Orlando reread yet again his response to Professor Lewis-Duckworth, decided he was being ridiculous, then stuffed it into an envelope, sealed and stamped it, and set off to the post box. One in the city rather than the outgoing mail from the porters’ lodge from where he might be tempted to retrieve it later. If it were posted when ’tis posted, then ’twere well it were done quickly, wasn’t quite what Macbeth had said, and his intention had been far less innocent than visiting a post box, but Orlando could appreciate the sentiment of getting on with the job. If he delayed sending this letter now, he’d risk it sitting on his desk for days if not weeks, with himself paralysed into inaction. Once slipped into the hands of His Majesty’s postal service there was no retrieval for it and no going back.
Going back.
He’d been to his old college only once since graduating from it, despite having dropped into Oxford a couple of times on what Jonty might call the business of obscure sums and what Orlando would call highly complex and potentially important mathematical developments. The visit to Gabriel had—unlike the mathematically related meetings—not been a success. It had been a reunion of his contemporaries and he’d felt awkward, embarrassed, overawed by the confidence and success of those who’d matriculated at the same time as him. But that had been in his pre-Jonty, pre-detecting, pre-loving and being loved days. He was a different person now, one entrusted with the business of kings, more confident and more sure of his own abilities. He should be able to go back, if not in triumph then in the capacity of a renowned expert in more than one field.
So why did he find the whole prospect of returning there now so daunting? Especially when he’d have Jonty at his side this time? The post box—at which he’d arrived automatically, without really being aware of where he was walking or what he was doing—stared at him, its opening rigidly fixed in what looked like a gaping, mocking square-cornered grin. Why don’t you want to go back? Because all your successes will come crashing down on your head if this mystery defeats you and you walk away leaving it unsolved.
Orlando hesitated, letter in hand, called himself all kinds of an idiot, still hesitated, imagined Mrs. Stewart’s voice telling him not to be such a silly boy, then thrust the envelope into the box. He might have told it to bugger off while he was at it, and hoped he’d only thought the words and not spoken them out loud.
He set off back to St. Bride’s, determined not to think about Gabriel or Oxford or any of this business for the next few days and certain that he’d fail miserably.
Chapter Two
The reply to Orlando’s missive came to St. Bride’s two days later, filled with effusive thanks and providing the telephone number so Professor Lewis-Duckworth could be contacted directly at his lodge to agree dates and make practical arrangements. The sooner the better, the text of the letter implied even if it wasn’t quite stated, the warden being less of a straightforward man than Dr. Peters was and never using three words where twenty three would suffice. It had taken the master of St. Bride’s a matter of hours to reply to the note Orlando had left him, the response being, Of course. You must do whatever needs to be done. The final chance of honourable rescue had now gone.
Over lunch in the college, Orlando consulted Jonty on how to proceed.
“The game truly is afoot, as old Hal would say,” Jonty remarked, while dissecting his lamb cutlet. “Assuming Dr. Peters would be happy with our rivals employing our services.”
“Our rivals?” Dr. Peters said, with a grin, from the other side of the table. “The college next door?”
A murmur of disapproval broke out along the table. “I merely jest, gentlemen. Although some of you might believe the situation worse than that. Dr. Coppersmith, as I’m already aware of the unusual situation, perhaps you’d enlighten the rest of the fellows?”
Orlando would have preferred the floor of the hall to be rent asunder and swallow him whole. While his confidence among his colleagues had flourished, and he really quite enjoyed regaling them with stories of his and Jonty’s successes, this particular instance still felt too daunting. Still, he had to oblige the master. “The warden of my old college at Oxford has contacted me—us,” he inclined his head towards Jonty, although everyone would have assumed that both had been included in any investigatory enquiry, “about a double mystery. A valuable violin that appeared at the bottom of a college staircase one night and of which everyone in college denies knowledge, and the strange death of a violinist called Denison.” He paused, in need of a breath and aware that the sentence was at risk of becoming over-convoluted.
Dr. Peters, nodding sagely as though considering an abstruse piece of academia, said, “Who leaves a violin of such value in such a place and then doesn’t go and retrieve it? Unless the person doing so was unable to retrieve it, as I’m certain has happened with certain hoards of coins which appear to have been inexplicably left in the ground.”
Jonty nodded. “I’m delighted to hear you say that, Master. I often think that deposits of valuables left by our ancient ancestors were less a matter of appeasing the gods than putting them into a supposedly safe place by somebody who was subsequently taken ill or died. Or forgot entirely where they put it. One part of a blasted heath being much the same as another.”
Maybe that had happened here, Denison’s death preventing him from retrieving the instrument, but this was all too speculative for Orlando’s comfort.
Dr. Panesar, who sat at the master’s right hand, inevitably focussed on the other part of the case. “You mentioned a man’s strange death. Are you in a position to tell us any more about it?”
“I can certainly report on what was reported in the newspapers although, alas, one can never vouch for their accuracy.” Orlando gave a summary of the musician’s career, medical history and sudden death. “The man’s own doctor was happy to sign the death certificate and there was no need for an inquest as natural causes seemed evident. But the warden of Gabriel—who was a friend of the dead man—is not so sure. Not least because he is sure that the violin found in the college belonged to Denison.”
“Perhaps Denison knew he was nearing the end of his life and wanted to donate the instrument for the college’s use,” suggested the Langer, the chaplain. A man who managed to combine biblical scholarship, common sense and a belief in practical Christianity was always worth listening to. “Then either something went astray in the gifting of it or he decided to make it appear on a whim.”
“That may be so,” Jonty replied, “but establishing a motive for its appearance may well be less important than establishing the means by which it appeared. Dr. Coppersmith informs me there is a mystery behind it.”
Taking his cue, Orlando explained. “The college was locked at the time, and a particular set of circumstances prevailed that the porters can categorically say nobody went in or out of the quad where it appeared. Nobody in the college admits to knowing what went on.”
“So, barring the violin being gently let down on a string from an air balloon, it’s either a piece of magic, or somebody in the college is lying,” Jonty said gleefully.
“You say that Denison’s arthritis came on suddenly and severely?” Panesar’s eyes shone as he, as so often, took the conversation down another path. “I believe I’ve read that poisoning with one or other of the heavy metals can mimic such symptoms. I would need to check my sources, of course, but if there’s anything technical I can help with in that regard, I’d be more than willing to do so.”
“The offer is much appreciated,” Orlando said, sincerely. Panesar had become one of those who occasionally helped with cases. Indeed, they had a whole coterie of folk—including Jonty’s sister, brother-in-law and parents, the master’s sister Ariadne Sheridan—who fell over themselves to get involvement in cases. A sort of Madingley Road Irregulars, who brought a variety of talents, knowledge and connections to the cause.
“I will make sure I report to you before you travel.” Panesar was clearly restraining an enormous grin of satisfaction at being allow
ed to play. “I will also see if I can locate another article I read. One concerning strange tales from the east about people eating fish, perhaps imperfectly cooked, and suffering similar symptoms in their joints.”
Orlando groaned, louder than he’d intended. “Oh please, Dr. Panesar, I would never approve of covering over facts simply because they get in the way of theories but I beg of you, for the sake of my sanity, not to turn up evidence of Denison being administered the obscure and untraceable poison so beloved of fiction.”
Jonty chuckled. “You’ve started him off now, Dr. Panesar. He’ll be moaning about authors playing unfairly with their readers for the rest of the day.”
“I apologise profusely.” Panesar inclined his dignified, bearded head. “Let us assume that the condition of the man’s joints was purely due to a medical condition. However, I suppose we are prepared to accept the possibility that his death was not.”
“Professor Lewis-Duckworth certainly is.” Orlando glanced round the dining hall then pursed his lips. “I believe this conversation would be better continued over coffee in the Senior Common Room. While not all of our young gentlemen are present, some of those who are have extremely acute hearing and I wouldn’t want to break confidences.”
He wasn’t sure he wanted all the fellows to know his business, either, given that one or two of them were in their dotage and inclined to gossip.
Only Dr. Panesar and the chaplain joined them for a post-prandial discussion, Dr. Peters having business elsewhere and the other dons either being similarly occupied or having no interest in the matter. As Dr. Rookwood observed pithily, the case didn’t concern the Devonian period, so it was outside his scope of understanding. Once they were all settled with coffee and a serving of nuts and fruit, Orlando continued the tale.
“In his latest communication, the warden of Gabriel informs me that Denison came to him a few months ago, to say he believed he was being followed. Not threatened, just being annoyed. Somebody—and not always the same person—was allegedly dogging his footsteps and sometimes lurking outside his home. In one instance he asked the local constable to confront the man but the lurker said he was simply waiting for one of the maids from the house next door to meet him, as they were walking out together. Which turned out to be perfectly true.”
“Although not necessarily an innocent explanation.” Panesar wagged his head enthusiastically. “Did not your antagonist Sherlock Holmes ingratiate himself with a maidservant in order to infiltrate a household?”
“He did,” Langer cut in, “although I am not ready to accept that something similar occurred in this case. It sounds less like a clever plan by the lurker than a touch of paranoia on the violinist’s part. Different people following him on different occasions? Might he not have imagined it all?”
Jonty nodded. “That’s an excellent point. I can remember a young lad who was up at Bride’s the same time as I was. He got it into his head that he was being sent messages by Princess Beatrice—Queen Victoria’s youngest daughter, for those of you with poor memories.”
“I think we’re all aware of who she is, Dr. Stewart,” Orlando said, although he appreciated the reminder. Not for himself, but for the chaplain, who while he could quote—literally—chapter and verse on the doings of the kings of Israel and Judah, wasn’t always as up to date as he could be on the chronology of the modern world.
Jonty carried on, undaunted. “He was convinced that strangers were standing in particular spots in order to convey some abstruse communication. He was fascinated by codes, rather like you, Dr. Coppersmith, although his obsession with them had become unhealthy. I believe he ended up in a privately run asylum, still happily convinced that the Princess had entrusted him with her secrets.”
“What were these secrets?” Panesar asked.
“I have no idea. He was adamant he’d take them unspoken to his grave, poor chap. And before any of you suggest that there may have been a grain of truth in his belief, for example because he may have been under observation by his family who knew of his likely mental illness and were worried about him, that horse won’t run. One of the people he claimed to be bearing him a particularly important communication, given the fact he was wearing a particular style of hat and standing with his arms in a certain manner, was my brother Clarence, up here for a reunion and simply waiting to meet a chum.”
Langer, brow creased in thought, said, “Is there any evidence that Denison may have suffered similar delusions?”
“Not according to Professor Lewis-Duckworth. You see, when I wrote to him to accept the commission, I asked him that same question. Having heard Dr. Stewart’s story before and being reminded of the circumstances,” he added, with a roll of the eyes. “Not only does the warden believe the story of Denison being watched, he believed the basis of it might have been in espionage.”
“Spying?” If Panesar hadn’t been sitting down, he’d have no doubt danced in delight. The only thing that could have made the story even more intriguing in his eyes would have been the inclusion in the narrative of small explosive devices.
“In his younger days, Denison had possibly been involved with intriguing on behalf of her Majesty’s government. He had spent some time in Boston and Washington—not the Lincolnshire or Durham ones—ostensibly playing in orchestras, although he may also have been involved with the local authorities in flushing out members of secret and subversive organisations.”
“By pointing his violin bow at them? That sounds awfully far-fetched.” Jonty shook his head. “Although I suppose as a cover for nefarious activities, an orchestra has its merits. And if somebody had been a spy, it would be hard to find proof of it. He’d be bound to keep everything secret.”
“Any spy worth his—or her—salt would surely have managed to keep that part of their life hidden to friends and family. Although why speak of it now?” Panesar’s eyes narrowed in thought.
It struck Orlando what an excellent agent the man would make. Always smiling, always ready to talk to any and everyone, from the noblest visitor to the lowliest servant in the college and treating them and with an equal degree of respect. Added to that, his reputation as an eccentric polymath, prone to making bizarre—and occasionally explosive—inventions, would surely provide a wonderful degree of disguise.
“Dr. Stewart, you stated earlier that the most likely way the violin got into the college was by an inhabitant of the place, who was subsequently lying,” the chaplain said. “I have thought of another possibility.”
Orlando dreaded what might come next. He vaguely recollected a sermon based on an Old Testament reading, where one of the prophets—possibly Elijah, Orlando hadn’t been paying that much attention—had gone off into the wilderness, which these chaps seemed to be fond of doing, and the birds had brought him food. Perhaps Langer would suggest that some large flying creature, such as a swan, fruit bat or seraphim, had delivered the violin in the night. Still, he nodded his head encouragingly.
“Colleges aren’t always the impenetrable places that the authorities give them credit for. I know that when the doors to St. Bride’s are locked and bolted and a reliable person stationed at them then access and egress are well-nigh impossible, but the same would not necessarily apply to Gabriel.” The chaplain, turning to Orlando, tipped his head. “How secure is your old college?”
Orlando wasn’t sure if he could begin to answer to that question, not being the sort of student who’d have cared to find out such things. It struck a chord with Jonty, though.
“Excellent point, Dr. Langer. I daresay that since the time Noah packed Ham, Shem and Japhet off to university with their flint scrapers freshly sharpened, students have been trying to find ways to confound the authorities. Scaling up walls and in through windows, for a start.”
“I know exactly how I’d break into the college next door, should I need to,” Panesar remarked, producing a stunned and appreciative silence.
“Good for you.” Jonty cuffed his shoulder. “Will you share your secret wit
h us?”
“Of course. St. Gengulphus Lane runs down the far side of it. Once when I was walking along there I noticed a delivery of coal being made—no doubt to feed the college dragons,” Panesar added, with a grin. “There must be an internal door leading from the cellar into the college or how would the dragon-keeper get his supplies?”
Jonty rubbed his hands together, gleefully. “Dr. Panesar, a conversation with you always makes my day.”
Before Jonty could go off on a flight of fancy involving dragons and dinosaurs and heaven knew what else, Orlando said, “Could one really enter the college that way?”
“Of course. I noticed that the street trapdoor is secured with a padlock that might be easily picked, or the chain cut through, and the internal door might present an equally easy prospect. In any case a good sturdy jemmy might do the trick if one didn’t mind the noise nor have necessity to cover one’s trail.”
“You amaze me, all of you.” Langer flashed his companions a charming smile. “Promise me you won’t apply your considerable intellects to a life of crime.”
“I promise you that we would never do anything that we couldn’t tell you about, Dr. Langer,” Orlando said, before realising there were plenty of things and he and Jonty got up to that would have turned the chaplain’s hair prematurely grey. He ploughed on swiftly. “Professor Lewis-Duckworth assures me the mystery of the violin is deeper than it appears on the surface, because he has proof of no members of the college being involved which he will share in detail when we meet him. However, we’ll bear your points about access in mind.”
While the matter of unauthorised comings and goings at Gabriel would need to be explored, that could wait until they were in Oxford. At the moment, Orlando would need to rein in a conversation that was becoming less useful by the minute. “The question remains why the violin was left there, irrespective of how it arrived.”
Lessons in Playing a Murderous Tune: A Cambridge Fellows Mystery novella (Cambridge Fellows Mysteries) Page 2
