Last Writes

by Catherine Aird

Henry said the same thing when turning to the man on his right-hand side, an untidily dressed fellow, his tie only just centred over his shirt, who said, ‘The food’s always been good at Almstone.’ He put out a hand towards Henry. ‘I’m Walkinshaw, by the way. Mathematics – and please don’t tell me that all you know about figures is that two and two make four.’

  ‘It’s knowing how many beans make five that matters in my department,’ countered Henry cheerfully.

  ‘Ah,’ said Walkinshaw, ‘you probably need a philosopher for that one.’ He crumbled a bread roll and then indicated a man sitting almost opposite them at the High Table. ‘Or perhaps better still, a criminologist like Peter Reynolds over there.’

  Henry followed his gaze. The young don was still talking urgently, this time to Gustav Soderssonn. His words floated across the table. ‘Of course, my good sir, there are more reasons for murder than the layman might imagine.’

  ‘Revenge, I would concede at once, your Shakespeare’s Hamlet having spelt it out so well,’ responded Soderssonn, smiling gently, with only a trace of an accent. ‘And then there’s gain, naturally.’

  ‘I’m not sure why you think gain should be so natural,’ put in Marcus Holtby, the Professor of Chemistry, across the table.

  Malcolm Clifford whispered in Henry’s ear, ‘Holtby always tries to put a scientific slant on everything; and – which is worse – to think that everything – but everything – has a rational explanation. Doesn’t make for popularity.’

  Henry nodded and put this interesting thought at the back of his mind for further consideration at some unlikely point in the future when he had time to think.

  ‘Gain is more natural selection than just natural, I would have thought,’ observed a don on the other man’s left. ‘Survival of the species and all that, the winner taking all. That’s gain for you.’

  The others ignored him while the Professor of English Literature murmured something about Shylock and The Merchant of Venice under his breath.

  ‘Then there’s jealousy,’ continued Peter Reynolds, in full flight now. ‘You know how it goes – “If I can’t have what I want, I’ll make sure you don’t have it either”.’

  ‘Othello, The Moor,’ said the man from Farnessnes Island promptly. ‘Your national bard had that – how do you put it here? Sewn up?’

  ‘Stitched,’ murmured someone sotto voce.

  ‘And there’s always lust, too,’ persisted the young don.

  ‘Can’t exclude that,’ agreed Gustav Soderssonn, his smile still well to the fore. ‘First-class motive, lust.’

  ‘You can have lust for power, as well as women, can’t you?’ put in Alan Walkinshaw, looking round the all-male dinner table in a challenging fashion. ‘We don’t have too far to look for that, do we?’

  Nobody mentioned Herr Hitler but the English literature don tactfully murmured Macbeth.

  ‘There’s the other sort of lust, Reynolds,’ put in Henry’s host, Toby Beddowes. ‘Don’t forget that.’

  The criminologist looked up, pleased. ‘I have got everyone talking, haven’t I?’

  ‘Come on, Beddowes, what’s the other sort of lust?’ said someone else. ‘Tell us.’

  ‘The lust for killing,’ said the biologist.

  ‘Blood lust,’ remarked the young man thoughtfully. ‘Of course …’

  There was an awkward little silence and then someone coughed and said, ‘There’s murder for elimination, too.’

  ‘We don’t have to look too far for that, either, do we?’ said Alan Walkinshaw.

  ‘East,’ said Toby Beddowes heavily.

  ‘You’re just talking about today, Beddowes,’ said the history man reprovingly. ‘I’d be counting Kings Henry Seven and Eight as masters of that art.’

  Gustav Soderssonn leant forward and said, ‘Gentlemen, aren’t you forgetting that strange queen of yours, too? The one who was called after a drink. Or was it the other way round?’

  ‘Bloody Mary,’ said Malcolm Clifford, the large man with a patent interest in food and drink. ‘Vodka in tomato juice.’

  ‘With Worcestershire sauce and a dash of lemon,’ added Marcus Holtby, the chemist, pedantically. He was a man who seemed to need to have the last word.

  ‘Mary Tudor,’ sighed the history don. ‘A difficult woman.’

  Gustav Soderssonn nodded. ‘That’s the girl. Didn’t like disobedience and acted accordingly.’

  Henry Tyler looked from one face to another, searching to see if anyone would speak about modern parallels with the current equivalent of an absolute monarch who daily ordered deaths with apparent impunity. ‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary,’ he murmured, almost to himself.

  ‘There’s judicial killing, too,’ said another don. ‘Don’t they call that justifiable homicide?’

  ‘That’s only revenge wearing a different hat,’ countered the criminologist.

  ‘Don’t you mean a black cap?’ said Malcolm Clifford wittily.

  ‘Society’s revenge,’ said Peter Reynolds, ‘that’s what that is.’

  ‘Socrates,’ remarked the philosophy don in a detached way, ‘got murdered for asking awkward questions.’

  ‘That reminds me,’ said Henry’s left-hand neighbour, ‘where’s the port got to?’

  The decanter was rapidly located and passed to the left.

  The history don advanced another thought. ‘I suppose it’s only a subsection of gain but what about the Terror during the French Revolution? Murdering everyone in sight in order to subdue the population by fright?’

  At the mention of France Henry Tyler, civil servant at the Foreign Office, let his attention wander. France was very high on the list of worries there. When he brought his attention back to the High Table the conversation had moved on to the regrettable lowering of examination standards in the Western world in general and the University of Calleshire in particular.

  It was not long, though, before the talk was turned to the putative delights of emigrating to Farnessnes Island. ‘Complete intellectual freedom,’ insisted Gustav Soderssonn expansively, ‘and, of course, freedom from – well, anything that might happen on the international front.’

  ‘Are you talking about physical safety?’ asked the young criminologist pertinently.

  ‘Of course, no one can guarantee anyone absolute safety these days …’

  ‘I should think not,’ put in the philosophy don.

  ‘But naturally a totally neutral island should escape – what shall we say? undue interference – from any countries at war with each other.’ Soderssonn looked round and said, ‘And I do mean “any” countries.’

  ‘What about your facilities?’ enquired Toby Beddowes, eyebrows raised.

  ‘I don’t think you will find us stinting in any way,’ said Soderssonn.

  ‘Who’s funding you?’ asked Beddowes, quite brusquely for him.

  ‘An international foundation,’ said Soderssonn smoothly.

  ‘And who’s funding them?’ enquired Beddowes.

  ‘Various philanthropists and trusts.’ Soderssonn waved a hand. ‘You know the sort of thing.’

  ‘I do indeed,’ said Beddowes darkly.

  At this point the Master intervened with a diplomatic enquiry about the wildlife on Farnessnes Island and the talk turned to other things.

  At the end of the evening Henry thanked his old friend, Toby Beddowes, and made his way to his sister’s house. It was late the following morning when he had a visit there from Detective Inspector Bewman of the Calleshire Constabulary.

  The policeman did not beat about the bush. ‘I understand, sir, you work at the Foreign Office.’ It was a statement not a question. ‘They have told me that you may be able to help us with our enquiries.’

  Henry acknowledged that this might be so.

  ‘We are interested in all those who were dining at Almstone College last evening,’ began Bewman.

  ‘Ah …’ So was Henry but he did not say so.

  ‘And especially a small group who adjourned to the Senior
Common Room afterwards and stayed up late.’

  Henry said that he had not been one of them.

  ‘We know that,’ said the policeman calmly. He looked down at his notebook. ‘There were four of them. Alan Walkinshaw, a very well-known mathematician, Malcolm Clifford who’s a geologist and Marcus Holtby who I understand is a chemist.’

  ‘That’s right. The scientific sort – not your toothpaste and aspirin over the counter sort,’ amplified Henry.

  ‘And a Gustav Soderssonn, a guest who is also a scientist of some sort,’ said Bewman, letting a little silence develop.

  Then when Henry said nothing he went on, ‘Apparently this gentleman spoke to them all about the advantages of emigrating to his part of the world at this particular moment in world history.’

  ‘Farnessnes Island,’ put in Henry.

  ‘Soderssonn was staying at the college overnight and apparently said to them all that he would be in the quadrangle the next morning if any of them wanted to come to see him and discuss the matter further.’

  ‘And did any of them?’ asked Henry with interest.

  ‘Two of them.’ Detective Inspector Bewman consulted his notebook. ‘And they are all in agreement up to this point. At least, the three of them are – Holtby, Clifford and Soderssonn.’

  ‘You have to start somewhere,’ said Henry.

  ‘Although, sir, I must say it seems to me to be rather a public spot for a quiet chat.’

  ‘On the contrary, Inspector,’ said Henry. ‘You’ve got absolute privacy there in that you can’t either be overheard or approached unobserved.’

  ‘That’s true. Anyway, after two of them had been to see him, Soderssonn said he made his way back to his own room and started to pack. He was due in Cambridge over the rest of the weekend.’

  ‘And?’ said Henry. What went on in Cambridge these days was someone else’s problem.

  ‘And that’s when he says he heard that Alan Walkinshaw had just been found dead in his rooms.’

  ‘Without ever coming to see him?’ deduced Henry swiftly.

  ‘That is so,’ said the policeman. ‘According to the college servant who went in there to see to the room after breakfast, Professor Walkinshaw was alive and well then but he asked not to be disturbed again as he was checking some proofs for his new book.’

  ‘And was he disturbed?’ asked Henry. ‘Or did natural causes overtake him?’

  ‘What overtook him was a heavy blunt object applied to the back of his head,’ said Bewman succinctly.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Ah, sir, now you’ve hit the nail on the head.’

  A Foreign Office man to his fingertips, Henry let the inappropriate cliché pass.

  ‘It would seem,’ advanced Bewman cautiously, ‘that the foreign gentleman went out into the quadrangle about nine o’clock this morning – or so he says – and sat on the seat between the fountain and that funny flower garden.’

  ‘The Linnean clock.’

  ‘Perhaps, sir, you’d be kind enough to spell that for me.’ As Henry spoke Bewman conscientiously copied the word into his notebook.

  ‘But Walkinshaw didn’t ever come to see him?’ said Henry.

  ‘That’s right, sir. Professor Holtby and Dr Clifford both came out to see this Mr Soderssonn but he says he waited by the fountain after they’d gone but the third man didn’t turn up – naturally he couldn’t on account of his being dead.’ He stopped and said, ‘He wasn’t dead naturally, of course, if you understand me, sir. It was a very savage attack and unprovoked as far as we can see.’

  Henry sat back. ‘Gustav Soderssonn was trying to recruit him for his outfit on Farnessnes Island – the deceased was a world authority on the mathematics of trajectories.’

  ‘Really, sir? Well, this Mr Gustav Soderssonn says he was sitting out in the quadrangle from about nine o’clock onwards and that was before his scout saw Professor Walkinshaw alive and well in his room.’

  ‘And nobody else saw him out there then?’

  ‘Not that we know about, it being a Saturday. The porter says no one came into the college this morning except the staff. I’m told most of the young gentlemen don’t reckon to work at weekends and don’t get up betimes while those who do are usually out on the river from early on.’

  ‘Some of them don’t reckon to work at any time,’ murmured Henry.

  ‘And the staff were all working inside the college,’ said the policeman, whose own weekend was going to be a busy one too.

  ‘Tell me, Inspector, is it a question of time being of the essence?’

  He got an oblique answer. ‘Professor Holtby and Dr Clifford were both with the Master at the material time, that is after the scout had seen Professor Walkinshaw alive and well. They were discussing with the Master how their going to Farnessnes Island would affect their careers at – how did they put it? “At this particular juncture in world history”, I think was what they said.’

  ‘Good point,’ said Henry. ‘But didn’t they wonder why Walkinshaw wasn’t with them?’

  ‘No. He’d already told the pair of them that he might be a pacifist but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a patriot as well.’

  ‘Bully for him,’ said Henry absently, something from last night’s talk beginning to come back to him. What was it that that young criminologist had said about jealousy? He frowned and murmured, ‘If I can’t have what I want then I’ll make sure you can’t have it either.’

  Inspector Bewman said, ‘Beg pardon, sir, I didn’t quite catch that.’

  ‘I think I might have been talking motive,’ said Henry.

  The police inspector brightened. ‘I must say that any suggestion of a motive would be a help. The deceased didn’t appear to have any natural enemies.’

  ‘We’ve all got natural enemies, Inspector. I think what poor Walkinshaw had were some unnatural ones.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes, indeed – whatever powers that are really behind this scheme for Farnessnes Island staying neutral. A cock and bull story, if you ask me.’

  Inspector Bewman said, ‘What I am asking you, sir, is how, if this visitor from that island was sitting out there when he says he was, he could have had anything to do with killing our Mr Walkinshaw and,’ the policeman drew breath and added what the Foreign Office would have called a rider, ‘if he wasn’t out there when he says he was how we are going to prove it.’

  ‘Let me get this straight, Inspector. Walkinshaw was done to death sometime after nine o’clock while Holtby and Clifford were with the Master and Soderssonn says he was sitting in the quad …’

  ‘That is correct, sir.’

  Henry Tyler sat still, his gaze wandering through his sister’s sitting-room window and out into the garden. ‘Wait a minute, Inspector. Wait a minute. I’ve just had an idea.’

  Inspector Bewman, wise man that he was, said nothing.

  Henry got to his feet. ‘I’ll have to ring a friend first.’ He reached for his diary and then made for the telephone in the hall, lifting the receiver and tapping the bar. ‘Operator, can you get me this number?’

  He called back to Bewman. ‘They’re ringing now.’ He turned back to the earpiece. ‘That you, Toby? Good, now listen carefully. This is important. Which flowers would have been open on your flower clock at nine o’clock this morning?’ Henry fell silent, then said, ‘You’re sure? Sorry, of course you’re sure. And at ten o’clock? Thank you and thank you for last night, too.’ There was a pause, then Henry said, ‘What’s that? Do it again sometime? That would be good.’

  Henry restored the receiver to its cradle and went back into the sitting room.

  ‘Inspector, I suggest you invite Gustav Soderssonn to tell you exactly what flowers he saw open in the flower bed in front of him. He can’t have failed to notice which they were. After all, he’s a biologist when he’s not acting on behalf of a foreign power.’

  ‘Flowers, sir?’

  ‘Flowers. If he doesn’t mention the Californian poppy and Helichrysum being out
when he got there then he got out there much later than he said he did.’

  ‘And so you mean he would have had time to kill Professor Walkinshaw while the others were safely with the Master,’ concluded Inspector Bewman intelligently.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy, Inspector. If Alan Walkinshaw wasn’t going to be one of them, then they had to make quite sure nobody else benefited from his research work. What he was working on is very important these days.’ Henry waved his hand. ‘His killing’s just a variation of what a young criminologist was saying last night. I must remember to tell young Peter Reynolds how right he was.’

  THE HEN PARTY

  ‘He did what, Hamish?’ exploded Sheriff Rhuaraidh Macmillan in disbelief. His temper had not been improved by his having been roused from his quiet time in the afternoon by the unexpected arrival at his door of three breathless young men. ‘And why, may I ask?’

  It wouldn’t have been right to call his quiet time actual sleep – he was sure he’d done no more than close his eyes in deep thought for a minute or two. And hadn’t he sat up straight enough – and as alert as ever – the very moment he heard the hall boy’s bagpipes warning him that men were approaching his house at Drummondreach? A man of law needed to be alert right enough in these troubled times for Scotland.

  Hamish Urquhart stood first on one foot and then on the other. ‘It was only for a wager, Sheriff,’ he said uneasily.

  ‘Just a wee bet,’ supplemented his friend, Malcolm, one of old Alcaig’s sons.

  ‘Nothing but a good hen,’ chimed in the third man, Ian Macrae, Younger, of Cornton.

  ‘There’s no such thing as good hen,’ countered Sheriff Macmillan sternly. Had he still been a young man himself the sheriff would have been a great deal more sympathetic to their sorry tale of dares and wagers than he found himself now.

  ‘But …’ began Hamish Urquhart.

  ‘There’s a man dead, you tell me,’ he interrupted firmly. Loss of life and limb, common enough though it was in mid-sixteenth century Scotland, was still not something to be taken lightly by the law.

  ‘Missing, anyway,’ parried Hamish Urquhart.