“If that’s some small consolation to Mr Threlfall, then I’m pleased to have played a minor part.” What Jonty would give for a small dish of that now. “If I may bring the point back, I’m still not clear what Scarrett was talking to you about, prior to the event.”
Langer smiled, ruefully shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I keep digressing. Scarrett had been watching part of your rugby match, yesterday, although he had to leave during the half-time break. He’d observed Threlfall and was rather concerned about the man’s behaviour both prior to the game and during it.”
“He was certainly more free and easy with the use of his boot than I’m accustomed to on the field of play.” Jonty had already mulled this over, early that morning when a twinge from his leg had woken him and he’d been unable to fall back into the arms of Morpheus for at least half an hour, according to the ringing of the college bells. “I assumed that was his usual style of play, but are you saying that it may have been out of character and indicative of something strange going on?”
The chaplain nodded. “Scarrett feels his whole demeanour was peculiar, as though something was distracting him. He barely acknowledged the doctor’s presence, which is odd in itself, and was also seen muttering to himself on occasions. You were there, Dr Stewart, so may I ask if anything got taken among the players prior to the match? To warm the blood, as it were?”
“Got taken? Oh, I see. Like the hip flask that young Tindall often has with him to pass around during the interval and warm the inner man? You’re wondering if Threlfall might have been slightly inebriated.”
“Exactly that.”
“Then I can categorically state that nothing was consumed by anyone on our side. It wasn’t that nippy yesterday, so Tindall himself hadn’t come equipped, more’s the pity. Had I received a small libation it might have led to my injury being less severe, as I’d have been more relaxed when I fell.” Jonty shrugged. “I have no idea what went on amongst the St. Thomas’s team, though. I was too busy stretching my muscles to notice.”
And dealing with Orlando being in a state because his bootlace had snapped and the spare pair of laces he kept in his sports bag had disappeared. Not the time to discuss that matter with the chaplain, in the same way that it hadn’t been the proper time the day before to confess that Jonty had borrowed the spare laces and forgotten to replace them. That made it unlikely that Orlando had noticed anything amiss, either, although it might bear applying some thought to.
Langer eased out of his chair, made his apologies—much to do on the Lord’s day, as Dr Stewart would appreciate—and wished Jonty a speedy recovery.
“I’ll remember you owe us the pleasure of hearing you read the lesson.”
“I’ll remember that, too. I’m sure some passage with not too many obscure names to pronounce would be conducive to my recovery.”
Langer grinned. “Would you like me to include you in my prayers?”
“Please. Anything that might help me get out of this bed would be most welcome. Divine intervention might be the only thing that will work.”
***
Left alone with his book, Jonty couldn’t settle down to the pleasant hour of reading he’d promised himself. Thoughts and questions insisted on filling his head. Was there some significance in Threlfall’s uncharacteristic behaviour before the match? Was it the result of already having been administered the poison? If so, it would have had to be extremely slow acting, unless the victim possessed some intrinsic resistance to the chemical’s effects, which was possible, given that he was still alive and the perpetrator would surely have wanted to finish him off. Unless, of course, they hadn’t meant to kill Threlfall, simply administer a warning to him.
Maybe Jonty should get a message to Dr Panesar, pleading with him to visit, bearing his most gruesome but informative books about poisons.
He was wondering how he’d accomplish that, given that the nurse was likely to tell him such excitement wouldn’t be conducive to his recovery, when the nurse herself opened the door to say that Dr Scarrett had come to check the patient over. Jonty put his novel down, trying to look suitably like a patient who’d obeyed all the medical instructions he’d been given.
After a few brisk pleasantries, the doctor whipped back the covers, looked at the leg, shook his head, looked at it again, then tentatively poked it.
“Am I to fear the worst?” Jonty said, with a jauntiness he didn’t feel. “Is it a case for amputation?”
Scarrett snorted. “Not yet. It’s simply not progressing as quickly as I’d like to see. Must have been a worse sprain than it appeared to be and the swelling hasn’t abated as much as I hoped. Have you been putting weight on it?”
“Not at all. I’ve been rooted to this bed since yesterday, with all the associated domestic unpleasantness that involves. I yearn for my own hearth and home but yearning is as far as it goes. Nurse Hatfield will vouch for me.”
“Hm. In that case she can continue the good work. I’ll have to break the bad news to her that you’re stuck here for another two days at least. Probably more.” The doctor shook his head, then covered the leg again. “Much as it must pain you not to be able to help out in the matter of young Threlfall.”
“I’m beginning to think that everyone expects us to be called in when something suspicious happens. Any chance of surprising some unsuspecting criminal must be long past. Still, I can use my brain while lying here, even if my legs are not allowed to perform their proper function.”
“You may use your brain as much as you wish,” Scarrett said, with a smile.
“In that case, I hope you won’t mind me asking—and given that you know Threlfall and his family it’s hardly an easy matter for you to deal with—is there anyone you know of who might wish him, or the family, harm?”
Scarrett, who up to then had been briskly efficient, gave Jonty a long, considering look, then subsided into a chair. “No need to apologise for asking, Dr Stewart. In fact, I welcome it. I dropped in on my way here to speak to Dr Langer, catching him not long after he’d been to see you. He reassured me of both your competence and your confidentiality. If I can be assured of that then I am happy to speak.”
Jonty nodded, then waited for the doctor to continue.
“My reticence stems from not wanting to risk saying anything that might cause difficulties for someone who could have nothing to do with this business. That’s why I haven’t spoken to the police about my concerns, either. I wouldn’t want them stomping in with their hobnailed boots, causing distress for innocent parties.”
“I can appreciate that. I can also reassure you both Wilson and Cohen are models of good sense and would never, from what I know of them, cause unnecessary difficulties. That’s why they’re always regarded so highly by the university authorities and are relied on to deal with college business. However, let me also reassure you that Dr Coppersmith and I would only ever pass on information to the police if we felt it to be relevant to the case.” Jonty stifled a grin. He must be sounding just like Orlando at his most pompous, although Scarrett hadn’t noticed anything amiss.
“Thank you for those words of reassurance, given that what I have to say involves a lady. A cousin of mine. She was engaged to Threlfall. He broke off the engagement.” Scarrett presented the facts baldly, as though listing some vexatious symptoms. “Her father was extremely annoyed about it.”
“Did she pursue a breach of promise case?”
“No. She insisted she’d made a mistake and realised she was better off without him. Mary is now happily married to someone else, with a small daughter and another child due very soon. I don’t think she or her husband would have had any reason to do Threlfall harm. Her father, however, said that one day he would make the bounder—his words, not mine—pay for what he’d done.”
“Does he still feel like that? Now that his daughter has found happiness and he himself is a grandfather?” Jonty could understand why Scarrett would try to convince himself that this situation must bear no relevance to
the poisoning, although why mention it at all unless he was fearful the police would find out anyway?
“Ernest Harcourt is not the sort of man to simply forgive and forget. He…” Scarrett, glancing at the door then dropping his voice, continued, “He was jolly lucky not to be charged with assault two years ago. He ran across a chap who’d bullied him at school, forty years previously. Age hadn’t improved this bully at all and he started to goad Harcourt once more, as a result of which he got what might be termed a jolly good thrashing.”
“The victim didn’t press charges?”
“He was persuaded not to, although I don’t know by whom. It was put to him that he’d brought the thing on himself, by his actions both at the time and in the past. Some might have said that rough justice was served.”
“Some might indeed, although our advice is always to let the force of the law run its course.” This was all cutting a bit too close to home. “How did you hear about this business? I’d imagine it’s the sort of thing that gets swept under the carpet.”
“It is, but Threlfall told Langer and he told me, because of the family connection. That’s all I know of the matter.” Scarrett sighed. “I suppose the authorities will need to be told of this, although I’d have said that, in my experience, the Ernest Harcourt types tend to direct physical action rather than employing underhand means to get their revenge.”
“Can one categorise men as types?” There was a long conversation to be had on the subject of whether any individual’s actions could be predicted by looking at the behaviour of another—supposedly similar—person, although Jonty didn’t want to indulge in it at that point. “And Ernest Harcourt is the only one you can bring to mind who might have wished your friend harm?”
“He is. By the way, Langer mentioned that he’d told you about my observations at the game yesterday. Threlfall’s condition.”
“Yes, I meant to ask you about it. In light of what we now know, could that have been due to his already having been poisoned?”
Scarrett shrugged. “Toxicology isn’t my speciality, so I can’t say for sure, although I think it a possibility. I’m so annoyed that I left the game early. I might have been able to do something to change the outcome.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. Your presence may have made little difference, for all we know. I daresay you had more urgent cases to attend?”
The doctor winced as the question hit home. “No. Nothing like that. I was merely feeling tired and wanted to rest my legs. Yearning for hearth and home, as you would say. I’m a simple man, who values the time he can spend with his family.” Scarrett paused, as though he’d said more than he’d intended. Well. Some men didn’t like to display their emotions and the sickbay did have an atmosphere conducive to baring the soul. “The fact I had a genuine reason to leave still does nothing to ease my conscience.”
Jonty nodded in sympathy. “I’m sorry, myself, that I didn’t notice anything wrong with Threlfall and so mention it at the time. As far as I’m aware, none of us raised the matter, being laymen and having our minds on the match. You would have formed an opinion about what led to his strange behaviour? The chaplain wondered whether he’d been having a tot of whisky or the like as part of warming up.”
“Now, why doesn’t that surprise me? Langer does have some strange notions at times.” Scarrett chuckled. “No, my thoughts ran along the lines of Threlfall suffering a touch of concussion. I asked him if he’d had a knock on the head but he assured me he hadn’t. In fact, he was quite short with me, uncharacteristically so, which added to my impression of his being out of sorts. In the end I concluded that something had simply upset him—more emotionally than physically so he was in a peculiar mood—and that’s where I left the matter. As I said, I wish I hadn’t.”
“The voice of hindsight may be a wonderful thing from which to learn lessons, but it’s not necessarily the best test of conscience. We rarely can have known then what we know now.” Jonty was rather proud of that little speech and pleased to see it appear to have a heartening effect on Scarrett.
“I value that reassurance, Dr Stewart.” The doctor rose. “And now I must take my leave. There is beef roasting in the oven, or so my wife assures me, and the accompanying Yorkshire pudding can’t be forced to wait upon my schedule.”
“Indeed not.” Jonty’s stomach gurgled at the notion of a hot, sizzling tray of batter-laden goodness. “I hope you enjoy it.”
“I’ll report back on it tomorrow.” The doctor narrowed his eyes. “Keep off that leg in the meantime.”
“I’ll tie myself to the bed with torn scarves from the college next door.” Jonty gave Scarrett a departing wave and resigned himself to daydreams of light, fluffy Yorkshire pudding, knowing full well it was pork on the menu today and therefore only apple sauce—and, he hoped, many a crisp roast potato—to console him.
Sunday afternoon
Orlando arrived at sick bay at just gone half past two, having made sure he’d not taken more than a couple of pints of ale and those on a stomach suitably lined with food. Jonty’s mockery at his being tipsy he could cope with—that little monkey would rib him mercilessly for being drunk even when he was stone cold sober—but the nurse’s disapproving eye at drink taken Orlando couldn’t face. Anyway, he had more investigation to do.
Having assured himself from a polite interrogation of Nurse Hatfield that the patient’s physical condition was no worse, even though his degree of patience was seemingly deteriorating, Orlando knocked and entered Jonty’s room.
“It’s like Piccadilly Circus in here today. A non-stop flow of visitors. Of which you, of course, are the most welcome,” Jonty added, with what appeared to be genuine feeling. “How was your drunken orgy?”
“Sober and sensible. Sorry to disappoint you on that score. Informative, too.”
“Excellent. I’ve been treated to a new experience today. I haven’t had to go out looking for clues. They’ve come to me.”
Orlando narrowed his eyes, caught between interest in what these clues might amount to and annoyance at Jonty’s having come across them so easily. Still, he had information of his own to impart that would likely knock his lover’s into a cocked hat, unless—God forbid—Jonty was going to pre-empt him on that. “You’d better share what you’ve heard, then.”
“Gladly.” The patient related his discussions with both the Chaplain and the doctor. He concluded with, “I’ve been, naturally, wishing Threlfall the best possible recovery from when I first heard of his being taken ill, but having heard about the deaths of his brother and mother, I’ve changed from wishing to actively praying for him and his father. Not a lot else to do that’s constructive for him. Is there any news on the medical front?”
Orlando spread his hands. “The last thing that I heard was that Threlfall remains in a stable condition. Do you remember anything about the state he was in before the game and to which Scarrett referred? I confess I was too occupied with my laces to notice anything much.”
“I’ve been racking my brains but nothing springs to mind. I don’t even recall seeing Scarrett at the side of the pitch, although I wouldn’t have recognised him at the time and I can’t apply sufficient hindsight to the knot of spectators who were present. They simply didn’t register.”
“Indeed.” Orlando frowned. “Langer says Scarrett left before the match ended. Do we know why? I doubt it was boredom—quite an exciting, end-to-end game I feel.”
“Yes, it was. One of the better shows we’ve put on so far this season. And I must apologise. While Langer didn’t mention the reason the doctor left, the man himself did. This wretched leg of mine put it clear out of my head.”
Orlando refrained from saying that things often had a way of slipping out of Jonty’s head, bad leg or not. “You are forgiven on this occasion.”
“Merci. Anyhow, Scarrett says he was simply tired, which I’m inclined to believe. It would have been easy enough for him to invent a more convincing story, like having a patient to attend
to.”
“True.” Orlando eyed his lover. Clearly there was more going on in his brain than had already been divulged. “There appears to be more to this train of thought than Scarrett’s alibi. You have that unusual mix of intensity and excitement on your face. More suitable to our own home and other occasions,” he added, daringly.
“Not likely to be much of that going on in the near future, alas. You’re right about my thoughts, though. As I ate my lunch, I was thinking how being a doctor would be quite a good profession for a murderer. You’d have plenty of means of killing to hand and could conjure up an alibi very easily, such as being called to the bedside of a patient who turned out to be fit as a flea so the message was clearly sent by someone who wanted you away from the scene.” Jonty couldn’t hide a smug grin. “Nobody would be likely to suspect a medical man of previously blameless character, surely?”
“You would. And so would I. As I suspect you of being a touch overwrought and too occupied with your thoughts. Do you really think Scarrett could be responsible in this instance? You believed him when he said he left because he was tired.”
“I did. But the more truth a murderer can weave into his tale, the better. You’d be feeling tired if you were in the process of killing someone and wondering if your plan was working.” Jonty tapped the coverlet. “Indulge my overwrought brain. Scarrett administers the poison and goes to watch the game. He’s reassured that the effects are beginning to show themselves, so he departs before Threlfall collapses. All the stuff since about suspected concussion and the like is either a blind, the doctor being sure that his victim won’t recover enough to be able to contradict the tale. Or he really did have the conversation to cover himself in case Threlfall happened to pull through.”
Lessons in Following a Poisonous Trail: A Cambridge Fellows Mystery novella (Cambridge Fellows Mysteries) Page 3
