It seemed unmannerly to refuse after he had been so considerate as to alter his arrangement on her behalf, so Harriet presently found herself sipping Chianti and telling Fernandez about the geographical excursion with the gardener and his son last summer, while a waiter helped her to an escalope de veau au romarin. Nobody at Elfrida would believe this was happening to her. On Monday they always had cold beef and boiled potatoes.
“I was thinking how remarkable it is that I should have met the one person in Oxford who could show me the books I saw this morning,” Harriet told him. “I suppose all the important moments in our lives are governed by chance. If I had not met Melanie—Mrs. Bonner-Hill—and offered to accompany her to Merton College Chapel yesterday, I should never have learned what treasures the Bodleian contains.”
Fernandez smiled. “And if I, in my turn, had not recovered from a bout of laryngitis, I should not have been at Morning Service, nor had the delight of your company now. A rationalist—and we have a number of those at Oxford—would tell you that these are chance occurrences, that life is a sequence of unpredestined events to which we are too often tempted to ascribe a significance. I prefer to think that such meetings as ours are governed by more than mere chance.”
“I am sure you are right.” Harriet blushed at the truth of this, thinking of the ways she had manipulated mere chance. She hoped Fernandez would suppose the wine was making her warm.
“To pursue the point,” he went on, “if I had not had my laryngitis, I should have gone out with Bonner-Hill on Saturday morning as I invariably do—”
“And you might have been murdered!” said Harriet.
“I had not thought of anything quite so dramatic. I was projecting that poor Bonner-Hill might not have suffered the fate he did, because two of us would presumably have been better able to defend ourselves from attack. But then the chain of events which led to my meeting you would not have been forged. Even the death of a close friend has brought its compensation. Won’t you have some more asparagus?”
Harriet remembered why she was there, realized that an opportunity was about to slip through her fingers. “No, thank you. Forgive me for suggesting such a thing, but has it not crossed your mind that whoever killed Mr. Bonner-Hill may have intended to murder you?”
Fernandez put down his knife and fork. “A chilling thought, my dear. What put it into your head?” He refilled Harriet’s glass.
“Melanie told me about your custom of going fishing on Saturday mornings. She said her husband had only recently taken to going with you. He had not been out on the river alone before. It seemed to me that if that were the case, nobody could have expected to find him alone. If, on the other hand, they did not know Mr. Bonner-Hill had started accompanying you, they would expect to find you alone. It suggests to me that they must have mistaken him for you.” She tipped a large amount of wine down her throat. “Had it not occurred to you, Mr. Fernandez?”
“I should be happier, my dear, if you used my first name, which is John. I am sometimes called Jack in Merton, but I prefer the name my parents gave me.”
“Then you must call me Harriet.”
“That will be a special pleasure. Well, Harriet, your perspicacity is remarkable. Of course, you are absolutely right. Mine is the body that should be undergoing a post-mortem examination this morning. Bonner-Hill, unfortunate fellow, was murdered, as you correctly surmised, because he was mistaken for me.”
“But why, John? Why did somebody wish to murder you?”
Fernandez emptied the last of the wine into their glasses. “That I shall explain, Harriet, but it is a story I should prefer not to relate in a public restaurant. With your permission I shall take you after lunch to Magdalen Bridge, where we can hire a punt and take it up the Cherwell to a place I know where a man might speak in confidence.”
“I’m not sure whether that is—”
“First, we’ll have coffee with liqueurs. Have you tried Benedictine? Then you must.”
CHAPTER
35
Waiting for the ring—Melanie becomes perturbed—A curious report from Abingdon
AFTER CRIBB’S EULOGY ON the convenience of the telephone, there was a chastening wait for it to ring. Privately, Thackeray and Hardy would have been happier doing something active towards an arrest, but Cribb’s faith in modern technology was unshakeable. “I have issued a description of the two suspects to each of the lockkeepers,” he said over the third mug of cocoa that morning. “I have men posted at every railway station within ten miles, and a watch is being kept on all the roads out of Oxford. As soon as they are seen, a message will be conveyed over the wires to the telephone set in the Chief Inspector’s office and we shall be in pursuit within seconds.”
“Suppose they cleared off yesterday, Sarge,” Thackeray injudiciously suggested.
“Sunday?” said Cribb, shaking his head. “Too risky travelling on Sunday. People would notice. They’ll have waited for today, when everyone’s moving about the country.”
“What about Saturday?” Thackeray persisted.
“If you recollect,” said Cribb with a glare, “there were uniformed police all over Oxford looking for Humberstone and his friends. Mark my words, the ones we’re after will have gone to earth until today.”
“I suppose,” he said an hour later, “they could be lying low until tomorrow.”
At noon, he found a pretext for going into the Chief Inspector’s room to make sure the telephone receiver was on its hook. At one, Thackeray persuaded him to think about lunch. Hardy was sent for a cold chicken from the shop next door. “I could fetch some beer from a pub,” Thackeray volunteered. “Cocoa doesn’t really go with chicken.”
“You’ll stay here,” growled Cribb. “The call could come at any minute.”
The only call in the next hour was not from the telephone. Melanie Bonner-Hill was shown in, plainly in an agitated state. “I know how busy you are,” she told Cribb, “and you will probably think I am being hysterical, but I am dreadfully concerned for the well-being of Miss Shaw.”
“Harriet?” Hardy was on his feet.
“This morning I was planning to show her some of Oxford’s places of interest in return for her kindness to me. I said nothing about it last night, thinking it might make a small surprise this morning. But when I called at her room, she had already gone out. I found one of the hotel staff, a chambermaid, who had seen her go out. She was wearing a muslin skirt she showed me yesterday, calling it the best she had. She had sat in the hotel lobby watching the clock until five to eleven, when she looked in the mirror, powdered her cheeks and went out. Sergeant, she is a stranger to Oxford. I think she had an appointment to meet somebody, and the only person she has spoken to other than me in the last forty-eight hours is John Fernandez.”
“Fernandez?” Hardy clapped his boater on his head. “That’s the man they thought was Jack the … Sergeant, I must find her!”
“Steady, Constable,” cautioned Cribb. “Mrs. Bonner-Hill, you say that she has spoken to Mr. Fernandez. I presume this was at Merton College. How could she have had a conversation with Fernandez without your overhearing it?”
“It was when we were clearing my husband’s rooms yesterday afternoon. I found a letter posted from London addressed to John Fernandez. It had been opened. To save me calling on Mr. Fernandez, whom I didn’t wish to see in the circumstances, Harriet offered to return it. She was gone for long enough to have been persuaded to meet him. He is very difficult to refuse.”
“This letter,” said Cribb. “It would be helpful to know what it said. You didn’t, by any chance … ?”
Melanie nodded. “I might as well admit that I did. Before I called Harriet, I opened it. It wasn’t a proper letter at all, for there was no address and no signature. It seemed to be about fishing—an arrangement to meet at half-past eight on Saturday near a railway bridge.”
Cribb brought his clenched fist down on the table with such suddenness that Melanie started in surprise. “Got ’em!�
� he said. “Mrs. Bonner-Hill, you know Fernandez. Where would he take a lady for lunch?”
“The Clarendon Hotel,” she said at once, and blushed. “Just over the road in the Cornmarket.”
Cribb took out his watch. “Ten to two. Past lunchtime. Better hurry, Constable.”
Hardy was already through the door. As an afterthought Cribb shouted, “You might find ’em in—”
The door slammed.
“—the coffee lounge,” Cribb finished, practically to himself.
“She’s completely inexperienced,” said Melanie. “He’ll take advantage of her. I know him. Oh dear, I feel so responsible.”
“No more than I do, ma’am,” said Cribb, remembering Miss Plummer. “Hardy’s the right man for this. Good in emergencies. Nicely mannered, too.”
“But what if they have left the coffee lounge?” Melanie’s eyes opened wider at this dire possibility.
“I dare say the management would be of assistance in that case, ma’am. Duplicate keys, you know. All’s not lost.”
Melanie was unconvinced. “On an afternoon like this he is more likely to have taken her on the river.” She blinked twice. “He’s not to be trusted in a punt.”
“The river? Do you mean the Isis, ma’am?”
“The Cherwell. And I know exactly where he likes to go. I shall go after Constable Hardy at once and tell him.”
Somebody had to escort Melanie across Carfax to the Clarendon. Consequently, when the telephone rang loud and clear three minutes later, Cribb was deprived of the satisfaction of seeing Thackeray’s jaw sag in surprise, as it surely would have done. More irritating still, he had to walk to the Cornmarket and seek out the two constables to announce the news to them. They were just leaving the Clarendon with Melanie. And Thackeray spoke first.
“Nobody’s seen Fernandez or Harriet here, Sarge. They must have gone somewhere else to lunch.”
“It doesn’t matter where they had lunch if they went on the river afterwards,” chimed in Melanie. “We must go to Magdalen Bridge without delay.”
“We’ll take a cab,” Hardy announced, starting out towards the road with his left hand held high. “You’ve decided to join us after all, then, Sergeant.”
“I have just been speaking on the telephone,” Cribb said, in tones measured to combat the distractions of Cornmarket Street. “The keeper of Abingdon Lock was on the wire to me. Only a few minutes ago a paddle steamer travelling from Oxford to Reading passed through the lock and the captain remarked to him that two passengers had been noticed behaving oddly, standing at the aft end of the boat, away from the other passengers on the upper deck, which has a sun canopy. As one of these two was a lady, carrying no sort of sunshade of her own, although the sun was particularly hot at that time, another passenger very decently went down to the deck and offered her the use of his wife’s parasol. She simply turned her back on him and made no reply. Supposing they must be foreigners who had misunderstood his meaning, he addressed the man in French and was told in very forthright English to mind his own business. He was so insulted that he reported the incident to the captain. After taking a discreet look at them, the captain decided not to pursue the matter. But he related it to the lockkeeper at Abingdon, who was sharp enough to put two and two together and pick up the telephone. They can’t escape us this time.”
“Well, I never!” said Thackeray. “A man and a woman. Who would have thought—”
“You wouldn’t and that’s plain,” said Cribb ungraciously. “You’re coming with me to arrest ’em, Thackeray. Hardy can cope with Fernandez.”
Hardy had made his priorities patently clear before Cribb had got to the end of his speech by stepping into the road and whistling for a cab he had seen. It pulled up beside the curb.
“This will do,” said Cribb. “What are you waiting for, Thackeray? There’s another one behind for you, Hardy. Whistle him up, man, or he’ll pass you by.”
CHAPTER
36
Jolly boating weather—Confidences on the Cherwell—Harriet unbalanced
HARRIET RECLINED AGAINST THE cushions watching clusters of foliage drift across her vision. She had the interesting sensation that the punt was stationary and the trees were travelling over her head in the direction of Oxford. Common sense dimly insisted that John Fernandez was poling the punt upstream, but common sense was a poor match for dark leaves moving against a blue sky after Chianti and Benedictine.
She should not have accepted the drinks. How many times had she heard Miss Plummer articulate the perils of insobriety? One sip, she would say, one sip will seep into your veins, depriving you of the will to resist the devil and all his works. And she was right! The dear old Plum was right! Harriet on her cushions was unable to resist even the glass of champagne John Fernandez had poured for her after they had pushed off from Magdalen Bridge.
Bubbly, Molly always called it when she talked about it in college. Molly, naturally, knew about champagne, the devil and any of his works you cared to mention. But had she ever shared a bottle of Pommery and Greno’s Extra Sec on a punt with a Fellow of the University of Oxford?
“We shall stop under the willow there,” announced Fernandez, so distantly he might still have been at Magdalen Bridge. “The leaves will form a natural canopy. Do not be alarmed if they brush your face as we pass underneath.”
She closed her eyes and enjoyed the coolness of the shade. Fernandez thrust the pole into the mud below and looped the painter round it. Then he brought the champagne bottle to Harriet’s end of the boat and sat level with her knees. “Before I begin, will you have another glass, Harriet? Of course you will.”
She held her glass unsteadily under the neck of the bottle.
“You must be asking yourself, my dear, how I was able to confirm so confidently that Bonner-Hill was murdered in error. It will interest you to know that you have held the evidence of this in your own pretty hands.”
“My own pretty hands?” Harriet repeated, wishing she could think of something more intelligent to say.
“I refer to the letter you found in Bonner-Hill’s rooms and so kindly returned to me. I still have it in my pocket.”
Harriet saw him take it out and open it. It was pale green in colour. She had remembered the envelope as white. She moved herself up on the cushions and saw that not only the envelope, but his hands were tinted green. With some relief she realized that it was due to the effect of the sunlight filtered through the leaves.
“Shall I read it?” he said. “It is only a note and there is no address and nor is it signed. It says, ‘If you would care to hook one of thirty pounds or more, take the backwater on the Osney side of the second railway bridge at 8:30 a.m. on Saturday, 28th August, and proceed towards North Hinksey. Bring live bait and hooking tackle. You will be shown the place. I promise you this one is no jack.’ ”
“I don’t understand it,” said Harriet. “Have I drunk too much champagne?”
Fernandez smiled indulgently. “It would make sense only to an angler, and a pike man at that. It promises to reveal the haunt of a pike of prodigious size. The person who wrote it knew precisely how to secure my interest.”
“I think I should be suspicious of a letter nobody had signed.”
“So was I, my dear—up to a point. The truth of it is that my curiosity was stronger than my suspicion. When you have been searching for two years for a large pike, a letter such as this is difficult to dismiss. The person who wrote it obviously knew something about pike fishing.”
“He knew something about you,” added Harriet, and thought it rather a profound remark.
“True, my dear. Oh, I considered the possibility of an undergraduate prank, but the students were still on vacation. Term doesn’t begin for another week. The trunks are starting to arrive, but not their owners. I ask you, where would be the amusement of a jape with nobody about to appreciate it? The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed that the letter was serious in intent. What I could not fathom was the re
luctance of the writer to identify himself. The only explanation I could hazard was that somebody for his own malicious reasons wished to frustrate another angler who had traced the fish to its lair and was planning to take it. The pike, you see, is a fish that favours particular haunts. The backwater mentioned in the note happens to lead into Hinksey Stream, where the largest pike in Oxford was caught. In short, the letter was too convincing to ignore.”
“You decided to carry out the instructions?”
“That was my intention until Friday evening, when I felt so wretched after dinner that I knew I should be unable to get there on Saturday. I went to Bonner-Hill’s rooms and showed him the letter. I had made no arrangement with him to come with me because it seemed to me there was some question of confidentiality in the business, and I did not want to risk antagonizing my mysterious correspondent. Bonner-Hill read it carefully and agreed with me that it would be a pity to ignore it. He offered at once to go in my place, and I agreed. He would say, if he were asked, that he was John Fernandez. Neither of us realized what a fateful decision we had made. You may imagine how I felt when I learned that Bonner-Hill’s body had been found.”
Harriet took hold of a willow leaf and traced her fingers along its stem to the bough. “Did you tell the police about the letter?”
“I did not, I confess. I shall explain the reason, Harriet. As recently as last June, I had a profoundly disturbing experience at the hands of the police. The Warden called on me one afternoon and said that a detective sergeant had come to Merton and wanted to ask me certain questions. He had travelled up from Scotland Yard, so I gathered that it must be something important, although I couldn’t imagine what. I hold the view that we have a duty to co-operate with the functionaries of law and order, so I admitted this detective and a constable who had come with him, and the Warden very decently withdrew.”
Swing, Swing Together Page 18
