened so I didn’t take any particular notice of Seymour’s room, but I’d formed the impression something had happened to Robshaw. I asked Fitzpatrick about him, later, which was when I found out what had woken me early. They suspected measles, which was worrying enough.”

  “Although the spots turned out to be chicken pox, thank goodness. Please continue.”

  “So, what with that and hearing about the murder, I didn’t think further about it. I simply thought, ‘no wonder I woke up’. Then only this lunchtime I chatted to Stewart, who told me that somebody with the same surname had been asking questions about Thursday and I remembered my feeling of unease on the stairs. I’ve been thinking about what might have caused it.”

  Orlando tried to cover his frustration with a look of encouragement. This was exactly how Jonty spoke at times, rambling around the subject without getting closer to the point.

  The student carried on, oblivious. “But then it struck me that when I’d gone down to see what the commotion was about, I’d noticed Robshaw’s door move slightly.”

  “What?” Orlando gasped, before composing himself. “Can you be more precise about this movement?”

  “Not really, as whatever I saw was in passing. Perhaps someone was drawing the door to. But it could have simply been an effect of my passing or a wind from up the stairs…” Poulton-Brown, ground to a halt, evidently having just realised he was admitting to having possibly passed within touching distance of a killer. “I say. Do you think the culprit was hiding there? Do you think they saw me?”

  “The only sensible answer to both is ‘possibly’. I would take to locking your door at all times, Mr. Poulton-Brown. You’re too young to remember what happened at St. Bride’s back in the days of King Edward, and believe me you don’t want to know.” Grim days, the only good thing emerging from them being Orlando’s developing relationship with Jonty. “Take no chances. Even with people you trust. And tell your friends the same.”

  ***

  As Orlando came down the stairs, somebody was standing by the door to Empson’s room and by the fact he was trying to wield a key in the lock, it must be the student himself.

  “Hallo!” Orlando said, causing the lad to almost drop what appeared to be a bag of buns. “Sorry. Bad timing there. Do you need a hand?”

  “I think I could do with an extra pair. Permanently.” Empson held out a pile of books for Orlando to hold. “They should give them out at the train station when one first comes up and claim them in when one goes down for the last time.�
�

  “Admirable idea.” Not one he’d mention to Dr. Panesar though, or the man would spend all his energy on developing clockwork hands. Probably explosive ones.

  Once they were through the door, Orlando explained why he’d come, producing his credentials in the form of the vice-chancellor’s letter. Empson, evidently impressed, didn’t offer tea, preferring to waggle a bottle of sherry in Orlando’s direction. “This is likely to be challenging work. Is it too early to offer a little refreshment, sir? The sun is well over the yardarm.”

  “It is indeed,” Orlando agreed, hoping he’d made the right decision and that the sherry tasted as good as the distinguished name on the bottle promised. “Thank you. I hope you’ll still feel as generous when I begin to ply you with questions.”

  “I’ll try my best. I had no particular love for Seymour, I’ll confess. The man was a bore—and a boor, if you follow me. Made a hell of a racket, too, one way and another.” Empson smiled ruefully. “I doubt if there are many who will mourn him. I’m sorry if that sounds callous, but I’m trying not to hide the truth behind fancy words or false sentiments.”

  “I appreciate the candour. And I’d appreciate further frankness in answer to this question. Seymour sent you one of his letters, did he not?”

  “He did. That’s no secret.” Empson’s grip on his glass tightened. “He accused me of having unnatural and illegal affections. I do not.”

  “You need not give any further detail. One of your friends—naturally outraged on your behalf—has already told us all we need to know.” Orlando inclined his head in sympathy. “And, as an innocent man cruelly wronged, you reported this to the college authorities?”

  “Yes.” Empson sipped his sherry. “They took the matter as seriously as I did. I asked to move rooms, as I didn’t want to be near ‘him’,” he jerked his thumb in the direction of his ceiling, “and I was waiting for a suitable room to become available. The days had become increasingly difficult, passing him on the stairs and wanting to punch his nose.”