Lessons for Survivors

by Charlie Cochrane

  “Either he heard it over the dinner table, as he seems to imply, or Mrs. Priestland told him while she was being comforted. In the course of a vicar’s duty,” Orlando said, in an imitation of Dolly’s voice. “He’s young and attractive?”

  “Oh yes. And charming with it. No, don’t look so huffy. He’s not so charming that I’d want to go picking petunias with him, or whatever they get up to in these villages when they’re a-courting.” They carried on walking. “Rosalind Priestland might have done, though, as Dolly hinted. If she’d taken a fancy to him prior to her husband’s death, it would give her a motive for hastening the man’s demise.”

  “And it would explain how everyone seemed keen to tell you about the mysterious man in the woods. That suggests other things. For a start, they must have known you were playing at detective.” Orlando increased his pace, as he often did if he was mulling over a problem when out walking. It aided thinking. “Maybe part of the business with Billy was to delay you, so they could get a message down to the vicarage, just in case you dropped by.”

  “Does that mean we should take everything they said with a hefty pinch of salt? The shipwreck and all?”

  “I think we should independently verify as much as we can.”

  “Of course. That’s the Cambridge way. Now, you said ‘other things.’ Plural. What else does it hint at, Professor Pulchritude?” Jonty swerved, avoiding any chance of a shin-whacking with as neat a sidestep as he’d ever used on the rugby pitch.

  Orlando sighed. “In my innocence, I thought I’d never tire of hearing the title professor, but if the remaining years of my life are to be filled up with variations on a theme, all from your ridiculous noddle, I may have to retire to a monastery. It also suggests, Doctor Irritation, that there certainly is something suspicious about Peter’s death for us to turn up, murder or not.”

  “I wonder if Bresnan knows about Rosalind Priestland’s past? I bet Simon did,” Jonty said, almost dancing along the road. “That’s why he had his suspicions. Where next, then? Coming straight back here and digging further doesn’t feel right. Not yet, not until we have different questions to ask.”

  “Down to Hampshire, I’d have said. To see what we can dig up—excuse the pun—about the Priestlands.”

  “It would certainly be useful to get a complete picture of where the money goes, or has gone, in that family.” Jonty stopped beside the little, rush-lined brook that trickled from the village pond. It was an idyllic scene. Dragonflies were quartering the water and ducks dabbling; it was hard to believe that any village as pretty as this could hide dark secrets. “The disposition of money didn’t strike me as important, apart from the simple case of whether Bresnan gets Peter’s lolly or Rosalind Priestland does.”

  “You mean Bresnan getting Simon’s money. Or maybe you don’t.” Orlando rubbed his brow. “You’re right. If Rosalind Priestland’s inheritance becomes defaulted should she be proved a murderess, then Bresnan gets that portion as well.”

  “I’m convinced this case is going to turn out more complicated than just, ‘Did A kill B?’ Or ‘R kill P,’ in this case.” There were reeds by the water; Jonty grabbed a stem, fashioning it into a little canoe to launch. “I wonder if Peter and Simon’s mother had anything to leave . . . and what happened to it, if she did.”

  “I could try to get onto that as soon as I’ve earned myself another bit of sleuthing by getting some more words down on my lecture. Maybe our friend Collingwood has the right connections; he must owe us a favour or two by now.”

  “I don’t think we should wait for you being in credit at the investigational bank. I’ll have a shufti this afternoon at those figures Bresnan left us—and don’t look at me like that! I may not be a mathematician, but I can count to ten and I can understand if ‘money in’ equals ‘money out.’” Jonty slapped his friend’s shoulder; they set off again. “It’ll make a change for me to handle that sort of thing. I’ll glean what I can from them and then I’ll write another list of what we still need to find out. I’ll make a start by seeing if I can verify the shipwreck tale. Not sure I’ll be able to access any answers direct tomorrow, it being Sunday, but I can get on the telephone and pick people’s brains.”

  “Does that mean I’m going to have to be the one trotting down to Hampshire and rummaging about there?” Orlando didn’t relish the prospect. He might just have to stay overdrawn on his detective account. “I don’t even know what I’d be trying to find out.”

  “You will by the time you get there.” Jonty waved his hands airily, as he often did when he didn’t really know the answer to something but wanted to pretend otherwise. “Maybe you’ll find a handsome man of the cloth to help you.”

  “Like your friend Mitchell? Maybe if he’s as handsome as you make out, ladies tell him all sorts of secrets, in the confessional or out.”

  “Maybe.” Jonty laughed. “I did like that saying about Romsey. We should use it in St. Bride’s SCR. So drunk he could have been in the college next door.”

  Orlando had to smile. Jonty was always optimistic that whatever problem faced them, they’d solve it. Maybe he should mention the other matter now, but Jonty looked so happy, strolling along in the weak sunshine, pulling on his driving gloves and smiling away at some private delight, that he didn’t have the heart to enlighten him.

  Jonty suddenly stopped, took Orlando’s arm, and asked, “Now, what egg of worry are you incubating?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Since Thursday you’ve been like a man who’s lost his dissertation within days of handing it in. A problem shared is a problem halved and all that.”

  “Am I that obvious?”

  “Only to me. Come on, tell Uncle Jonty everything.” Jonty waited for an answer. Orlando was going to have to give it to him.

  “That meeting, about the plagiarism. There was an . . .” Orlando strove for the right words. “An unforeseen consequence.”

  “Hmm. And the way you’ve been since then, it must be terrible news for someone. The department?” Jonty gently, encouragingly, squeezed Orlando’s arm.

  “Possibly. For us, possibly, as well. Owens has stuck his nose in.” Orlando didn’t have to add anything to emphasise the wickedness of the scoundrel. “He’s not daft, whatever else we may think of him, and he’s got a knack for diplomacy. Somehow, he’s managing to both castigate his man and stick up for him at the same time. We all know that plagiarism has occurred, we’ve even got proof, but getting it sorted without an almighty stink is going to be a hell of a challenge.”

  “You said it could be bad news for us, as well. He’s never forgiven St. Bride’s for solving the Woodville Ward case, has he?” Jonty fished a couple of mints out of his pocket and offered Orlando one, which he took gratefully. After all, men needed extra nourishment in times of stress. “Us in particular.”

  “No. I don’t think he’s the forgiving type. I may be worrying about nothing . . . and don’t you dare say, ‘That’s not like you, Orlando.’” He prodded Jonty’s arm. “But Owens caught me on the way out of the meeting—he’d been invited to act as counsel for his colleague—and asked if you were well. And if we were working on any cases.”

  Jonty peered searchingly into Orlando’s face. “You’re not a man to react to nothing, not now. There must be more to it than that.”

  Orlando shut his eyes, picturing the scene exactly as it had happened, every word and nuance. “Owens said he hoped I wasn’t the sort of man who lacked the milk of human kindness and that I’d show magnanimity when it was called for. He said it would do neither of our colleges any good to have our dirty linen washed in public. His parting words were ‘Judge not that ye be not judged.’”

  “I didn’t think Owens was much of a man for quoting the gospel,” Jonty sighed. “You think it’s a direct threat? That he’s got wind of exactly the sort of life we’re living and he’s going to expose us if you judge against his plagiarist?”

  “Exactly that. It wasn’t just his words. I didn’t lik
e the look in his eye.”

  “I’ve never liked the look in his eye.” Jonty shivered, even though the day was still warm. “What would happen to this chap if you found him guilty?”

  “Well he won’t be hung, drawn, and quartered. More’s the pity.” Orlando tipped his head along the road, and they walked on. It was easier to think on the hoof. “It would be a case of public and professional disgrace. He might lose his position and the stigma would follow him wherever he went. Same as us, if we were exposed.”

  “But without the two years’ hard labour.” Jonty closed ranks with Orlando, walking so close their arms brushed against each other. “The decision’s not yours entirely, though, is it? How many people are on your specially convened committee?”

  “Six of us. And we’re all convinced that this chap Gordon, Owens’s little sycophant, is guilty. We’re just waiting to check out his counter-accusation that the other man was copying his work. Even if I wanted to convince the other people on the committee to let the matter drop, I don’t think I could.” Orlando patted Jonty’s arm, briefly. “All this time we’ve managed to keep our heads below the parapet. And now, just when things were looking so bright . . .”

  “They are bright.” Jonty returned the pat.

  “Really? I can’t help feeling we’ve ridden our luck too long and now it’s unsaddled us.”

  Jonty stopped, turned Orlando to face him. “We survived France. We’ve survived threats much worse than Owens. We’ll survive him too, you’ll see.”

  “You have a plan of action?” Orlando leaned into his friend’s embrace.

  “Not yet. But I will soon. That’ll be my challenge, just like your lecture is yours.” Jonty smiled. “And talking of challenges,” he added, “you can drive home.”

  Jonty settled back in his comfortable chair at his desk in his study. Neither too warm in summer nor too cold in winter, this was Jonty’s favourite spot in the cottage—apart from the bedrooms, of course. He had an extension to the telephone on his desk (of which Orlando didn’t approve, naturally), so that he could keep up with the doings of his nephew, his niece, and their scabrous friends in comfort. Lavinia’s George held a special place in his heart, as he alone of all the family had persisted in believing, against all the evidence but in line with the facts, that his uncle had survived the war.

  He picked up the phone and was put through to the Reverend Ian Bresnan’s vicarage. The telephone rang for so long without answer that Jonty had begun to suspect the entire household was off gallivanting somewhere or singing a sly and rather early evensong. Just as he was about to replace the earpiece, an out-of-breath voice answered. “The rectory. Hello?”

  “Dr. Bresnan? It’s Jonty Stewart. I don’t like ringing on a Sunday,” he lied, surreptitiously crossing his fingers, “but it’s about the case.”

  “Ah, Dr. Stewart,” Bresnan said, when he at last had recovered a bit. “I’m sorry. I was at the door talking to one of my parishioners, and it was proving highly difficult to get them to go.”

  “No need to apologise. I just wanted to pick your brains.”

  “Oh.” Bresnan sounded disappointed. “No news, then?”

  “Plenty of it, but not what you want to hear, not yet. No solution, I mean.” Jonty tried to sound encouraging. “Plenty of leads, though. Enough to make us think we’re onto something. And you can help us with one of them. We need some more Priestland family history.”

  “You’ve uncovered the family’s dark secret, then?”

  “If you’re referring to your grandmother, then yes. Is there another skeleton in your closet you’d like to enlighten me about?” Jonty wasn’t sure that their client had told them the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Not yet.

  “That’s the only one I know of.” Bresnan sighed. “I know what you’re going to say. If I knew, I should have told you, but I truly wanted you to come to the case with no preconceptions. I tried to give you a clue in those riddles about my uncles’ birth.”

  Jonty resisted the temptation to give him a sharp answer. Clue? If it was, it was a pretty obscure one. Bresnan was a sight too fond of puzzles and riddles to make this case at all easy. “Well, let’s just make sure we’re talking about the same thing. Your grandmother didn’t die when your uncles were a year old.”

  “Ah, that’s not exactly true. We believe she might not have died then. The theory hasn’t been proven.”

  Jonty wondered how many times he’d have to say the Paternoster for entertaining thoughts about thumping vicars, and on the Lord’s Day as well. “Let’s look at the possibility that the theory is true. If she didn’t die then, perhaps she left your grandfather.” Or he could have thrown her out on her ear for any number of unpleasant reasons. But one possibility at a time. “Would she do something like that? And if so, why?”

  “The old story, Dr. Stewart. She was said to have found another man. Maybe I should condemn her.” He sounded convinced; Jonty wondered where the element of doubt had gone.

  “But it’s a case of ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone’?”

  “Ye-es. But also a case of ‘I’m not sure I can blame her.’ From everything I’ve heard, my grandfather was hardly the easiest man in the world to get on with.” Bresnan sighed again, making Jonty wonder what ancestral stories lay in that simple remark. He couldn’t have been old enough to remember the man that well, could he?

  “I didn’t realise you’d known him so well.”

  “We saw him two or three times a year when I was a boy. And I was thirteen when he died, which was time enough to make an impression one way or the other.” No more seemed to be forthcoming, and there was no point in pursuing things further. They had enough alleys to explore.

  “Did your mother ever suspect that things hadn’t quite happened as she’d been told? She was older than the boys, so surely a five-year-old would know more about what had gone on?” Jonty would have done. He’d been inquisitive right from the cradle.

  “She might well have had her suspicions, although she kept the fact to herself until her own deathbed, when she voiced them to me.”

  “When was that?”

  “Bless me, didn’t I put that in my notes? Just before the Christmas of 1872.”

  That year again. Was it possible that Mrs. Bresnan had known of her mother’s death and died of shock?

  “What did she say?” Jonty scribbled yet another note, determined to get all the points written down in some semblance of order.

  “Not a lot that’s worth repeating. I thought she was just rambling, of course. There was some rather distressing nonsense about how she’d had triplets and someone had lost one of them. She hadn’t, of course. Just the one child, which was me. I suppose it was a regression to childhood and her brothers, naturally. When she said her mother had run away with a sailor, I just ignored it. Then the next year, when the letter came . . .” Bresnan didn’t need to say any more. “I truly think my grandfather regarded her as dead, once she’d left the house. Perhaps he even thought he was telling his children and grandchild the truth. Certainly none of them doubted it until they were much older.”

  “The headstone on the grave would have helped keep up the illusion.” Jonty felt a rising loathing for old Mr. Priestland. “At what point did they find out that it might all have been a lie? Did your grandmother try to get in touch with her children after the old man’s death?”

  “Never a word, as far as I can tell.” Bresnan sounded tired. “Is there anything more I can tell you?”

  “Just two things. The first is a touch delicate, but have you ever had any suspicions that Rosalind might be, or have been, romantically involved with the local vicar?”

  “The chap who fought for the Cambridgeshires? Hmm.”

  Jonty liked the sound of the Hmm. “That’s the one.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me at all. She has always spoken very highly of him.”

  Jonty waited, but nothing more substantial seemed to be forthcoming. “Ah well. Onto the se
cond question. Could you, if you’ll excuse the expression, take a comfy pew and tell me all about the Priestlands, the Bresnans, and the disposition of their goods and chattels?”

  “Are you ready to compare notes?” Jonty poked his head around Orlando’s study door. At four o’clock on Sunday afternoon with the prospect of a cup of tea on the horizon, even professors of applied mathematics could put aside their work and take some time to play. They’d not discussed the case since returning from Downlea; instead, Orlando had been getting his head down, not just over his lecture, but college and departmental work as well.

  He’d come to bed late on Saturday, with Jonty already asleep. They’d risen early so Orlando could clear another part of his decks before morning service down at the college chapel. He’d probably have cried off that, except Lumley the chaplain was preaching about who the pharaoh of the exodus really was, which happened to be one of the few subjects Orlando actually enjoyed.

  A glorious piece of roast beef, adorned with parsnips and Yorkshire puddings (but no roast potatoes as Mrs. Ward had decided there was a risk of her lads getting a bit tubby around the waist if they ate in the same quantities they’d done when they were mere striplings), had crowned lunchtime. Jonty had taken a brief nap before making his phone call, while Orlando retreated to his study again and cut himself off from the doings of the rest of his household.

  “Compare notes? Oh, yes. Good timing.” Orlando neatly stacked a pile of papers. “Over a pot of tea?”

  Jonty grinned. “I’m sure I heard the kettle boiling, and as we forwent a dessert at lunchtime, I daresay a cake will make its appearance too. Things get better and better.”

  Orlando started to speak, then stopped.

  Jonty spotted the tension in his lover’s bearing. “Don’t tell me there’s another problem brewing on top of the lecture and Owens.”

  “Nothing new. It’s just your saying things were getting better. All I could think of was Owens’s smug mug.”