“Yes, that’ll do.” Rosalind beat at Billy with her fists.
“No, Rosalind. That will do from you.” Mitchell was barely out of breath, even though he’d been running. “There’s nowhere to run where you can get away from guilt.”
“You can’t prove anything, any of you. There’s just the word of an idiot boy.” Rosalind looked contemptuously at Billy, while Jonty wondered whether he could get away with punching a woman.
“There’s my word,” Mitchell spoke softly.
Rosalind blanched, but there was still fight in her. “You wouldn’t stand up in court and say anything.”
“You underestimate me, my dear.”
“You despicable swine.” Rosalind reached out as if to scratch his face, but McLaren restrained her. “I told you what happened under the sanctity of confession. You can’t testify to that in court.”
“No I can’t. But you didn’t just refer to it in confession, did you?”
“My God . . .” Rosalind turned deathly pale.
“I remember standing at your bedroom door, and you spoke of it again.” Mitchell appeared to be the calmest among them. “You must have thought me a helpless pawn in your game, that I’d ignore such a thing and not turn on my heel.”
“Why not?” Rosalind, shaken as she was, still had fight in her. “Most men are idiots. Your dog collar doesn’t protect you from the folly of your sex. Clearly.”
“Alas, it doesn’t. I liked you, Rosalind, and I still do, oddly enough. I could have loved you. But I couldn’t wed you when I knew what you’d done.”
“So pure, so clean.” Slow burning anger flared in Rosalind’s eyes. “I don’t remember ‘wedding’ being mentioned. Bedding, yes.”
Orlando looked as if he were about to interject, but Jonty’s hand on his arm restrained him. Things were getting particularly interesting, so why not let them run their course?
She turned to Jonty, eyes flaming with anger. “You’re all the same, only want a woman for the pleasure she can give. Our wonderful vicar—he’d have slept with a grieving widow, in wedlock or out. As soon as he knew my secret, he grew cold.”
“The secret about the theft?” Jonty said, fingers crossed that a miracle was about to happen.
Rosalind rolled her eyes. “You’re as big an idiot as he is. About my smothering Peter. I suppose he’ll be able to testify about what I said to him in my house.” She jabbed a finger at the vicar. “So you might as well know. I did it.”
Mitchell sighed. “Thank you, my dear.”
“What do you have to thank me for?”
“For a confession that can be used in court, as the ones to me couldn’t, not even if they took place outside the church.”
Rosalind gasped, but the vicar carried calmly on. “But I believe you have just admitted to murder. In front of these gentlemen and under God’s blue sky.”
Before the last few questions could be asked, Rosalind Priestland and Mrs. Hamilton had been taken away by McLaren and the reinforcements he’d summoned. Jonty and Orlando made their way slowly up the drive towards the car, with Mitchell at their side and Billy (plus his trusty bike) in tow. Hardly a word passed between them until they’d reached the road and physically as well as metaphorically shaken the dirt of Thorpe House from their shoes.
Jonty finally bit the conversational bullet. “Reverend, I had no idea how clever you’d prove.”
“Not clever. Devious.” Mitchell looked along the road, towards where the church stood. “I’d suspected her for a long time, and then I was constrained by what I’d heard as confessor. Not admissible evidence. In any circumstances.” He sighed. “All I could do was drop hints and hope you’d be able enough to find the truth.”
“I think it was less our ability than a mixture of luck and brass neck that succeeded,” Jonty said, shaking his head. “Is that why you told me about Rosalind having committed theft, confessed, and been forgiven? And that there was more you could say, and couldn’t? Was the misinformation you gave me for the same purpose?” It seemed obvious now.
“The order of birth? Yes. I just wanted to make you uncertain, get you to dig deeper. And I’m delighted you took my hint and took Billy seriously. He’s the most honest of all of us, I suspect.” The vicar held out his hand to shake theirs. “I have to go. I have other duties to perform.”
They made their good-byes, Orlando waiting until he was out of earshot before saying, “What is it about clergymen and their inability to speak in anything but riddles?”
“We’ll mull that over later. That’s a three-sherry problem.” Jonty turned to the grocer’s boy. “Billy, you were magnificent. I wish I’d had more men like you out in France. Would you be insulted if I gave you a reward?” He produced a five-pound note from his wallet. There were no police present to have spotted that he might just be bribing witnesses after the fact or something equally bad.
Billy’s eyes popped out like organ stops. “I’ve not got any change, sir. We could take it to the shop and . . .”
“No change required. It’s all for you. To buy something for your mother.” A sop for all their consciences and for not listening when they should have. If they’d taken Billy as a credible witness from the start, they’d have saved a wealth of trouble. Not judging by first impressions . . . they should have learned that in France too.
“I was glad someone listened to me at last, sir. I asked my mother about covering faces at the time, but she said I was being morbid. But you believed me, didn’t you? You knew I’d seen something amiss that day. You knew and you came back to get me to do my duty.” Billy’s eyes shone.
Jonty smiled. “I told Professor Coppersmith here that we’d been blind, missing something obvious. You’ll do a grand job in court if it comes to it. Only,” Jonty lowered his voice, “maybe you might want to conveniently forget any conversations you had with Sergeant McLaren before you came here? We got that bit wrong. The truth will be enough.”
Billy produced a reasonable impression of a salute. “I’ll do just that, sir.”
Ariadne Sheridan welcomed her guests with a small sherry and a big smile. “How wonderful to see you again so soon. Twice this week. I am blessed.” She settled them into comfy chairs in the bay window, making the most of the autumnal sunshine.
“It’ll be wonderful if you really have got a solution to the Owens mess to offer us.” Jonty knew he shouldn’t doubt his hostess’s powers, but even Mrs. Sheridan couldn’t work miracles. Could she?
Orlando had been calm, but now his hands trembled. The plagiarism case was to see a resolution in barely three hours and his optimism from the night before had ebbed. “Dr. Stewart has told me about the book. Isn’t that just another arrow to his bow so he can blackmail the king about his unfortunate elder brother as well as threaten us?”
“I don’t think Owens will dare carry out his threats. Lemuel’s godfather would make sure he was incarcerated in the Tower if he so much as hinted at it.” Ariadne beamed at Jonty. “You gave me the clue. ‘Treason!’ you shouted, and I nearly fell out of my chair.”
“I apologise unreservedly. I suspect I was rather wound up.”
“No need to be sorry. It was just the job.”
“Your brother’s godfather?” Orlando looked puzzled, but at least the trembling had stopped.
“Why, yes, didn’t you know? The father of the Keeper of the King’s Dignity was a great friend of our family, and he still takes a particular interest in my doings, even though Lemuel’s now gone.”
“Keeper of the King’s what?” Jonty asked, draining most of his glass in his bewilderment.
“Dignity. It’s an ancient role, not unrelated to the Keeper of the King’s Conscience, back in the days of my beloved Richard of York.” The titles seemed like they’d been pulled from a hat, but Ariadne was evidently deadly earnest. “That was the Lord Chancellor, but this isn’t.”
“Well, you’ve lost me now, but carry on. I’ll just nod and pretend I follow,” Jonty said with candour.
&
nbsp; “I happened to ring him. The father, that is. He’s a spritely old bird, the first man in his family to have a telephone, and he said he’d get his son on the case.” Ariadne was clearly trying to look insouciant but it fooled nobody.
“Happened to ring him. I’ll believe you, thousands wouldn’t.” Jonty winked, delighted to see his hostess blush. “Now, you’ll have to excuse me, Mrs. Sheridan, if my mental powers aren’t up to the task. Please explain all this slowly. You’ve got some clout with this Keeper chappie’s father and he’s going to persuade his son to do what, exactly? Apart from slap Owens in the stocks and let the ravens from the Tower deposit little presents all over him?”
“He’s going to give him an ultimatum. Return the book to St. Bride’s or be charged with treason.”
“Treason? On what grounds?” Orlando looked as if his head was about to explode.
“He wasn’t exactly sure. Some variation on ‘If a man do violate the king’s companion, or the king’s eldest daughter unmarried, or the wife of the king’s eldest son and heir.’ Something to do with His Majesty’s relatives and preserving their dignity at all times.”
“Oh, I see.” Jonty nodded. “Prince Albert Victor being the relative in question who mustn’t have his reputation sullied any further. Would the law apply?”
“Oh, I don’t think he’d even have to use it, just bamboozle Owens with enough legal verbiage. Even if he had the wit to go back and check the original Norman French, it’s apparently ambiguous enough to cover almost anything. A sort of catch-all to protect the royal family.” Ariadne went and fetched the sherry decanter while her guests thought about what she’d said. This was at least a one-and-a-half sherry problem.
“Could it work?” Orlando hissed from the corner of his mouth.
“I think it’s potentially brilliant. Look at how twitchy everyone was about treason during the war; I’m not sure it’s settled down yet. Ah, thank you.” Jonty held out his glass for a top up. “I see the treachery bit, but I’m still confused. If Lemuel’s godfather, or our guardian angel, whichever he turns out to be, scares Owens into returning the book, how will that help us?”
“The threat—sorry, persuasion to be applied—won’t just be about paper and ink. Because of the nature of the scandal that might ensue should the whole story come to light, Owens will be warned not to make any accusations or insinuations of a similar nature affecting St. Bride’s, as they might be used as evidence of him trying to execute his treason one step removed.”
“And you’re sure he’ll fall for it?” Orlando looked hopeful, but the catch in his voice confirmed the doubts that always seemed to plague him.
“He’d better. The college next door was founded by old King Henry in what must have been one of his weaker moments and the royal family keeps a degree of control. They can give, and they can take away, including the post of master, should they so decide.”
“Blimey. We asked for a piece of heavy artillery and you’ve unleashed a whole barrage. If I had my hat on, I’d take it off to you.” Jonty settled for getting up, taking Ariadne’s face between his hands, and kissing her heartily as near the lips as propriety, Orlando, and the possible appearance of Dr. Sheridan at any moment would allow.
“Well.” Ariadne blushed like a schoolgirl. “Indeed. Now you go off and sort out that plagiarist, and I’ll get on the phone again to my friend in a high place.”
“Thank you.” Orlando bowed. “I can’t say how grateful I am.” He bowed again. Then Jonty, smiling and winking at their hostess, dragged him from the room in case he spent the next half an hour bowing and scraping.
They made their way to the porters’ lodge, Orlando silent and deep in thought until they reached the main gate when he suddenly said, “Splendid!”
“I should say so. Whatever it is you mean?”
“I mean that I can do my duty and have this plagiarist denounced, without fear.” Orlando took a deep breath and nodded. “Terrible thing, plagiarism. To take someone else’s work and claim it as your own. Don’t you agree, Dr. Stewart? Dr. Stewart?”
“Sorry, I’ve just been thinking. No—” He put his hand up. “No smart remarks, this is important. What you said just now, how you phrased it. It’s given me an extraordinary idea.”
If Orlando’s ears had been visible, rather than obscured by both hat and curls, they’d have been pricked up like a racehorse’s. “Idea? About what?”
“About the final piece of this puzzle. Or maybe the first part, if we go right back to Bresnan coming to see us.”
“I shan’t pretend to follow. Just tell me what it’s going to involve me in.”
“Nothing more than a couple of phone calls and a luncheon engagement. And, in between, a pint of beer. You pay for the lot if I’m right.”
“You’re on.”
It felt like an eternity since Jonty and Orlando had stood in the porters’ lodge, discussing wasps and the post and looking forward—with the benefit of hindsight, they could pretend they’d actually been looking forward—to Orlando being installed as professor. Since then, they’d had to contend with something much more vexatious than insects: human beings, with their lies and secrets, greed, and sheer stupidity.
But another case had been successfully solved, and Jonty could take pleasure in little sideways glances at his friend to see the smug satisfaction that he couldn’t quite keep off his face. Orlando looked like that on only four occasions: when he’d solved some really abstruse piece of algebra; when he’d got one over on Jonty; when they’d rogered each other stupid; and, as now, when they’d brought a case to its successful conclusion and were lining up the last little piece of the problem before they wrote the metaphorical QED on the bottom.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Jonty whispered, as they pretended to peruse their mail.
“I was just counting my blessings. Owens sorted, tick. Plagiarist smoked out like the wasps in the porters’ lodge, tick. Lecture given, tick.”
“Lecture given with great success, tick,” said Jonty, grinning like a mad thing. “I was so proud of you.”
“Thank you. It meant a great deal to have you there.” Orlando got out his handkerchief and blew his nose. “Rosalind Priestland brought to book, tick. Just this one little bit to get into place.”
“It looks like your guest is just alighting from his cab, gentlemen.” Summerbee, the porter, kept his eyes fixed on the view from the window. “And another chap with him. Maybe his father?”
“Have you developed psychic powers, Summerbee? Or are you practicing your Sherlock Holmes-type skills?” Jonty winked at Orlando, who probably wouldn’t be best pleased at this intrusion into their business and would need to be kept sweet.
“Neither, sir. I’ve always had a good memory for a face and remember him from before. Clerical gentleman, I believe.”
“That’s right. But his father’s gone to his long home, so you’ll have to speculate about his companion for a while longer. And before you think you’ll solve the matter by looking at the college visitor’s book, you’ll have no such luxury.” Orlando, despite Jonty’s misgivings, seemed in an excellent mood. “We’re taking them out for lunch.”
He grabbed Jonty’s arm and hauled him away, leaving Summerbee to speculate all he wanted. “Not that Bresnan deserves lunch,” he whispered as they paused in the entrance, “misleading us in so many ways.”
“Grin and bear it. Ah!” Jonty strode forward as the little wooden wicket within the larger door opened. “Mr. Bresnan! Mr. B . . . Gurney?”
“Call me Bartholomew like everyone else does, please.”
“I wasn’t sure it was you, without the beard,” Jonty said, shaking his head. An orgy of hand shaking followed, sprinkled with pleasantries and getting in the way of everyone else who was trying to get in or out of St. Bride’s.
“We’d better go before the porters come out and beat us with brooms.” Jonty led the way down to the Blue Boar where a private room, a laid table, and a bottle already being chilled awaited th
em. The bottle was half-empty and the first course done before they turned to matters investigational.
“Coppersmith’s not happy with you, Mr. Bresnan,” Jonty said, tapping the table. “Too many riddles and too much subterfuge.”
“Ah.” Bresnan took off his spectacles and cleaned them. “I think I should explain.”
“Yes, you should,” said Orlando a touch testily. Luckily, the waiter arriving to get the plates and Jonty deciding they should have another glass all around steered them through the treacherous waters.
“Might I interrupt you even before you start?” Jonty looked around the table. “Do you really want us to call you Bartholomew, or would you prefer Andrew?”
“Bartholomew’s the name I was baptised with.” Yes, there was a distinct resemblance, both to the pictures Jonty and Orlando had seen of the uncles and to Bresnan himself. No wonder Summerbee had hazarded a guess at a relationship.
“Your mother—adoptive mother—named you after an apostle as well, I suppose? To complete the association?” Orlando asked.
“Ah, no.” Bartholomew smiled. “It was her grandfather’s name. But it seemed apt. Especially when she heard it on my father’s lips. Apparently he kept saying what a fine lad I’d turned out to be and how proud of me she must have been. Ironic, considering how he’d regarded me as being too weak to risk being left in charge of his estate.”
“What a rash conclusion to have jumped to.” Jonty shook his head. “Do you know why he felt that way?”
“Apparently it looked as if I had some sort of mental impairment. My father used to get fixed ideas about right and wrong and wouldn’t be told otherwise. He thought I was the runt of the litter. He’d also convinced himself that I’d prove to be too much of a strain on his wife.”
Jonty nodded, ruefully; everything they’d heard about old Andrew suggested he wasn’t the nicest creature in the universe. “Did your real mother know you’d survived?”
“No. She wasn’t around to see me grow, so she didn’t suspect anything. She had an inkling he’d had me got rid of, though.” Bartholomew addressed his nephew, as if such things should be kept in the family, at least on the surface. “My adoptive mother said it was one of the reasons she left him, Ian. Maybe she should have been braver and confronted him with it, although I’m not sure anyone would have wanted to do that. I was told that it all got too much and she had a bit of a breakdown.”
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