Lessons for Survivors

by Charlie Cochrane

  “It’s a shame one of those ladybirds couldn’t have lived to tell the tale and shake Rosalind Priestland’s alibi.” Jonty grimaced again.

  “I thought you had no truck with alibis?” Matthew winked at Rex before he faced Jonty again. “You always say you’d never trust someone who’s got one.”

  “I suspect I have an alibi for the murder. Do you think I did it?” Rex grinned.

  “Rosalind might not have an alibi.”

  Everyone turned to Maurice.

  “Sorry?” Orlando broke the stunned silence. “She says she was with the housekeeper and the housekeeper agrees. Jonty, do you think Mrs. Hamilton was lying about them being together?”

  “No, I don’t. That’s the odd thing. I don’t trust Rosalind herself, or either of the two vicars in the case, but Mrs. H.?” He shrugged. “If she says they were together until they found the body, then I’m inclined to believe her.”

  “But are we sure that Peter Priestland was dead when they found him? Think of some of our fellow members of St. Bride’s and the way they snooze in the Senior Common Room. Anyone would think they’d passed on, or been fossilised, they’re so dead to the world.” Maurice jabbed his finger at nobody in particular. “The housekeeper might have thought her master dead, especially if her mistress told her so. Rosalind Priestland is a good actress, we’ve established that.”

  Dr. Sheridan shook his head. “But Peter Priestland was recovering from his illness. We know he was wheezy. He may have looked dead, but wouldn’t Mrs. Hamilton have heard his breathing?”

  “Not if she only stood at the door of the room, and her mistress made a lot of noise,” Maurice countered, belligerently.

  “And not if she’s a touch deaf,” Jonty said, slowly, as if considering some new revelation. “Thinking back to when I was first at Thorpe House, she accused Billy of mumbling to us, but he spoke clear as a bell. And I don’t think she heard me crunching over the gravel towards them.”

  Maurice smiled. “She sees but doesn’t hear. She is sent to use the phone and may take her time over the call if her hearing isn’t all that. Time enough for Rosalind to act.”

  Silence fell back on the room as everyone came to terms with what had been said.

  “And so we come full circle.” Jonty laid down his coffee cup with a frown. “We all think Rosalind did it. And we can’t prove a thing.”

  The guests had gone. Two tired fellows of St. Bride’s sat in bed, books and—in Jonty’s case—spectacles discarded, discussing, for the umpteenth time, the case they’d seemed to be losing their way in for so long.

  “Right. Rosalind Priestland decides to kill her husband because he’s showing signs of living forever and she fancies that nice young vicar who might not wait around if another nice rich widow comes along. How can we prove it?”

  “That’s three times tonight you’ve said something like that. Our guests couldn’t answer, I can’t answer, and the pear tree certainly couldn’t answer.” Orlando poked Jonty’s arm.

  “I didn’t realise you were watching me out there.”

  “You can see a lot with the benefit of moonlight. Did you enjoy your cigar?”

  “Yes. And thank you for letting me indulge.”

  “My pleasure.” It wasn’t. Orlando hated the smell of cigar smoke on his lover’s breath, but it was a sacrifice that had to be made at times. Jonty in a particularly good mood might lead to Jonty in a particularly amorous mood. He’d never admitted that he’d taken to having the odd cigarette at the end of the war. One day that would all come out, along with confessions of how low he’d felt at the time, but not yet.

  It seemed as if Jonty’s sojourn in the garden had worked its magic when he snuggled in closer and said, “There’s one more thing, apart from solving this bloody problem, that would make this evening perfect.”

  “At least that’s not a hard riddle to solve, not where you’re concerned,” Orlando murmured, slipping his arm round Jonty’s shoulder and rubbing his cheek. “But is gluttony not a deadly sin? And would we not be condemned for our indulgence if we kept coupling?”

  “You’re unusually poetic tonight. Where did those lines come from? It must be the pudding inspiring you.” Jonty smiled, bringing Orlando’s fingers to his mouth for a kiss. “And is heaven not the place where you get what you most desired and it is as good as when you only desired it?”

  “Then heaven must be this bed,” Orlando replied, eager to move from words to actions, not least because Jonty might ask more about the origin of his flowery phrases and he’d have to admit he’d been scribbling them down when he was supposed to be working on his lecture.

  “And do we wish to have our heaven light, dark, or dappled?” Jonty slipped out of bed, ready to deal with lamps, curtains, or whatever was necessary.

  “Dappled with moonlight, please.” Orlando could hardly speak for anticipation. Once the room was illuminated only by a silver stream of light from the window, a silver stream that made Jonty look like one of those statues of athletes in the Louvre, the expectation turned from cerebral to physical. Jonty’s attractive silk pyjamas needed to come off, however, so Orlando could catch a glimpse of even more attractive skin. “Come here. I need to get you ready.”

  Jonty came back to the bed, loosening his buttons en route to sliding in close. “I can tell you’re ready. I have solid verification of the fact.” He chuckled as he gently took the evidence in hand. “Quite the most magnificent exhibit to come before the court tonight.” Jonty leaned over, kissing Orlando’s shoulder. “And one that seems to require immediate attention if it’s not to be spoiled.” He gave it some appropriate attention, while Orlando lay back and tried to keep himself under control. “Members of the jury, I bring before you . . .”

  “Will you ever hush?” Orlando, not without regret, moved his lover’s hand away from where it was causing havoc. “There’s only so much a man can take! If you want me to mount you, then you’d better stay within safe limits!”

  “What?” Jonty, eyes wide, laughed at Orlando’s brazenness.

  “Mount you. As the bull comes to the cow or the stallion to the—”

  “Spare me the agricultural analogies. I understood what you meant. I was just surprised at you being so daring in your choice of words.” Jonty edged up the bed, turning onto his back and pulling Orlando with him. “If you ask so nicely, of course I will.”

  “No asking nicely about it. Once the bull is in the mood, he mounts you and you stay mounted.” No matter how brazen his words, Orlando couldn’t help but be his usual tender self. They rocked as one until the crisis had passed for them both, lying together afterwards without speaking.

  “A bravura performance there, Orlando.” Jonty stroked Orlando’s head. “Please don’t ever say, ‘I have walked too long the paths of lust with you, Jonty, and drunk too deeply of the well of your delight. Let me rest.’”

  “You honestly think I’d say that? Stuff and nonsense. I’m no sonnet writer. Have you been composing again?” Still, they weren’t getting any younger. When would they turn from the delights of the flesh? In ten years’ time? When death did them both part? He didn’t voice the thoughts, because Jonty was blethering again and it seemed, as usual, that he’d been reading his lover’s mind.

  “I have. A double sonnet, question and answer. ‘We’ll tread more paths and drink more deeply yet.’” His stroking fingers wandered to Orlando’s shoulders. “‘If music truly be the food of love, I’ll play you like a harp until we’ve both had excess of it.’”

  “That makes no sense. You’ve twisted Twelfth Night beyond reason.” Still, excess made him think. Weren’t they supposed to be slowing down? And how much sex counted as enough? Was that quantity liquid, ebbing and flowing with abstinence and deprivation? When did satiation end and excess begin?

  “Stop it.” Jonty tapped his lover’s forehead. “And before you say, ‘Stop what?’ I’ll say it for you. Thinking.”

  “I was only thinking about whether we indulge ourselves
too often.” Orlando was pleased that the moonlight was unlikely to reveal the flush he could feel rushing up his cheeks.

  “Not enough, I’d say.” Jonty sighed and nestled into Orlando’s embrace. “Remember that night here, on leave from Room 40?”

  “I’ll never forget.” He could see it now, the scene etched forever not just in his memory but in his senses. Fresh scones with clotted cream, devoured until nothing was left but crumbs on a plate and smears on a knife. A pot of coffee drained and a bottle of wine opened. Simple pleasures, shared. “Soft tack and a softer bed.”

  “More poetry. Becoming a professor becomes you, if you’ll excuse the pun.” Jonty sighed again. “More of the same, as often as you can produce it, please.”

  “The poetry or the . . .” Words failed the fledgling poet. “Um, lovemaking?”

  “Both. Give me excess of them.”

  “Excess makes me feel guilty.”

  “Guilt about rogering, or guilt because we survived and millions didn’t?” Jonty gently caressed Orlando’s chest. “Apply your brain to important things like Rosalind Priestland and how we’ll ever prove our case.”

  “Maybe I should just apply my brains to murdering you, then we’d all get some peace.” Orlando grabbed the counterpane, and pressed the silky material against Jonty’s face.

  “Get that off!” Jonty pushed the cover away. “That’s not one of your surefire-yet-won’t-leave-a-sign murder methods.”

  “Oh hell.” Orlando turned and twisted the counterpane in his hands.

  “Oh hell what?” Jonty stilled his lover’s fingers.

  “We’ve been complete and utter idiots.” Orlando thumped the pillow again. “I knew we were losing our touch and this is the proof. We’ve concentrated on all the things we’ve enjoyed playing about with in the past, like riddles, puzzles, inheritances, family trees. We’ve been so intent on finding out who did it that we’ve never for a moment wondered how they could have done it and not leave a mark.”

  Jonty groaned. “I will not believe in the untraceable poison that leaves no sign.”

  “I’m not expecting you to. Smothering.” Orlando shut his eyes again, as though replaying the scene. “If Peter was so weak with the flu that the doctor wasn’t surprised he’d died, then he might not even have fought back. I can imagine her, crooning to him and reassuring him while . . .”

  “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but even smothering can leave a mark. I’ve got a book about it somewhere.” Jonty leaped out of bed, then threw the covers from Orlando. “Come along, I’m not going to suffer the cold alone.”

  Orlando may have muttered an oath as he grabbed his dressing gown, but he wasn’t going to miss this for the world.

  The book was found and, as Jonty had suggested, dashed their slim hopes. Smothering, unless it was administered very carefully, wasn’t as easy to get away with as they’d hoped. Some of the signs could be argued away as old age or the after-effects of flu, but not all.

  Jonty smoothed the pages of the book, clearly thinking something through. “Hold on. We’ve missed something here. Billy’s obsession with covering faces. Have we been too quick to dismiss that?”

  “We might. Go on. I’m all ears.”

  “We’ve not really considered everything Billy said. Because we know he’s definitely confused about the red kites and possibly confused about the man in the bushes, we’ve assumed the business with covering faces is the same. But could it be true? Could it be linked somehow to his having seen Rosalind covering Peter’s face in the act of murder? Even if he’s supposed to have left the house while the man was still alive.”

  “It could. It could indeed.”

  “Don’t get too excited just yet. I have a feeling that method might leave too many traces. Fibres and the like.”

  “So you don’t think she did it.” Orlando eyed the wretched book as though he wanted to sentence it to two years’ hard labour.

  “Au contraire, I’m convinced she did. Illogically, intuitively, not-based-on-a-scrap-of-evidence-ly. I just don’t ruddy well know how, because they’ve obscured the trail with scatterings of untruths.” Jonty slammed the book shut. “I think lying runs in that family. Her, Bresnan, old man Priestland.”

  Orlando nodded, putting his arm round Jonty’s shoulders. “I’m not even sure your man Mitchell’s story of the theft is true. I bet she told him just to get his sympathy.”

  “Perhaps we should fight lies with lies, then.” Jonty suddenly pulled free of his lover’s embrace, then paced to the window and back, rubbing his hands together. “That’s it. That’s it. Maurice said we had a witness for the day of the crime. Billy. Maybe we can pretend he saw more than he did.”

  “I must be exceedingly obtuse because I don’t follow you . . .”

  Jonty stopped pacing and ruffled Orlando’s hair. “That sounds like the old Orlando. I can remember when we first made love. You alleged you couldn’t think straight for days.”

  “Ha-ha. Always my fault, never yours for being unclear.” Orlando poked Jonty’s ribs. “Explain.”

  “We ask Billy, purely in the interests of serving his country as he’ll like that, to help us confront Rosalind. Perhaps we can panic her into confessing. He’ll have to say he saw her smother her husband with the cloth she put on his face. It’s not logical, maybe it’s not even moral, but I’m not sure what else we can do.” Touched by faint moonlight, Jonty resembled a statue again, but this time less athlete than philosopher.

  “It’s hardly a brilliant plan, but it’s the sort of harebrained scheme that shouldn’t work but just might. If she’s been unnerved enough by all the interest from us and Collingwood’s men.” Orlando began to visualise the scene. “Mind you, it feels like the sort of thing that only happens in some creaky old play about lost inheritances and murderous vicars.”

  “And isn’t that exactly what we’ve got here?”

  “Maybe. But I’m still not convinced. It smacks too much of theatricality, if not of sheer desperation.” Orlando ruffled his lover’s hair. “You’ve always had a dramatic streak, and I don’t want to appeal to it. And we have to do this by the book. How do you propose we organise the police side of things?”

  “We invite our old friend Chief Inspector Wilson to come to Downlea and witness the proceedings. He’ll see that fair play’s adhered to, and can engineer an arrest if need be.” Jonty seemed to have his entire strategy coming together.

  “Wilson’s retired, you chump. I know you weren’t here when he had his big ‘do’ to announce the fact, but you can’t have forgotten the conversation over dinner not a month ago.” Orlando avoided referring to those lost wartime days.

  “Of course I know he’s retired, more’s the pity for the safety of the good citizens of Cambridge. I thought we could invite him in a purely honorary capacity. Neither Rosalind nor Mitchell will know whether he’s still serving, and if we persuade him to bring a hefty constable or sergeant with him, he can have the pleasure of making the arrest.”

  Orlando picked up the book again and thumped it in frustration. “Would they be party to lying? Not even in the cause of convicting a murderess?”

  “I bet they would. Wilson’s a pragmatist.”

  “True.” That first rosy glow of dawn through the window might herald the first rosy glimmer of hope.

  “I know it’s a long shot.” Jonty rubbed Orlando’s hand thoughtfully. “But if Billy doesn’t have to lie too much, he could play his part in the game.”

  “Murder’s not exactly a game of croquet.” Orlando squeezed his lover’s fingers. “But you’re right. We have to corner her into making an admission. If that fails, and she really is guilty, then she’s won. At least for the moment.”

  “You’ve got that look in your eye. You’ll never let this rest, will you?”

  “Never. Even if we do it by cheating or sheer damned luck, we’ll hunt down the truth.”

  Jonty grinned. “That’s the spirit. Only don’t let either Mrs. Sheridan or young Georgie
hear you.”

  “Are you sure this is going to work?” Jonty fiddled with his driving gloves while Orlando looked out of the window and avoided catching his eye. They couldn’t actually see Thorpe House from the road, although Orlando was aware of some sort of brooding presence on the other side of the wall.

  “Sure? I’m not sure it won’t end up with us being arrested, let alone anyone else.” Orlando kept his gaze fixed down the road. “But we have little choice.”

  “I wish Billy was here.”

  “Be patient. Sergeant McLaren will have him here soon enough. He wants to make sure we don’t play any tricks.”

  McLaren was the antithesis of the redoubtable Sergeant Cohen, who’d formed half of the noted constabulary double act of Wilson and Cohen back at the times of the St. Bride’s murders. While they’d left official police business behind, they still made a formidable pair when they met Jonty and Orlando over the dinner table at the Blue Boar. McLaren was Cohen’s opposite in appearance, lithe and whippet-like, definitely built more for speed than endurance. Cohen had been stout, sturdy, and impossible to best in a fight. Orlando hoped McLaren would be able to handle himself if things came to fisticuffs.

  “Play any tricks? Any more than we already have planned?” Jonty sighed. “I’m glad Papa isn’t here to see us.”

  “Getting cold feet?”

  “Just a touch. Are you?”

  “Just a touch, even though it was your idea.”

  “I know. And when it all falls down about our ears, I’ll be carrying the can.”

  Orlando pushed the car door open. “Here they come.” He waited as the policeman and the bicycle-wielding grocer’s lad came up the road. “Sergeant! All’s well?”

  “Yes, sir. This young man knows what’s expected of him.” McLaren didn’t look as if he believed that expectation would turn into any useful reality.

  “Good,” Orlando said, starting the walk up to the house and hoping everyone would follow. Like going into no-man’s-land. “We all know our parts?”