Time to raise his spirits again. “What’s the second idea and is it as good as the first?”
“Only you can be the judge of that.” Orlando managed a smile. “I was wondering if a man could be literally scared to death. We’re accepting on everyone’s say so that the doctor is useless, but what if Denison did have heart problems? Would it be possible to terrify him into dropping dead?”
Another intriguing possibility. “What did you have in mind? Somebody leaping out at him brandishing a weapon that didn’t have to be used because the sight of it was enough?”
“Perhaps. Or being faced with something awful from his past. Some terrible secret he harboured that came back to haunt him.”
“As part of the mysteriously engineered meeting we speculated on.” Jonty spread his hands, looking around the room at the other diners. “It could have been anyone here, for all we know. Trouble is we don’t have any good solid facts to work on apart from Dr. Panesar’s assertion.”
“Actually, we do.” Orlando broke into a highly secretive—and highly annoying—little grin. Jonty was evidently going to be getting a bit of sauce for the goose in the way he’d delivered his cryptographic sauce to the gander. “Have you ever come across a tontine?”
“Yes, on Richmond Bridge.”
“I beg your pardon?” Orlando’s grin had changed in an instant to a look of bewilderment.
“You asked if I’d come across a tontine and I said Richmond Bridge. Papa prepared me in many ways to go into the wide world and not be taken advantage of, and one of them was warning me of the perils of such survivor-takes-all financial schemes. We were walking over Richmond Bridge at the time, which Papa had evidently engineered—the walk, not the bridge—so as to raise the topic.” Jonty paused to take a breath but before Orlando could jump in, he continued. “The capital to build the first bridge on the site, which I believe replaced a ferry service, was raised by a tontine. Papa then proceeded to explain how they worked and how they were open to skulduggery.”
“Oh.” Orlando looked so crestfallen at having his thunder stolen Jonty almost wished he’d pleaded ignorance on the matter.
“I’ve steered clear of them ever since so my knowledge is limited. Are they relevant to the case?” He asked as encouragingly as he could.
“Possibly. I once was presented with a mathematical puzzle centring on one, so I did a little research. One of the things that struck me was that more folk who’ve invested in one don’t end up dead before their time. A villain’s charter, as your father clearly alluded to.”
“And Denison was involved in one?”
“Not for certain but look at this.” Orlando produced from his inside pocket a sheet of blotting paper, one that had been lightly gone over to reveal any impressions that had been left. “I picked this up in the music room, and while you were in the bath I got to work studying it. Two can play at your game.”
“Touché.”
“Holding it to a mirror revealed very little. Unfortunately, it seemed fairly fresh and apart from the occasional indication of what might be a yours sincerely and Denison’s signature, the only point of interest came when I used a pencil to highlight it. What appeared, as you can see, is the word tontine and something like Robinson.”
“Very interesting. Robinson? The name of somebody else who’d bought into the arrangement?”
“Or the name of the people who ran it? I was more interested in the mathematics of probability when I did my research so didn’t consider the administration.” Orlando took the blotting paper back. “Would a tontine be administered by a firm of solicitors or by a financial institution? Or by insurers?”
“I have no idea, but I know a man who will and it isn’t Dr. Panesar for once. This will be right up Papa’s street.” Mr. Stewart could always be relied on to furnish information of a financial nature. Like Jonty, if he couldn’t answer a question himself, he’d be able to find somebody who could. “I shall ring him after dinner.” He paused, aware that the secretive grin had returned. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
“I have another name. Under the blotter was an envelope, one which was named and addressed yet empty and unsent. I didn’t purloin it, you’ll be pleased to hear, although I did note the details and suggest we call on him tomorrow. A Dr. Somerset, based at Cranmer College, so we must hope he’s in residence.”
“Excellent. The purpose of the interview—at least on the face of it—being to see if he can cast light on Denison’s personality?”
Orlando nodded. “Yes. I’d also like to talk to Denison’s neighbours if we can. What, if anything, did they see or hear that fateful morning?”
“Then we’ve plenty to do tomorrow. Best get a good night’s sleep” Jonty drained his glass and wished he’d had crumble and custard. A man needed sustenance for his brain. And for other parts of his body that might well be in use very soon.
Chapter Six
Orlando woke the next morning feeling better than he had in weeks. The main influence on his state of mind was undoubtedly the pleasant hour he and Jonty had spent together in the latter’s bedroom before they actually retired for the night. Having a two bedroom suite easily facilitated such matters and so long as they slept apart for long enough that both beds had been clearly used for their proper purpose all would be well. There’d been an added frisson of doing his duty, as they habitually referred to having sex, in Oxford itself, partly because it somehow helped to lay the old demons of lack of confidence and isolation from his peers.
He’d been finding this case surprisingly unsettling and not just old college angle. Memories of his father had come flooding back when they’d spoken of Denison possibly committing suicide or maybe being mentally ill. To share intimacy with Jonty had been to gain comfort, especially as their coupling had been tender and slow, a celebration not just of their love but their concern for and support of one another. A married couple in all but name.
Now he could face the new day as something more like his normal, professional self.
***
The visits to Denison’s neighbours—which were conducted separately, Orlando to the left and Jonty to the right—bore some fruit although the usefulness of what they learned was unclear. The old lady to the left who was slightly hard of hearing, occasioning Orlando to have to raise his voice, was rather taken with him. Time and again she told him he reminded her of her sweetheart who’d died young and how she hoped he’d never have to go soldiering. When asked about her erstwhile neighbour, she said that while she enjoyed listening to Denison playing the violin, especially of a warm evening, she was less impressed with his troublemaking and wild accusations. It was this lady whose maid’s beloved had been accused of watching the house. Mrs. Evans, however, was a different kettle of fish and had been most helpful earlier in the year when all three people in the neighbour’s household had been stricken with influenza.
Jenny, the maid, was produced and confirmed that the housekeeper was an absolute sweetheart, always helpful and kind. As for Denison, she’d been much affronted by the manner in which he had caused trouble for her George. She also swore she’d never felt comfortable if she encountered Denison on his own, for example if he was leaving the house while she was cleaning the front door, although she couldn’t bring to mind anything he’d actually done to cause the sensation. Apart from the fact that he consistently struggled to pronounce the word doorstep correctly when he remarked about how beautifully she kept it. Even she knew that there was only one syllable in “door”, not the half a dozen Mr. Denison seemed to put into it. It grated on her nerves.
“He clearly gave that maid the creeps,” Orlando said when he reported back to Jonty, discussing the case as they drove back to the hotel to drop off the car again before walking to Cranmer. “It wouldn’t at all surprise me if it was her or her young man who reported his death to the newspaper. Any remuneration would help if they intend marrying.”
“Did either of them see or hear anything that morning, though?” Jonty
manoeuvred deftly to avoid a cyclist who’d swerved into their path and who clearly didn’t have his mind on the road.
“No. The lady was with her great-nephew, who’s at All Souls, enjoying an end of term day out. The maid—Jenny—saw Mrs. Evans go out but nothing else of note until she heard the housekeeper screaming at finding Denison’s body. She went to see if she could help, as she was concerned that Denison had shown his true colours and the screams came because he was attacking the woman.” Orlando, never entirely happy as a passenger, adjusted his position. “Hence why I think the newspapers got to know so quickly. That and the fact her young man works for them.”
“Does he now? And what did Jenny say about the scene in the garden?”
“That Mrs. Evans was beside herself. The maid said she was tempted to slap the poor woman to calm her down.”
“I’d have liked to be there to see that.” Jonty chuckled. “It would have resembled a bare-knuckle fight.”
“Quite likely. Luckily, Jenny seems to have plenty of common sense, so instead of resorting to violence she offered to telephone for her employer’s doctor. Mrs. Evans’s proprietorial sense must have kicked in, because she said that no, she’d call in their man. While she was doing that, Jenny checked Denison’s body for signs of life but there were none. She said his face bore a horrible look, though. Shocked or scared or otherwise distressed. She reckoned his heart had given out and he’d been terrified to realise his end was nigh. Her employer says she’s a religious girl.”
“Interesting. And possibly arguing against his having committed felo-de-se. Unless he took poison, of course, and the horror of the experience showed on his face.” Jonty slowed to let a woman and small child cross the street. “You found out much more than I did. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton—a retired couple—were pleasant enough but they said they kept themselves to themselves, as did Denison. Mr. H told me he found Denison to be an odd fish. Sometimes he hobbled along the road looking like he was in agony with every step and at others he was quite spritely. He reckoned the man was vain and wore ill fitting shoes, although his wife said their maid had heard from Mrs. Evans about the arthritis, which appeared to come and go. Nothing new there.”
“No, indeed. A shame that neither set of neighbours could have conveniently been watching out of their back windows to see what happened—if anything—in that garden.”
“Is it really a shame? If they’d seen what happened then there’d be no mystery for you to solve as the coroner would have been informed.” They’d almost reached their destination. “It must be nice to live next to a virtuoso. The Hamiltons enjoyed the music, too, although the maid whispered to me when she let me out that she always shut her windows when he played. Nothing special.”
“Perhaps she had no ear for music. I admit that I find even the best of violin music uninspiring.”
“Heathen.” Jonty slapped his leg then prepared to find somewhere to rest his metal pride and joy.
At the hotel they found a telegram awaiting them from Mr. Stewart saying he believed he might have something to report that very day, and would it be convenient to tentatively arrange an appointment for dinner that evening?
“Sounds like he’s moved with lightning speed,” Jonty said, passing the telegram over. “Apparently he’s run to earth the man who administered the fund and if convenient they’re both catching the train and coming to dinner, either today or tomorrow.”
While Jonty arranged for a reply to be sent confirming that they’d make themselves available on both occasions and await further instructions, Orlando booked a table for four in the dining room and steeled himself to face Dr. Somerset.
Although what exactly they should ask the man he wasn’t sure.
***
Dr. Somerset was in residence at Cranmer, so when the porter returned to the lodge confirming that he had delivered their cards and that they were invited up to talk to the don, they thanked him kindly and headed for the correct staircase.
Somerset welcomed them into his set of rooms, which were well lit by summer sunshine dappled by the leaves of a plane tree, reminding Orlando of his old set at St. Bride’s. He made the offer of a glass of dry sherry and posed the candid question, “Have you come to ask me about Peter Denison?”
“Yes please to the aperitif and why do you ask to the Denison bit,” Jonty said, as they settled into the seats they’d been ushered towards.
“Because there’s a rumour rippling through Oxford that the warden of Gabriel has a got a bee in his bonnet about a violin and has been seeking assistance from our rivals in the east.” Somerset handed them their glasses. “A violin would make one think of a violinist and the arrival of two such lauded amateur detectives would make one think of a mystery. And as Denison died recently I’m speculating that he’s at the heart of it.” The word lauded had been spoken in what seemed to be sincerity.
“I would hardly call us lauded,” Orlando said, concealing his pleasure at the adjective, “although I admit the Professor Lewis-Duckworth has consulted us. I’m an alumnus of Gabriel.”
“As is well known.” Somerset raised his glass in salute. “They could only be prouder had you been operating from here rather than from St. Bride’s.”
Orlando, delighted and amazed to discover the high regard in which they were held, found himself unable to speak.
“Thank you,” Jonty said. “The warden has two bees in his bonnet and one, as you’ve rightly guessed, concerns his friend Denison. On the professor’s request, and with the agreement of Mrs. Evans, the housekeeper, we were allowed access to Denison’s home. That led us to your name and address. On an unused envelope.”
“Ah.” Somerset nodded. “That must have looked odd but there’s a mundane explanation.” He pointed to a corner table. “We kept up a chess game by correspondence. That may sound peculiar, given that we could easily have met face to face to do so, but it started when it turned out we were both playing long distance chess with the same person in Bordeaux. An English chap working abroad who couldn’t find enough opponents of a similar standard locally and whose chess club found him correspondents here. Denison and I completed the triangle, as it were. We’ve played since before he moved here.”
That explained the games laid out and left untouched on the table at Denison’s house. Orlando asked, “Yet you still decided not to play face to face?”
“Yes. We tried it, but it didn’t bring the same satisfaction.” Somerset stared at the light playing on the rug. “If I can be perfectly candid, I didn’t like him as much in person as I did at a distance.”
“Why was that?”
Somerset shrugged. “Partly whatever interaction—chemical or otherwise—that causes two people to get on and another to dislike each other at first sight. Partly because he had a fault, a seemingly harmless foible, but it was both annoying and, I believe, potentially dangerous. He was a weaver of tales. Tales about his background and adventures. As though being such a genius on the violin wasn’t enough for him and he had to embroider the rest of his life to make it match the former brilliance of his playing.”
“Did he consistently tell the same tales to everyone?” Jonty had pounced on a vital element.
“I suspect not. We only met a handful of times, but we shared a mutual acquaintance. Another chess player. He told me things about Denison that I hadn’t heard, which makes me think he had one tale for Macdonald and another for me.” Somerset drained his sherry. “It must have been quite an intellectual challenge, trying to keep a record of what you’d told to whom.”
Exhausting, to boot. Like how it must be to practice bigamy. Still, this would explain the disparity between the accounts they’d heard about the dead man’s life, and perhaps make them wary of what the people they met told them. They’d have to focus on fact, not speculation, and the evidence of their own eyes and ears, which wouldn’t be sullied with Denison’s tale telling.
“I appreciate that you only met Denison a few times and I assume you’re not a medical man so c
an only give an opinion rather than a specialised judgement,” Orlando took a breath, aware that he was sounding pompous, “but is it possible that he started to tell tales because of the illness he was suffering? Not being able to play meaning that he had to find another way of expressing himself?”
Somerset, frowning in thought, studied the light on the rug again. Perhaps that was his favourite thing to focus on when his students began to drone. “An excellent theory although, alas, one that I can neither verify or contest, being a mere scholar of inorganic chemistry. I suppose it possible that his need to create a particular image of himself was less a matter of causing mischief than some mental illness manifesting itself. Yet he appeared sane and gave the impression that he believed every word he said, rather than indulging in flights of fancy.”
Orlando suddenly brought to mind the unconsidered trifles that Dr. Panesar dropped into conversation. They’d had proof many a time that these seemingly wild tales were accurate—they’d seen some of the outlandish machines described, so they existed even if they appeared not to function. If they’d had the slightest inkling that Panesar was stringing Orlando and Jonty along, they would have been furious. “You said that this habit of tale-telling was annoying, with which we can sympathise, but you also said it was dangerous. Do you have a particular reason for that or was it a general observation?”
Somerset paused, perhaps weighing up how much he’d already said and whether he was casting terrible aspersions on a man no longer in a position to defend himself. “Both. Generally, when people indulge in lies they can enrage others. Nobody likes to be made a fool of and while one can forgive many things, it is particularly hard to forgive being deliberately duped.”
“All of which is true,” Jonty agreed. “You keep using the word both, though. Are you referring to a particular danger?”
“I am. I once happened to catch sight of Denison up ahead of me as I passed down Merton Street. He appeared to be arguing with a woman, one whom I didn’t recognise so I can tell you no more than what I observed. It was rather awkward, because I thought to cross the street and slip down Logic Lane. It would be taking the long way around but I would hopefully remain unnoticed. Alas, he spotted me so I had to walk on. I raised my hat and scurried past but when we met to play chess the next day he made reference to it.”
Lessons in Playing a Murderous Tune: A Cambridge Fellows Mystery novella (Cambridge Fellows Mysteries) Page 7
