Swing, Swing Together

by Peter Lovesey

  “We ought to tell the law,” said Hackett.

  “By now, somebody has,” Cribb cryptically remarked, bending to rearrange some hair that was plastered over the dead man’s forehead. “You’re a lifesaver, then, Mr. Hackett. Which resuscitation drill do you favour, the Silvester or the Marshall Hall?”

  “Silvester.”

  “As taught by the Royal Humane Society,” said Cribb. “Clear the throat, attend to the tongue, place a support under the back, loosen the garments and begin working the arms in the approved manner. You did all that?”

  “Of course he did,” said Bustard. “I was holding the ankles. That’s my blazer underneath him.”

  “You had no cause to hold him by the neck?”

  “Lord, no! This was lifesaving, old sport, not strangulation.”

  “So I understood,” said Cribb, stooping to make a closer examination. “I only asked because of these marks. It looks to me as if someone gripped him from behind. They must have used a lot of force to leave the marks of their fingers on his neck.” He pulled aside the loosened collar so that everyone could see the set of marks, purple on the white flesh. “Perhaps you grabbed him by the neck to take him from the water, Mr. Hackett?”

  “No, guvnor. I took hold of his clothes first and then I held him under the arms, like.”

  Cribb stepped over the body to examine the left side of the neck. A similar formation of bruises was displayed there. “If this was suicide, I’m the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

  “A very God-fearing man,” commented Jim Hackett.

  “Are you quite well, miss?” Thackeray asked Harriet.

  The colour must have drained from her face. “I think so. The shock. I am not used to such things.” In truth the sight of death frightened her less than she would have supposed. The real horror that gripped her was Cribb’s discovery—the marks on the neck, marks similar to those on the murdered tramp at Hurley. Cribb was not saying so yet, but he might as well have blown a whistle and shouted to everyone within earshot that this was murder, a second brutal and callous murder within an hour of his three suspects reaching Oxford. If she had done what he had asked her to do, identified Humberstone, Gold and Lucifer as the three she saw the night the tramp was killed, this second man need not have died. She had shirked her responsibility, put off the moment when she had to be definite, and this was the consequence.

  “It’s a good thing Jim’s got a sharp eye,” said Bustard. “I’d never have spotted a body in the water on my own. Wouldn’t have noticed a confounded whale swimming by this morning. I was still thinking about the college barges. Handsome things! The carving on them—magnificent!”

  “Impossible to ignore,” said Cribb, although Harriet remembered him advocating the impossible ten minutes before. “Is that why you were on the river—to see the barges?”

  “The barges and any other delightful objects visible in Oxford early in the morning,” said Bustard, glancing Harriet’s way. “We like to be about before the river gets too cluttered, don’t we, Jim? We were going up to Osney to see the mill. We started from Folly Bridge.”

  “Is that rowing boat yours?”

  “Hired for the morning, yes. One’s supposed to see Oxford from a punt, I believe, but I’ve never trusted the things.”

  “You had a skiff like ours when I saw you last,” said Thackeray.

  “In Goring, yes. Now for my confession,” said Bustard. “We abandoned it at Benson two hours after we saw you. Jim was game to carry on, but I was feeling the effects of too much sun. We had some tea and caught the four o’clock bus to Oxford. We’re putting up at the Gentle Bulldog by Folly Bridge. B. and B. for seven and six. Very comfortable.”

  “That’s worth knowing,” said Thackeray.

  “We were up early to look at the barges,” said Bustard. “Then we decided to come this way. When we got to those vile gasometers, we nearly changed our minds, but the stretch ahead looks altogether more salubrious.”

  “Apart from what you find in the water,” said Cribb. “Hello, the bluebottles are buzzing this way. I thought it wouldn’t be long.”

  A uniformed constable of the Oxford City Police came heavily along the towpath with two men in attendance who must have fetched him. “Stand aside, if you please,” he said breathlessly as he arrived. “Is this the body?”

  “It’s the only one I’ve noticed,” said Cribb.

  “Did you discover it?”

  “No, but—”

  “Better get on your way, then. We don’t want every Tom, Dick and Harry crowding round it. Who’s the man that took it from the water?”

  “Jim Hackett,” Bustard loftily announced, with a hand towards his companion.

  “Hackett,” repeated the policeman, taking out his notebook and pencilling the name carefully inside. “What’s the nature of your employment, Mr. Hackett?”

  Hackett frowned.

  “Your job,” Cribb explained.

  “Oh. Removals.”

  “Nobody can get a piano up a staircase like Jim Hackett,” said Bustard.

  “Who is your employer?” asked the constable.

  “Morgan and Morgan, Islington,” Bustard replied for Hackett. “Before that he worked in my father-in-law’s business. That’s how we met.”

  “Business?” said the constable. “From the look of his hands, I’d say Mr. Hackett was a labouring man.”

  “That’s right!” said Bustard. “Every inch of him is muscle.”

  “That’s convenient,” said the constable. “I shall want some help to carry the body back to the ambulance. And what’s your name, sir?”

  “Bustard with a ‘u.’ Tallyman, of Notting Hill Gate, taking my vacation on the river with Mr. Hackett. We hired a rowing boat from the man at Folly Bridge this morning, thinking of exploring the City from the river, and Jim noticed this. He’s eagle-eyed, is Jim.”

  “I shall require you both to accompany me to the station to make a statement. The rest of you,” the constable added, raising his voice, “had better move along quick unless you’ve got something useful to impart. Pull the man’s waterproof over his face, would you, mate, and that’ll put a stop to the peepshow.”

  Thackeray was about to drape the ends of the coat over the head and shoulders when a voice to his right said, “Stop a moment! I know the face.” A thin, silver-haired man, shabby in appearance, came forward, looping spectacles over his ears. He crouched by the body and peered with earnest concentration at the features. “I’m sure of it. This is Mr. Bonner-Hill, a Fellow of Merton College. Whatever made him do such a thing?”

  “A don?” The constable scrutinized his informant, plainly doubtful whether a person with frayed cuffs and no collar was any authority on members of the University. “Are you quite sure of that?”

  “Sure? Of course I’m sure. I scouted for him for six months before I lost my job last April, didn’t I? Henry Bonner-Hill, Tonbridge School and Merton. He’s a terrible loss. A very sharp dresser, he was, always wanting a clean shirt and a fresh crease in his trousers. Strewth! Look at them shoes! What a state! He wouldn’t like that, being seen dead with his shoes in a state like that. I’ll give ’em a polish for him.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.

  “No you won’t!” the constable said. “That mud is evidence. Leave him just as he is. I’m not taking a rap from the coroner just because Mr. Bonner-what’s-his-name wouldn’t like to be seen in the mortuary with muddy shoes.”

  CHAPTER

  19

  The late Mr. Bonner-Hill—Over the friar’s balsam—Concerning the murderess

  “THIS IS EXCEEDINGLY DISTRESSING,” the Warden of Merton told Sergeant Cribb. “A grievous loss. Bonner-Hill was one of the youngest of our Fellows, not much above thirty years of age. I remember him perfectly as an undergraduate. Even then he was a discriminating dresser. Handmade shirts, you know, and a different cravat at every meal. He was better turned out than most members of the Senior Common Room. Yes, he made his mark in the College when we w
ere at a low ebb sartorially. So many academics neglect their dress lamentably, Sergeant. I recall remarking to the Estates Bursar that it was only a matter of time before Bonner-Hill took his place at High Table, and I was right. He was a little longer earning a respectable degree than I expected, but he got there, he got there. If he was not the most inspiring tutor in medieval history in the University, he was indubitably the best-dressed.”

  “Under his waterproof he was in a Norfolk jacket with matching trousers,” Cribb confirmed. “It seems he was fishing.”

  “He always dressed to fit the occasion,” reflected the Warden, pausing to look at Cribb’s blazer. “His angling had become quite a passion of late. There was a time when we had nothing but theatrical gossip from him at table. In recent weeks it was all hooks and worms. Not so conducive to the digestion. Fernandez, one of the other Fellows, must take the blame for introducing him to the pastime. They used to get up early on Saturday mornings to look for a pike, of all things. I presume he went alone this morning. Fernandez has not been out of College.”

  “The time of death was estimated as between half-past nine and ten o’clock, sir.”

  “On a Saturday? Ungodly!”

  “A punt was found later, moored in Bulstake Stream, the backwater just beyond the second railway bridge. His fishing tackle was in it, and an umbrella inscribed with his name.”

  “A sensible precaution,” said the Warden. “One is dreadfully exposed to the elements in a punt.”

  “Did Mr. Bonner-Hill have any other fishing companions, sir?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Not from Merton. Two anglers in the College is more than enough, I assure you.”

  “Only one now,” Cribb pointed out. “He was a bachelor, I take it, as he was living in College.”

  “Not so, Sergeant, I am afraid. He leaves a widow, although one ought to add that they have been estranged of late. That is why he moved back into rooms in Merton a year ago. Someone must break the news to Mrs. Bonner-Hill, although where she lives now I, er … The matrimonial home was a villa in North Oxford—one of those ghastly mock-Gothic structures in red brick, I was told. There was quite a stampede in that direction after the celibacy rule for Fellows was lifted in seventy-seven. Things are settling down again now, as I predicted they would at the time. It was a very outmoded rule—a relic of popery, I suspect—and got the younger dons into some embarrassing extra-mural entanglements, not to go into the intra-mural consequences. Bonner-Hill joined us a year or two after the rule was lifted and he was married and moved out within a year. Mrs. Bonner-Hill was one of the prettiest women in Oxford, but she wasn’t right for him. An actress—and I don’t imply anything to her discredit in that—she is moderately well known in the dramatic world—but her experiences on the boards had ill-prepared her for marriage to a medieval historian.”

  “Are there children?” Cribb asked.

  “No. That may have contributed to their estrangement. She was isolated in North Oxford—told me so herself at the Vice-Chancellor’s garden party—and missed the theatre dreadfully. She tried to persuade him to let her continue with her acting after marriage, but it was out of the question.”

  “Why was that, sir?”

  “It would have made his life insufferable in the Senior Common Room. People fasten onto such things. They did, as a matter of fact, shortly after he moved back into rooms here last Michaelmas and she went back on the stage. Some precocious undergraduate recognized her in Forget Me Not at a repertory theatre in Henley. She was using another name, but he was fairly sure of her identity and a few sharp questions at the stage door confirmed it. Next time Bonner-Hill appeared for a lecture he found a bunch of forget-me-nots stuffed into the water glass. Every undergraduate in the front row was wearing one in his buttonhole. You may imagine his difficulty after that in introducing a lecture on feudalism.”

  “Even so,” said Cribb, “I would have thought a man could live a thing like that down.”

  “Admittedly, but Bonner-Hill’s temperament was not well-suited to living things down. He took himself seriously, cultivated refinement in conduct and appearance and hated to be ridiculed. The episode upset him profoundly, the more so, I think, because it was rumoured about the same time that the lady had formed an alliance with an actor. No reference was made to it in Merton—not in his presence, anyway—but he seemed to sense that we all knew about it—and of course we did, for news travels fast in Oxford—and for a week or more he declined to join in any conversation at table.”

  “Was he unpopular among the Fellows?”

  “He was on tolerably good terms with everyone. Fernandez was his closest confidant, but even he found himself cold-shouldered at the time. More recently, however, they were on close terms again.”

  “I should like to meet Mr. Fernandez. Bonner-Hill had no enemies in the College, you think?”

  “I am sure of it.”

  “He was murdered, sir.”

  “Then you must look outside Merton, Sergeant. First let us see if Fernandez is in his rooms.”

  He answered their knock after a delay so long that they were on the point of going away. He had a towel draped over his head and his moustache was glistening with damp. “It’s you, Warden! My word, I do apologize. I had my head over a basin. I was inhaling friar’s balsam, the only remedy I ever found effective for a sore throat.”

  “I’m sorry to hear you are indisposed, Fernandez.”

  “The crisis is past, Warden, I am confident of that.”

  “Are you well enough to spare us a few moments? This is Sergeant Cribb of the police—”

  “Police?” Fernandez repeated the word with distaste.

  “Investigating the death of poor Bonner-Hill,” the Warden went on.

  Fernandez nodded. “Rest his soul, yes. Do come in, gentlemen.”

  Cribb turned to the Warden. “I don’t think I need detain you any longer, sir. Mr. Fernandez can tell me everything else, I’m sure. I’d like to see Mr. Bonner-Hill’s rooms before I go, but I’ll speak to the porter about that. Thank you for your time, sir.”

  Fernandez, with the towel still draped over his head like a Bedouin, led Cribb into a sitting room with a window overlooking the Fellows’ Quadrangle. One wall was lined to the ceiling with books. The others presented an odd juxtaposition of religious paintings, antique maps and photographs of actresses. Cribb crossed to the window and looked out. “Finish your inhaling, sir. It’s got to be done while the stuff is still hot.”

  “I am fully cognizant of that, thank you. I have inhaled sufficiently for now.” From the tone Fernandez used, he must have detected patronage in Cribb’s offer. Unexceptional in height, but broadly built, with hands like a stevedore’s, he was not the sort to provoke. “Pray enlighten me as to how I can be of assistance to the police.”

  Cribb had picked up a tiny twist of scarlet feathers from the windowsill. “Fly-fishing. Is that a pastime of yours, sir?”

  “Pastime?” Fernandez screwed his face into the expression it had formed when the Warden had mentioned police. “I do not indulge in pastimes, Sergeant. Fly-fishing is a sport. Yes, as you so cleverly deduce, I have taken a few fish with the fly in times past. Of late I have favoured live bait. I fish for pike, although what this has to do with poor—”

  “Pike, sir? The large ones. Are there many to be had in Oxford?”

  “Sufficient for good sport. The record catch from one of the backwaters weighed twenty-nine pounds. That is no small fish, Sergeant. I nurse a small ambition to take a pike that weighs thirty pounds or more. For some two years I have devoted most of my Saturdays to this quest. I have several times seen one not far from here, a very large one, but it would not take the strike. They are devious adversaries.”

  “I understand Mr. Bonner-Hill used to accompany you in your hunt for pike.”

  Fernandez held up a finger dramatically. “Now I see the drift of your interrogation! Ah, the subtlety of the detective police! We have got to Bonner-Hill. Yes, Sergeant, he joined
my Saturday expeditions two months ago. He was a novice with the rod, but prepared to learn.”

  “He was on the river this morning.”

  “The morning is a favourable time,” said Fernandez. “I should have been with him myself but for this abominable laryngitis.”

  “After his body was taken from the water, we found his punt in Bulstake Stream. His fishing tackle was still aboard.”

  “Had he caught anything? I suppose not. Trolling is an art not easily acquired. Bonner-Hill scarcely knew one end of the rod from the other, for all his enthusiasm. Would you care for a sherry?”

  “He was murdered, sir,” said Cribb, determined not to be deflected. “Why should anyone choose to murder Mr. Bonner-Hill?”

  Fernandez held open his hands. “It is enough for me to fathom the behaviour of a simple fish. I suggest you put your question to somebody who professes to know something about the intricacies of the human mind. In Oxford there are experts upon everything.”

  “You saw a powerful lot of Mr. Bonner-Hill, though,” Cribb said in justification.

  “No, Sergeant. Kindly do not jump to conclusions. I saw more of Bonner-Hill than others in Merton, but I did not see a powerful lot of him, as you so graphically assert. I am a man with many responsibilities, which often take me away from Oxford for days on end. I frequently visit the Royal Geographical Society in London. I am a member, you understand, and I have the honour to serve on more than one of the committees. If a meeting lasts until the evening, I stay overnight at my club, the Oxford and Cambridge. It would be quite misleading to suggest that Bonner-Hill and I were often in each other’s company. When it was possible, we went fishing together on Saturday mornings, and that was the extent of it.”

  “Did he talk to you about his troubles, sir?”

  “Troubles?”