Swing, Swing Together

by Peter Lovesey

  “What did they want?”

  Fernandez moved closer to Harriet. “My dear, I am sure that a young lady such as yourself can have had no experience of the police, except perhaps to ask for directions in some unfamiliar neighbourhood. Allow me to tell you that they are by no means so courteous or considerate as they may appear. These officers began at once to question me in a manner that was so far from being civil that I had to remind them more than once where they were and who I was.”

  “How very unpleasant,” Harriet commented, at the same time moving more to the side of the punt so that her legs were less in danger of touching his.

  “I would not describe myself as a gregarious person, Harriet,” he went on, “but I am fortunate in having a modest circle of acquaintances, including some of the fair sex. I am a bachelor, as you must know, and my position in the College necessarily reduces my opportunities of meeting ladies, but that does not mean that I do not enjoy their company. Without being indiscreet, at the risk even of sounding a little conceited, I would add that from time to time ladies have demonstrated more than a little interest in making my acquaintance.” He paused, as if to give Harriet the opportunity of making her own position clear, but she was dipping the willow leaf in her champagne and moistening the tip of her tongue with it. “If this bores you, my dear …”

  “Not at all. Please go on.”

  “If I may speak frankly, then, a gentleman—even a cloistered gentleman such as myself—does not reach the prime of life without noticing that certain ladies—and I speak of respectable, married ladies—are disposed at times to encourage a gentleman to—how shall I put it?”

  “Flirt with them?” suggested Harriet.

  “You have it.” Fernandez put his hand over hers to confirm the fact. “These are the games wives of an adventurous spirit occasionally like to play. Mild diversions from the solemn business of matrimony, quite harmless if they are not indulged in to excess. The secret smile, the touch of fingers, the contact of legs under a table—of course, you would have no experience of such things.”

  “I am learning,” said Harriet, withdrawing her hand from his with a smile that would go usefully with a mild reproof in the classroom. “Did the policemen ask you about your games?”

  “They did, Harriet. I might not have objected to that if they had been discreet, but they were not. They referred to them in terms that could only be described as coarse, portraying my part in the business in the most lurid colours imaginable. I supposed that they hoped to provoke me into revealing names, but I was determined that I should not.”

  “That was gallant,” said Harriet.

  “Yes. Imagine my surprise, then, when the sergeant made it crystal-clear not only that he knew the names of the ladies, but that he was actually in possession of a letter claiming I had perpetrated an assault on one of them.”

  “Oh!” Harriet drank the rest of her champagne in a gulp.

  “That was my response exactly, Harriet. I was bereft of speech for several seconds. Won’t you have some more? There’s enough for another glass each.” In upending the bottle, Fernandez drew himself to Harriet’s side and stayed there. “I hope, my dear, that you do not take me for the class of person who forces himself on defenceless ladies. The detective sergeant obviously did, you see, because of the libelous contents of this letter he had received. He had been persuaded that I was a veritable satyr. He was investigating certain incidents concerning a number of women in London and he wanted me to state where I had been on four separate nights last autumn. I gathered that the writer of the letter had maliciously linked my name with the events in question.”

  “How very unfair!” said Harriet.

  Fernandez took her hand in his again. “The deuce of it was that by coincidence I had been out of Oxford on the nights he mentioned. On two of the occasions I had been with a lady.”

  “Melanie?” The champagne must have sharpened Harriet’s intuition. She was certain he was talking about Melanie. Or had cold logic told her that something like this must have happened for Melanie to hold Fernandez in such contempt?

  “Why keep it from you?—yes. Naturally, I did not at first reveal her name to the police. I fabricated a story instead. One of the nights I had passed at my club, I told them, and the other with an uncle of mine, a man whose position in the world ought to have impressed a policeman. That was a miscalculation. I thought the mention of his name would be enough, and that they would not presume to approach him on the matter. Unfortunately, it seems they did, and he denied having seen me. They were back within a few days and I was compelled to admit the truth—that I had spent both nights in the company of Melanie Bonner-Hill. It was ungallant, I know, and she has not forgiven me, but, Harriet, my predicament was extreme. They actually suspected I was that monster who murdered all those women in the East End last autumn.”

  Harriet felt her hands jerk in his, but he seemed not to notice.

  “Of course,” he went on, “I could not be sure that Melanie would be willing to confirm my story. To her lasting credit, she did, and the suspicion was lifted from my shoulders. Harriet, I cannot convey the relief I felt when I learned she had told them the truth. The mental torment I had been through, wondering if she would shrink from the shame of it! Now do you understand my feelings when the police came to my rooms again on Saturday inquiring into Bonner-Hill’s death? They were not the same policemen, but I was terrified that they would link the tragedy in some way with the matters they had tried to connect me with before. That was why I said nothing about the letter that sent Bonner-Hill to his death. I could not face the ordeal of having my private life investigated again by the police, as it must be if they discover I was the intended victim.”

  “But if you have done nothing to be ashamed of—”

  “That is not the point, my dear. One’s reputation becomes tarnished. Things are said about one. It was dreadful enough having to walk about Merton with people knowing the police had visited me twice. Imagine the investigations that would be set in train if it became known that someone had wanted to murder me. All my friends, acquaintances, people who scarcely know me even, would be interrogated, invited to speculate on anything I had done which might have given offence to my supposed murderer. Too horrible! I’ll tell you what I shall do, Harriet—I shall destroy the letter.”

  Harriet sat up. “I don’t think you should do that.”

  He had already taken it from his pocket again and was preparing to tear the envelope and its contents in two. Impulsively, Harriet tried to snatch it from him, but he jerked it clear of her grasp. As her fingers came ineffectually together, she found to her dismay that she toppled clumsily against his chest. There seemed to be something amiss with her sense of balance, for willow leaves started drifting across her vision like bits of glass in a kaleidoscope. Or was he tearing the letter into confetti and scattering it over her? Impossible to tell.

  The only certain thing was that she was lying with her back against his chest, unable to sit up. Close to her ear she heard Fernandez say, “So you like playing games, Miss Harriet Shaw. I thought you might.”

  CHAPTER

  37

  A cabman gives advice—Detectives on the wagon—The view from the saloon

  THE CAB JOURNEY WAS shorter than Cribb or Thackeray expected. Instead of heading south along the Abingdon Road, the driver turned right at the police station and took them up Queen Street, New Road and Parkend Street, to halt outside the railway station.

  “What’s the game?” Cribb called up to the cabman. “Clifton Lock, I said, not Oxford bloody Station!”

  “Aye, chum, and you said you wanted to get there quick. It’ll take me an hour on them roads, whippin’ my horse into a lather. If you get out now, you’ve got two minutes to buy your tickets for the two forty-five, and that’ll get you to Culham inside fifteen minutes. From there you can walk to Clifton quicker than I can drive you, easy.”

  A cabman so selfless as to sacrifice a good fare to the Great Western
Railway had to be believed. Cribb gave Thackeray a prod, planted a shilling in the cabman’s proffered palm and led the way across the station yard to the booking office.

  Just as promised, they handed in their tickets at Culham as the clock at Clifton faintly chimed the hour. The ticket collector who doubled as headwaiter was on duty.

  “Can we get a cab from here to Clifton Hampden?” Cribb asked.

  “It’s only a mile.”

  “I know that. We want to ride.”

  “No cabs here, sir.” The ticket collector paused, letting the bad news sink in. “I might be able to arrange something if you could wait ten minutes. They serve a nice cup of tea in the Railway Hotel across the road.”

  So that was it. “There’s a shilling in it for you if you can get a cab here in the next five minutes,” Cribb recklessly promised. Eyebrows would be raised at Scotland Yard when his statement of expenses went in, but somewhere below Culham Cut was a steamer with two murderers aboard. If it reached Clifton Lock before he did, there was no chance of boarding it before Day’s, three miles downriver.

  The ticket collector squinted at the station clock and came to a decision. “Might be able to fit it in before the three thirty-five,” he said. “Wait here a moment.” He closed the ticket barrier and moved at a trot out of sight behind the station building. In three minutes he reappeared on the box of an open cart hauled by an ancient white horse. “I’ll take you myself on the station wagon for half a crown,” he called.

  “At least somebody’s got a head for business in these parts,” Cribb commented as he arranged a sack to furnish some sort of upholstery at the back of the cart. They turned out of the station approach and bowled quite briskly along the Clifton Road.

  Near Clifton Hampden the courses of road and river approach each other. Cribb stood up in the cart hoping to be reassured by the sight of a funnel across the quarter of a mile or so of flat fields.

  “Some of them paddlers go at no end of a lick,” Thackeray cheerlessly remarked. “Can you see anything, Sarge?”

  Cribb waited at least two minutes before replying. “There she is. We’ve done it!”

  At that the ticket collector pulled on the reins. The wagon stopped. “That’ll be half a crown as estimated, sir.”

  “This isn’t Clifton Hampden. We’re not there yet,” protested Cribb.

  “Clifton Lock, you said. Lock’s across the fields. If you want to catch that steamer, you’d best be footing it over the plough. I could take you on to Clifton if you like, but you’d still have to walk back to the lock from there. I can’t drive my wagon along the towing path.”

  So for the second time that afternoon Cribb was forced to concede to local knowledge. Poorer by half a crown and muttering unspeakable things about cabmen professional and amateur, he clambered over a gate and his boots sank to the laces in freshly ploughed earth.

  “You’ll always be welcome at the Railway Hotel, gentlemen,” called the ticket collector as he turned the cart.

  After three minutes of hard footwork and blasphemy, Thackeray, too, sighted the steamer’s funnel. It was within fifty yards of what had to be the lockkeeper’s house, because it was the only building in view. “Sarge, we’re not going to get there in time,” he breathlessly told Cribb’s obdurate back.

  “We will if the lock’s against them,” answered Cribb without turning his head.

  By degrees the river itself flashed its presence and they saw the steamer slowing at the approach to the lock. Smaller than the pleasure steamers on London’s water, it had the spruced-up look the steamboat companies annually applied with a coat of white paint on the paddle box, life belts and funnel. The rest was brown in colour and had not been touched for years. Behind the funnel, under a faded green and white striped awning, a dozen or so passengers sat facing each other on what the company would have called the saloon deck, sited above the main cabin. At the level of the main deck a cluster of passengers had gathered at the fore end of the boat to watch the operation of the lock. On the aft deck a couple stood alone, leaning on the rail, studying the water or the river traffic behind. They could not have noticed the panting representatives of Scotland Yard who tottered aboard seconds before the paddles began to power the boat out of the lock, towards Clifton Hampden Bridge.

  The captain could not have been more delighted if one of the royal family had patronized his trip. “Detectives, are you? By Jesus, it’s a famous day for the Iffley Queen. Will this be in The Times? We were in the Berkshire Post when Henry rammed Wallingford Bridge last summer, but I’ve had nothing so grand as this. Have you got handcuffs or would you like a length of rope?”

  “That shouldn’t be necessary,” answered Cribb. “I’d like to take a look at the couple first. Should we go on to the top deck?”

  “I can show you something more interesting from the saloon,” offered the captain. He beckoned to a deckhand. “Take the wheel, Henry. Centre arch, mind. Hold her steady and you shouldn’t go wrong.” He opened the door of the main cabin of the boat, a carpeted room with seats and windows on either side and at the farther end. “Very cozy on a cold day,” he said. “We sell more beer on the bad days. If you ever thought of bringing your detective department on a day’s excursion, you could do worse than this. You can have a minstrel band for five pounds extra.” He threaded a passage round bentwood chairs and tables to the windows at the end. “What do you say to that, then?” he said, pointing through the glass.

  The saloon was sited some four feet lower than the aft deck, which was level with the windows. All that could be seen of the couple who had behaved with such unwonted incivility were their lower halves, the man’s white flannels and his partner’s navy blue serge skirt. “You’ve missed it,” said the captain. “You need a sharp eye. It’s a favourite game with the fast lads, coming down here and looking along the deck for a glimpse of a well-turned ankle. Keep looking. You’ll see something in a moment.”

  Thackeray was as partial as anyone to a pretty ankle, but he had not traversed a ploughed field to indulge in this sort of thing. “Sarge, if we want to identify these people, shouldn’t we go upstairs, where we can see them properly?”

  “There you are!” said the captain. “How about that?”

  “Bless my soul!” said Thackeray.

  The wearer of the skirt had changed position, leaning far enough forward to reveal not a shapely calf, not the trimming of a petticoat, but the ends of a pair of white trousers and a very unfeminine pair of boots.

  “That’s good enough for me,” said Cribb. “I’m obliged to you, Captain.” He returned upstairs and made his way between the files of interested passengers on the upper deck and down the steps at the end.

  The couple turned at the sound of his approach.

  “James Hackett,” he said, “I am a police officer, Detective Sergeant Cribb of Scotland Yard. I have reason to believe that the person with you is a man by the name of Percy Bustard. I should like to put some questions to you both in connection with the death of Henry Bonner-Hill.”

  “And may the Lord have mercy on our souls,” intoned Jim Hackett.

  “It’s all up, then,” said Bustard, pulling off the beret toque which, with the rest of his boating costume, had contrived to make him quite a passable female. “How the devil did you cop us?”

  “I reasoned that Jim Hackett was the Persian Gulf and you were the Gulf of Bothnia,” Cribb unhelpfully replied. “What are you doing now, man?”

  “Unbuttoning the bodice. You’ve no idea how hot it is in this dress. I’m fully clothed underneath.”

  “I know that,” said Cribb, “but they don’t.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the saloon deck. A dozen faces paraded expressions suggesting everything from open lechery to apoplectic shock. “Lord knows what they’re liable to do. Come below and you can take off your dress in private. I want no scenes aboard this boat.”

  He might have saved his breath. Not on Bustard’s account, but his companion’s. It was Jim Hackett who cho
se that moment to shout “Jesus saves!”—and leap over the rail into the river.

  “Blasted clown!” said Cribb. “One of us will have to go ashore and pick him up when he reaches the bank. Thackeray, you’d better warn the man at the wheel.”

  “I wouldn’t bother with that,” said Bustard.

  “Why not?”

  “Jim Hackett can’t swim a stroke.”

  “Lord help us!” said Cribb. “Take off your boots, Thackeray, and get in after him. Two drownings in a week is quite enough for me.”

  CHAPTER

  38

  The wined in the willow—From Magdalen to Mesopotamia—A knife for Harriet

  POSSIBLY THE CHAMPAGNE HAD something to do with it. When the punt had first glided under the willow’s shade, Harriet had been grateful for the coolness, but in the last quarter of an hour she had become quite as warm as she had been in the sunlight. The collar of her blouse had the clamminess of a poultice.

  “I think I should like to take off my jacket.”

  “I shall assist you, my dear.”

  She sat upright and the willow leaves blurred, and for two or three seconds became swathes of green chiffon, pretty, but disquieting. She blinked twice and brought the leaves sharply into focus again.

  She withdrew her arms from the velvet jacket. Fernandez folded it and got up to place it out of range of their feet, which gave her the chance to recline against the cushions instead of his chest. Before he turned, she unfastened the two top buttons of her blouse. The cool air on her skin was blissful. “You don’t mind?” she inquired. “I felt uncomfortably warm, and this seems quite private, under the tree.”

  “We shan’t be disturbed,” he assured her. “Won’t you take off your hat as well? It has gone a little askew, if you’ll pardon me for mentioning the fact.”

  “Really?” Her hand went to where the hat should have been. She laughed, located it, and handed it to him.