Lessons in Following a Poisonous Trail: A Cambridge Fellows Mystery novella (Cambridge Fellows Mysteries)

by Charlie Cochrane

  ***

  The propelling pencil was the last straw. Jonty read the note from Dr Panesar, then screwed it up and flicked it across the room in an act of defiance at fate. Not only did it look like Orlando had named the real culprit for the laxative affair but all the other mysteries appeared to be turning into mundanity. Even the arrival of Langer to visit him didn’t bring the pleasure it should.

  “Dr Stewart. You seem quite out of sorts,” the chaplain said, as he gingerly took a seat.

  “I am indeed. What my nephew would call ‘fed up to the sick teeth’. Thank goodness I have your book of puzzles,” he added hurriedly, “to stop me plunging into total despair.”

  “Can I help?” Langer’s soothing voice both comforted and invited confidences.

  “Not unless you can go back in time and either make sure I didn’t get hurt on the pitch or prevent us from getting dragged into a case which doesn’t appear to be quite the case we thought it was. Or there’s a third option, that you can tell me why Dr Scarrett might want to cause mischief for a chap at St John’s called Laithwaite.” Jonty stopped abruptly. From the expression on the chaplain’s face, that last sentence had evidently pierced him as keenly as a blow from Laertes’s rapier. “Sorry, Dr Langer. I was out of turn saying that. Call it this bedridden-ness talking.”

  “But was it a serious question, Dr Stewart? One you might have screwed your courage to ask anyway?”

  “It is.”

  “Is Laithwaite in danger?”

  “Not as far as we know. He might have been targeted for something not much worse than a typical rag. The man whom we believed had been deliberately poisoned turns out to have accidentally taken too much of something. Still, it is conceivable that what begins as a fairly innocent stunt could become worse.” To put it any more strongly would be stretching the truth unacceptably.

  “In that case let me rely on your good judgement and discretion once again.” Langer stroked his chin. “What does a man find most valuable to him? I don’t mean monetary wealth.”

  “His health, his happiness, his family. The person he holds most dear in all the world.” Those were the things Jonty valued above all others. “His faith, if he is so inclined.”

  The chaplain nodded. “Scarrett is, as you might have guessed, not blessed with the same level of faith as you and I are. He is blessed in having a wife and children, all of whom he holds as precious.”

  “I remember him saying he had to dash home on Sunday for a plate of roast beef. I was quite envious at the thought of eating at a proper table.” And Scarrett’s voice had been full of affection at returning to his own hearth. Something else, too, Jonty remembered. A hint that he felt he’d exposed his emotions too much.

  “Scarrett would do anything for his family. Now, that can be said of many men, that they would make that claim, although when it came to committing a serious act, it would call their bluff. More bluster than true threat. I suspect that Scarrett, if put to the extreme test, might be tempted to carry his words through into actions. I don’t mean murder,” Langer added, eyes wide in horror at what he’d implied, “but something like…”

  “Let me help you in your struggle for words.” Jonty would use Scarrett’s own words. “An underhand means to get his revenge.”

  “You’ve summed it up very well, Dr Stewart. Do you remember you asked me—it seems like weeks ago but only a few days—whether there was any link between Threlfall being poisoned and a woman called Mary? I was rather taken aback.”

  “I do recall, yes. I confess I’d got it in mind that you thought I’d referred to the Virgin Mary.”

  Langer shook his head. “Nothing so spiritual, I’m afraid. Mary is Scarrett’s wife. It’s not an uncommon name, of course. He is devoted to her. A most lovely woman.”

  Jonty waited. Plenty of women were lovely, with devoted husbands—his own mother would fall into that category—but how did that link to an underhand revenge. Unless… “Does this involve Laithwaite somehow? Perhaps he is an old suitor to the lady?”

  “It does and he is. They knew each other as children. I believe he asked her to marry him when they were seven.”

  “The same nephew I quoted earlier has been known to do the same. It hardly makes him a threat to the domestic harmony at the house of Scarrett though, does it?”

  Langer blew out his cheeks. “No, although Scarrett hasn’t always seen it like that. There was a time, just after the birth of their second child a couple of years ago, when he and Mary had a falling out. She must have contacted Laithwaite to see if he’d provide her with a friendly ear. Scarrett wasn’t pleased, even though she assured him it was nothing more than a meeting in a tea room with her sister as chaperone. Laithwaite didn’t help the situation, upbraiding Scarrett to her about what he believed were the man’s failings as a husband.”

  “Not very diplomatic.” The elusive motive for that underhand revenge. Of course, that cut both ways. A vague, unformed thought started to run through Jonty’s brain.

  “Are you feeling quite well?” Langer asked, voice full of concern.

  “Perfectly, thank you. I’ve just had an idea that I can’t quite pin down. Could you tell me when you last dined at the Blue Boar?”

  If the chaplain was surprised at the question, he soon regained his composure. “I can tell you the exact day, although I’d have to look up the date. Shrove Tuesday of this year. A bit of a binge before all indulgence was put to one side. Might I ask why you’d like to know?”

  “Merely drawing a bow at a venture. One that’s possibly struck home but, given that there’s a law of slander on our statute books, I’d better not say any more at present. Could I ask you to do me an enormous favour? I want to try to catch Dr Coppersmith before he sets off on his next piece of investigating. If I scribble a note, could you take it to him straight away?”

  Langer, who’d risen, made a deep bow. “Certainly. If you will promise that you’ll enlighten me at a later date. Once you know whether you’re on the right track?”

  “I will indeed.”

  Unable to keep a secretive and delighted grin from his face, Jonty picked up pencil—not a propelling one—and paper.

  Tuesday evening

  Orlando had managed to catch Laithwaite at a quiet moment just as afternoon headed into evening. Once more his set of rooms at St John’s was illuminated pleasantly by the dappled fading sunlight, an agreeable setting for what might prove to be a delicate interview.

  “Thank you for seeing me again,” Orlando said, once settled into a chair more suited to the backsides of undergraduates. “You’ll be pleased to know that the incident with Threlfall is no longer being regarded as suspicious. An idiosyncratic reaction to medication.” He left it at that.

  “Thank you for letting me know. It will feel less like we’re being singled out, eh?” Laithwaite didn’t sound convinced and he’d no doubt be less so, soon.

  “There are still a few matters to clear up, if you don’t mind. Can I take you back to the Assumption dinner? When we last spoke, you mentioned someone likening the meal to a midnight feast in the dorm. Who was that?”

  “Sibley, I believe. Have you met him? He does rather resemble an overgrown schoolboy and eats like one. He’d put away so much during the first two courses he could barely manage more than a few mouthfuls of roly poly.”

  That fitted with their suspicions. Orlando wondered if some sleight of hand—or mouth—had occurred to minimise the amount consumed even further.

  Laithwaite continued. “Add in the note to Jones and you’ll appreciate why my own schooldays were firmly in mind. It felt obvious to keep a sample of the pudding when it tasted strange.”

  “Indeed.” Best not to show that matched the conclusion Orlando had reached. “Remind me, if you would. Did that incident from your school get raised on the night?”

  “No, although those present knew about it already. Jones and Sibley, anyway—I’d bumped into them on King’s Parade a couple of days before, when Jones had re
ceived the letter. I told him what had happened at school, which was perhaps not my finest moment, because Jones got into a bit of a state but Sibley, bless him, managed to calm the chap down.”

  Sibley caught out in another lie—he’d stated he hadn’t heard that story until after the Assumption meal. “Were you and Sibley rivals for a post at Oxford?”

  “Yes.” Laithwaite gazed out the window, at the pleasant conjunction of leaves and light. “I think it’s the only time we’ve fallen out. He pretty well accused me of scuppering his chances of getting the job.”

  Orlando had expected more detail to be put on the story. “I have to ask this. Did he have any justification, however tenuous, for that accusation?”

  Laithwaite kept his gaze fixed outside the room. “Some, but only the slightest. We all took a meal together, candidates and interviewers, and it turned out I knew one of the men on the panel. O’Connell and I had been students together. He asked if I knew anything about Sibley. Probably shouldn’t have asked me, given the circumstances, but these things happen, as you’ll know. I tried to be subtle, but that’s not my strongest suit. I also felt a weight on my conscience—could I let my old friend down by not alerting him? As it turned out he knew me too well and could read in my face that I had reservations.”

  “Which you spoke to him about?” Orlando found himself sympathising with the situation. He’d have probably felt the same.

  “I simply said that O’Connell must judge Sibley’s depth of ability for himself. That he—my friend—was too astute to be taken in by someone’s manner.” Laithwaite turned to face Orlando. “It was the closest I could come to saying that his academic ability is perhaps not as robust as he would have other people believe.”

  Sibley was certainly plausible, the sort of man that Jonty might say talked a better game than he actually played.

  Hangs onto the coat tails of brighter men.

  At last, Orlando could recall Butler’s description of Sibley. While it wasn’t damning, it added to the overall picture: Butler was nobody’s fool.

  “Sibley came to hear of this?”

  “Yes. I suppose he had a grilling from O’Connell and perhaps remembered I’d been intensely in conversation with him earlier. It was as well that I didn’t get the post—a better man than both of us was appointed—or else Sibley could have accused the interviewers of showing favouritism, which would have added insult to his injury. As I said, we fell out, but I was able to reassure him that I’d simply told O’Connell to be completely rigorous in how he assessed us all, which is true. Sibley and I have buried the hatchet.”

  On Laithwaite’s side, maybe. Orlando could imagine Sibley bearing that grudge silently beneath the cheerful exterior. What did Jonty quote Burns as saying? Nursing his wrath to keep it warm or something along those lines.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Orlando said. “There are challenges enough in academic life without petty rivalries. I have just one more matter to clarify, if I may. Do you know a man called Scarrett?”

  Laithwaite’s eyes flickered at the name. “Ye-es. If that’s the doctor chap. I know him obliquely, although barely more than that. I mean I’d recognise him but we’d not have much to say to each other.” He paused, no doubt aware that the more he spoke the more he gave away, despite the bland words. Scarrett clearly produced a strong reaction in him.

  “Perhaps it’s his wife you’re more familiar with?” Orlando had chosen the word familiar to be capable of interpretation in various ways: let Laithwaite read into it what he would.

  “We’ve known each other since childhood, if that’s what you mean.” The question clearly unsettled him. “There’s no more to it than that. People have dirty minds.”

  “I don’t, I assure you. A deep friendship can be a pure and noble thing.” Orlando had practiced that line in advance, as well. So far, this was proceeding predictably. He’d not needed to rehearse the next bit much, it being entirely heartfelt. “And when one sees a friend hurt, one would naturally want to do anything one could on their behalf, even to the sort of actions one wouldn’t normally commit.”

  “Yes. How pleasant to have a sympathetic ear to listen. Not everyone would be so understanding.”

  Orlando took a deep breath, ready to launch another verbal dart he’d been carefully preparing. One that would either hit its mark, helping to bring this ridiculous case towards a solution, or would provoke Orlando into getting a punch on his nose. “Not everyone would ask their cousin to put laxatives in a man’s dinner.”

  Laithwaite lurched in his chair, making Orlando involuntarily raise his hands to ward off a blow, but none came. Instead the John’s man simply shook his head. “Dr Coppersmith, this is frankly terrifying. Can you read minds?”

  “No. My colleagues and I are just very good at taking small pieces of evidence and weaving them together. The gaps in the pattern get filled by logical reasoning.” Orlando resisted a smirk of satisfaction, especially as he was sounding annoyingly like Sherlock Holmes. “Did your cousin salt the wrong dish with laxative?”

  “He did. I’d asked him to pinpoint Scarrett—a party of dons, I told him, one of whom was tall and thin, although he wasn’t the intended victim. I asked him to listen for the one with the gentle Scottish accent.” Laithwaite rubbed his forehead. “How was I to know that another party of dons would be there, with members who fitted the general description I’d given. Monty—that’s my cousin—was pressed for time because of another matter that needed dealing with and made the mistake. Not just in targeting the wrong table, but managing to make all of those present ill and bringing disrepute on the establishment. I didn’t dare ask him to try again.”

  “So that was the last time you tried to exact a…shall we call it punishment, on Scarrett?”

  “I swear it was. Afterwards, when I realised how much trouble I’d caused I was mortified. Can you imagine realising you had been so blinded by emotion that you had acted like an idiot?”

  Orlando nodded. He could—he had—but he wasn’t going to bare his soul about it. “What’s the likelihood of this happening again? I have to ask, given that the police have devoted time and energy to what they thought was a series of related attacks, and they wouldn’t want to have to pick the trail up again. They’d know in which direction to go, of course.”

  Laithwaite squirmed at Orlando’s fixed stare. “I had no intention of repeating the act, not least because Mary, Mrs Scarrett, was horrified when I told her what I’d done. She said she’d keep my secret safe so long as I promised never to do anything so stupid again.”

  “Very wise.” Between the overt threat from Mary and the veiled one Orlando had produced on behalf of the police, albeit without their express permission, Laithwaite should now keep on the straight and narrow path. “Now, given what we’ve just discussed, when I saw you previously you said you were worried you’d been targeted yourself, so I have to surmise that may have been because you were expecting revenge from either the intended victim or the accidental ones. The Assumption dinner I accept, but the Christmas party predated the incident at the Blue Boar.”

  “You’ve caught me out again, Dr Coppersmith. I was concerned your line of questioning might get too close to what I’d done, so I mentioned that instance, which must have been a bout of gastroenteritis, to muddle the timeline. I haven’t told anyone about what I really believed has been happening.”

  “You could be right. I have reason to believe that one of your fellow diners may have sought to harm you. We will do everything in our power to prevent such a thing happening again.” Orlando left any definition of we to be deduced by the listener. “As I said earlier, the police would not want to have to act.”

  “I believe I could name the person you suspect, but I shan’t, in case I’m wrong. Perhaps it’s a time for us all to forgive, forget and move on.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  Orlando would have to report all this back briefly via a note to Jonty, Nurse Norcross having insisted that the pat
ient wouldn’t be receiving any further visitors that day. Something like Your hunch was correct, but so was mine. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.

  A discussion that would hopefully take place at their own hearthside and be all the more satisfying for that.

  Wednesday

  “We should call it an honourable draw.” Jonty lay back contentedly. He was still under orders to take things easy, still lying under a blanket, but he was in his own home which made everything feel better. Especially as he had a glass of pre-prandial port in his hand. “We were both right, we were both wrong. Honours even.”

  “Agreed.” Orlando raised his glass in salute.

  They’d been like ships passing in the night today, Orlando being occupied with college business while Jonty had returned home in a cab with one of the St Bride’s porters to help with the process. By the time Orlando had arrived at Forsythia Cottage things were well on the way back to normality.

  “What did our friends Wilson and Cohen think about the tit for tat laxatives?”

  “Wilson I couldn’t tell you, as he was off somewhere dealing with proper criminals when I arrived at the police station, but Cohen rolled his eyes magnificently and stated that dons were just as bad as students, if not worse.” Orlando twirled his glass. “He has a point. Dons should know better.”

  “Overgrown schoolboys, as someone observed. I can’t help feeling that if we’d been working on this together—or perhaps as a triumvirate, given that Dr Panesar has more than pulled his weight—we’d have sorted this out quicker. We’d more likely have noticed the Mary connection, for a start.”

  “Yes. One can hardly report back every name or word and it’s often in the slightest of those that a hint at a solution is to be found.”

  “And in the nuances of facial expression or verbal delivery. Not the words but what surrounds them.” Jonty took another sip of sherry—best to savour it. “Is Cohen going to warn Sibley and Scarrett?”