‘When are you going to give yourself up to the police?’ I ask Mr Jenkins.
‘This afternoon,’ he says.
‘I’m sorry … really sorry … that things have worked out the way they have,’ I tell him.
He nods. And in that nod I can see a man who has faced death and also caused it, and then chosen to return to Oxford to immerse himself entirely in that six-hundred-year-old organism which is St Luke’s.
‘I’m sorry, too,’ he says. ‘We’re all sorry.’
TWENTY-FOUR
18 October 1974
A number of students are sitting at the terrace tables outside The Head of the River pub. I can understand why they’re out there, braving the cold, because there’s definitely something special about the River Isis at night – something which is intangible, yet still seems to promise perfect freedom and unlimited possibilities.
Once upon a time, I would have been sharing the magic with these young people, and so, I suspect, would my companion for the evening, Lord Charles Swift. But our undergraduate days are already becoming distant memories, and without even discussing the possibility of choosing the outside seating, we head for the warmer interior.
Since it’s a celebration – of sorts – Charlie orders an uncommonly rare wine. One of the bar staff, unsure they have it in stock, goes to the cellar to look for it, and when he finally emerges with the prize – a good ten minutes later – he, and the rest of the people behind the bar, fuss over it as if it were a delicate chick that had just hatched or an exquisite Chinese ornament.
Meanwhile, creating absolutely no excitement at all, I have been sipping at my gin and tonic, a drink which is so un-uncommon that I’m surprised they don’t keep a large zinc bucket full of it under the counter.
We take our drinks over to a table near the window, and once we’re sitting down, I say, ‘So what have the police told you?’
‘That I’ll almost definitely be prosecuted for wasting police time …’
‘Which you did.’
‘Which I did, I agree. But they also went on to say that unless I’m very unlucky, and get a magistrate in a bad mood because his wife has just run away with window cleaner – or maybe has decided not to run off with the window cleaner – I’ll probably get off with a suspended sentence.’
‘You bloody English aristocrats – you think you can get away with murder,’ I tell him. And then it occurs to me that, given the circumstances, it was not the most tactful thing I could have said.
‘This is supposed to be a fine wine, but I think I might have met the donkey that peed it,’ Charlie says, in an attempt to lighten the mood.
Bless him!
But like it or not, there are matters that still need to be discussed.
‘Why did you do it, Charlie?’ I ask.
For a moment, I’m afraid he’s going to say, ‘Do what?’ But then he shrugs, as if he’ll go along with it just to humour me.
‘You know why I confessed to James Makepeace’s murder,’ he says. ‘It was to get you out of the mess that my own cowardice had dropped you into in the first place.’
‘I don’t mean that,’ I say. ‘I want to know why you confessed to Lennie Moon’s murder.’
Another shrug. ‘I did it to protect Jenkins.’
‘How did you know it was Mr Jenkins who killed Lennie?’
‘Maybe I worked it out. Maybe I’m getting to be as good at this detecting lark as you are.’
‘Charlie!’ I say sharply.
He grins, ‘Jenkins came to see me. He assured me that though he wouldn’t be around anymore, he had timetabled portering duties in such a way as to make sure the college would run smoothly for the next two weeks. He also gave me a shortlist of the people he would recommend to take over from him.’
‘Oh God!’ I hear myself moan.
‘I asked him why he was talking all this nonsense about not being around,’ Charlie continues, ‘and he said he was about to turn himself in for Lennie Moon’s murder. So I told him not to be so stupid, and pointed out that as I was planning to turn myself in for Makepeace’s murder, I might as well follow the example of the supermarkets and give them one for the price of two.’ He frowns. ‘I think I may have got that a bit wrong.’
‘You’ve just told me what you did, but not why you did it,’ I point out.
‘Why did I do it? I suppose it was because Jenkins has given his life to the college, and I felt it only right that the college – in the person of the bursar – should now offer him its protection.’
‘Now we’ll have your real reason,’ I tell him.
He sighs. ‘I didn’t think I could bear the thought of Jenkins and his wife being separated,’ he says. ‘I thought it would be much easier for me, you see, because I don’t have anybody.’
‘You have me,’ I say fiercely.
‘Yes, for the moment,’ he agrees. ‘But when you find the love of your life, you will abandon me – quite rightly so, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.’ He sighs. ‘That is, inevitably, the tragic fate of old queens.’
The thing is, I’m not sure I ever will find the love of my life in Charlie’s meaning of the word. I think that being brought up in a home that was terribly civilised and terribly polite – but in which emotion was seen as a steel-jawed trap you should always tiptoe around – has made me immune to that kind of thing.
Far better, from my perspective, to have the occasional fling – like my night on Majorca with that Spanish boy whose name I’ve already forgotten.
And if I’m right about my never falling in love, what will happen to me in the future? Charlie is so much older than I am, you see, and – barring the very unexpected – is bound to shuffle off this mortal coil long before I do, thus leaving me to cope with life alone.
Maybe, when that happens, I could find a nice young homosexual to adopt – but even as I consider the idea, I recognise that, in practice, I would never contemplate such disloyalty.
Maybe I could get myself a crossbred dog with just a hint of King Charles spaniel in him, and tell everyone he was a Lord Charlie.
That’s right, make a joke of it.
Way to go, Jennie!
I wonder if it will always be like this – the adrenalin rush when I’m wrapped up in an investigation, the feeling of let-down when it’s all over.
‘Life’s the pits, isn’t it, Charlie?’ I say.
‘Perhaps it is,’ he agrees, ‘but it’s always better living in a pit than being buried in one.’
He’s right, of course.
I really hate it when he’s right!
Dry Bones Page 24
