Lessons in Playing a Murderous Tune: A Cambridge Fellows Mystery novella (Cambridge Fellows Mysteries)
Author: Cochrane, Charlie
Date: 2019-08-26
Publisher: The Right Chair Press

Lessons in Playing a Murderous Tune

By Charlie Cochrane

Lessons in Playing a Murderous Tune © Charlie Cochrane, 2019

Cover art by Alex Beecroft

These are works of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or establishments, events or locales is coincidental. All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Cambridge, Summer 1911

Chapter One

Jonty Stewart woke to find the morning sun streaming through a gap in the curtains of Forsythia Cottage, yet the bed beside him empty of the usual occupant. It wasn’t unusual for Orlando Coppersmith to make the most of what promised to be a lovely day, taking himself downstairs in his dressing gown to sit with a coffee in his study and ponder over some abstruse sum or other. His page would be full of squiggles and symbols, with many a neat crossing out and not a few arrows linking one bit of working to another. Jonty had seen such things in their gestational form and while Orlando’s hand was tidy and his neat to present things well applied even to rough drafts, the average set of equations resembled a trail some small sea creature might have left on the ocean bed.

They were reaching the end of the May term, with the Bumps having taken place and the head of the river crowned—First Trinity rather than St. Bride’s, alas, but their boat had finished a creditable third—and the thoughts of undergraduates were turning towards home and those of the fellows towards a couple of months of peace. Still, Orlando’s mind was never far from the wonders of mathematics, a state of affairs that Jonty could appreciate as his never strayed too far from Shakespeare’s sonnets and what clues were hidden among them. Perhaps if he went and admired the darling buds of may—did the Bard mean the month or the flower, there was a conundrum to start with—he might gain fresh insight.

Jonty leaped out of bed, stretched, twitched the curtains back to admire the blue sky, put on his own dressing gown and pottered down the stairs. Orlando was indeed in his study, although evidence of sums there was none. Instead, the man concerned was sitting is his chair, coffee untouched by the look of it, and brows knotted.

“Good morning Orlando. Lovely to see you.”

Orlando leaped in his seat, almost knocking over his cup. “Must you sneak up on people?”

“I didn’t sneak. I knocked, albeit softly. You resemble some civil war era painting, entitled When did you last see someone so consternated?”

“I’ll consternate you.” Orlando picked up his cup, sipped from it, made a face, then pushed it away. “Nothing as vile as cold coffee.”

“Yes, there is. Cold tea. And you keeping secrets from me.” Jonty moved to the desk, extended his hand and said, “It’s a beautiful day. We’ll ask Mrs. Ward to serve us breakfast out in the garden. Whatever the problem is will seem better in the sunshine and accompanied by birdsong.”

Orlando’s expression suggested he didn’t believe a word of that, but he let himself be led to the kitchen, was tolerably cheery with their housekeeper and even took himself off to find cushions to rest their rumps on rather than brave the wooden garden chairs. All the while clutching what appeared to be a folded letter which Jonty felt certain was the root cause of the problem.

Once Orlando had got a bit of sun on his face, some hot coffee in his cup and a good helping of bacon and eggs in his stomach, Jonty was ready to broach the delicate subject. “So, what ails thee, oh love of my life?”

“A possible case.”

Jonty put the back of hand to his head. “You stun me. A case? And you’re not jumping up and down with joy? Is it from the college next door?”

“Worse than that. It’s from my old college at Oxford.”

“Ah.” Jonty put paid to the over dramatics and stirred his tea, meditatively. He could instantly see all sorts of reasons why Orlando would be torn between the natural attractions of having something to get his investigational teeth into and a return to a place he’d inhabited when he’d, to all intents and purposes, been another person. A person who was a shadow of his present self. “And will you take this commission?”

Orlando glanced up at the apple tree, where a robin was lustily serenading the new morning. “I don’t know. On the face of it, the puzzle itself is intriguing, but I’ve no great inclination to return there—to college or university—unless it’s on business.”

“Mathematical business, I suppose you mean by that? An investigation counting as merely pleasure?”

“Precisely.” Orlando managed a smile.

“I can understand you might not want to return to old haunts—they’re never the same—but to turn down a case seems odd, when it’s been a while since we had one.” It had been February when they’d last had to pit their wits against a criminal of proper cunning. Neither of them would count the matter of some poison pen letters which had reared their ugly heads in London over the Easter holidays. That had turned out to be easily soluble, given the correspondent’s tendency to write loose instead of lose and insert apostrophes where none were needed.  Somehow that had been more offensive than the lurid content.

“I know. You’ll no doubt think that I’m being stupid, but I can’t help worrying. Supposing we take it up and this turns out to be the case we’ve always dreaded? The one that’s insoluble? I’m going to look a total idiot.” Orlando ran his long, agile fingers through his hair. “They’ll say I lost what little intellect I had when I headed eastwards and into the territory of the dark blue’s most deadly rivals.”

“Balderdash. If they say any such thing I’ll tan their hides. And consider the opposite. What if it turns out to be a triumph? A masterpiece of deduction that nobody but us could have delivered? Your name will resound in college legend, if it doesn’t already. In fact, I’d imagine rather than thinking you’ve lost your abilities they’re secretly furious that your reputation is associated with the light blues rather than them. I’m surprised they haven’t offered you an enormous bribe to return. Or kidnapped you.” That seemed to be an ample sufficiency of fanning the guttering flames of Orlando’s confidence. One didn’t want the man to be getting too smug. “By the way, did they ask both of us to be involved? Or would they eschew the services of a man who spent his undergraduate years at Cambridge?”

“If they hadn’t asked for your involvement I’d have turned the case down without a second thought.”

“Would you? Just as well they want me to tag along, then.”

“You think I should accept it?”

“I think you’ll kick yourself if you don’t.” Jonty reached over to pat his partner’s hand. “You can’t let down the alma mater. It’s a matter of honour.  What’s the case, anyway? Perhaps if you relate the details to me it’ll whet your appetite.”

“It’s about a mysterious violin that just appeared in the Old Quad at Gabriel very early one morning.”

“A violin? You disappoint me. How very mundane.”

“How very Sherlock Holmesian,” Orlando said with a snort of disdain. How he hated that denizen of Baker Street, not least for the abysmal way he treated Watson. Jonty enjoyed reading the stories but could appreciate his lover’s views on the matter.

“They’re not expecting you to play said violin? That would be beyond the pale. As would indulging in any other of Holmes’s disgusting habits, pipe or syringe related,” Jonty added, with a grin.

“No. Apparently it’s rather valuable and they want to find out how it could have simply appeared overnight when the college was locked and inaccessible and everyone who resides in the building has denied knowledge of it.  They also want to know if the instrument is connected to a sudden death that might just be murder.”

That was more like it, although it begged many a question. “If it might be murder, why haven’t the police taken over the case? Do they have police in Oxford, by the way or are the dons so vicious that His Majesty’s forces refuse to patrol the place?”

“Idiot.” Orlando flicked away the comment with a wave of his hand. “The police believe the sudden death of Peter Denison was due to heart failure, and there had been no need of an inquest. An outcome which Professor Lewis-Duckworth refuses to accept, believing that diagnosis covers a multitude of sins and might actually mean that the doctor doesn’t know what killed him and doesn’t want to admit the fact.”

“Professor Lewis-Duckworth?”

“Warden of Gabriel. Equivalent to the master of St. Bride’s. Not a bad chap if rumour is to be believed. Better than the bad tempered anti-social curmudgeon who was warden in my day.”

Jonty hid his smile behind his tea cup. That would have meant two bad tempered anti-social curmudgeons at Gabriel back then.

Orlando continued. “The chap who died was a retired musician. In his day he’d been a virtuoso—quite famous in musical circles—but he’d been stricken with arthritis that had come on so swiftly and severely that he’d had to give up playing.”

“That’s sad. Did the warden include all these facts in his letter?”

“Some of them. He also enclosed a selection of cuttings from the local newspapers. I can show them to you later, if I—we—choose to accept the request for help.”

Back to the uncertainty. Jonty took a deep breath. “I think it would be very hard to turn down such an appeal, Orlando. I know that’s not the answer you wish to hear, but what reason could you give that would be believable? We’re right at the start of the long vac, so no great college or university commitments to constrain us and if we pretended we were about to go on holiday, we’d be sure to be found out. You know how gossip, academic or otherwise, gets about.”

Orlando nodded. “I know that. I realise I’m being stupid and I should snatch this case up readily, because I can also imagine your mother taking me by the arm, walking me round the garden at the Old Manor and telling me that were I to have a triumph it would overlay my memories of Oxford with a layer of triumph.” He cast his eyes down. “But I’m scared.”

“Oh, Orlando.” Jonty left his seat, took his lover by the hand and—just as he’d done in the study, earlier—eased him out of his seat. Only this time he took the man into a warm embrace. “I’m not going to tell you not to be scared, that you’re fretting for nothing as all will be well, because that’s just stupid. I will say that if you’re inclined to be brave then I’m here at your side and will be in Oxford. As you’ve been at my side all the times I’ve been scared or upset because the old memories have bubbled up again. And before you start apologising for having started off a train of thought towards that particularly unpleasant station, don’t. I’m enjoying being the strong one.” He couldn’t resist a chuckle. “And from the way your body’s reacting, you’re enjoying this cuddle. Such a shame that it would scandalise Mrs. Ward if we went back to bed.”

“You’re insatiable.” Orlando kissed the top of Jonty’s head then eased out of the embrace. “If that was me being told off, it was one of the more agreeable chastening experiences.”

“I’m not sure if it was me telling you off, encouraging you or a bit of both. All I’ll promise is that all will be as well as we can make it be.” Jonty resumed his seat, pouring himself another cup of tea. “And consider this. What if you declined to take the case, because you managed to find some valid reason why not—called to Italy on family business or some such nonsense—and then regretted it? Spurned opportunity and all that, especially if we don’t get handed another case for a while. There’s no guarantee of it.”

“No, indeed. Quite right.” Orlando didn’t seem entirely convinced but he was definitely much more in favour of the idea than when he’d been sitting at his desk wearing a lost-lamb expression.  “I’ll write to Professor Lewis-Duckworth as soon as I get into college.”

“Excellent. I shall trust you to be the man of his word you always are.” Jonty grinned. “No need for me to come and hold your blotter up to the mirror to make sure you’ve accepted.”

“I might type it, just to spite you, so you couldn’t check anyway.” Orlando produced a smile, one that appeared to be mostly unforced. “Would you want to stay in college if we go?”

“When we go. No, my days of uncomfy beds and shared bathrooms are behind me. I believe the Randolph is a perfectly good establishment and there must be other places in the city that would be to the required standard. The occupants of Oxford can’t all live in tents like Bedouin.”

“If you’re going to spend all your time insulting my old university I might not take you. Your sister Lavinia can come along, instead, or one of your parents. They’re far more sensible.”

“I wouldn’t argue with that. Not as much fun as I am, though.” Nice to see Orlando being able to make a joke of it. That had to mean he was warming to the notion. “I promise to be a model of rectitude throughout our visit. I promise not to seek out people who knew you in your undergraduate days and force them to tell me hair-raising and jaw-dropping tales from your wicked past. Assuming there are any such tales to be winkled out.”

“Behave, or else I will invite Lavinia.” Orlando knocked back the last of his coffee in a marked manner. “Unlike you, I have no such blots on my escutcheon.”

Jonty could quite believe that. Orlando in his younger days would surely have regarded knocking back a few pints of stout and taking part in a rendition or two of rugby songs, to be activities scandalous enough. The notion was actually unbearably sad. What was youth for if not making a few mistakes and learning from them?

“Perhaps,” Orlando continued, “I should regale some of the Gabriel fellows with the story of you and the goat and the porters’ lodge. I doubt they’d be surprised to hear how low a Cambridge student could stoop.”

“I had to stoop very low when I was trying to milk the goat, certainly.” Jonty chuckled, pushed his cup across the table, then rose. “I must go and dress, or else St. Bride’s will resound with the story of the absent minded don and the pyjamas. Shall I see you at luncheon?”

“Indeed you will.”

“Excellent. I don’t need to see the letter from Lewis-Duckworth, by the way. I think it appropriate the contents remain between yourself and him. I trust you will give me a precis of the important elements.”

“I will, although you have most of them already. I’m hoping that more will follow, once I’ve accepted. I get the feeling the warden is playing his cards close to his chest until he knows what our decision is.”

“Very wise. And very intriguing. Hi thee hence and respond. Once all is settled we can see which, if any, of our plans need to be changed to accommodate this development.”

Orlando’s brows knitted. “If it’s going to cause too much trouble, it wouldn’t be a problem to decline.”

“It won’t be a problem at all. Accept the thing and we can sort all the rest.” Jonty gave Orlando a quick peck on the cheek and went to get dressed for the day.

Later, as Jonty just got the fiddly bit with his cufflinks, he considered the revelations of the morning. A call to Orlando’s old college. It was timely enough, given how close they were to the undergraduates departing and some freedom for the dons. If it had come during term time, Jonty suspected that Orlando might have immediately declined it, pleading pressure of work. As it was, those apologies might still be sent. Jonty wouldn’t believe that it was happening until he stood in the presence of Lewis-Duckworth himself.

***

The reply was written.

Orlando—secure within his study at St. Bride’s—stared at it, having already re-read it three times, checking for inaccuracies of spelling or grammar and ensuring that every word conveyed exactly what he meant. He’d originally drafted the thing in rough and subsequently gone through it half a dozen times until it was perfect, eating into time he’d promised himself he’d spend over a nice little logic puzzle that had come his way. That puzzle would now be the reward for getting this chore out of the way.

It was a positive response, albeit one laden with provisos, including getting permission from Dr. Peters for taking on such a task. While the investigation would take place during the long vac—probably at the start so that Orlando could enjoy the rest of the break without this chore hanging over him and university duties would be few, the proper procedures had to be observed. Albeit the fellows of St. Bride’s would be fairly free to pursue whatever activities took their fancy, the master of the college might object, on principle, to helping their rival university.

That mightn’t be too bad an outcome: Dr. Peters’s refusal would take the matter right out of his hands and allow him to withdraw with both dignity and reputation intact. Notwithstanding, the master had never denied permission for their investigations before, even during term time, believing that the credit to St. Bride’s of their fellows solving a problem which had flummoxed other people would far outweigh any minor inconvenience to the college. Still, a man could live in hope. A note in Dr. Peter’s pigeon hole referring to the possibility of a commission in Oxford would do for the moment and he’d let serendipity takes its course.

He’d not been able to prevent himself including some preliminary questions in the letter, referring to things the warden had mentioned but which Orlando had not yet shared with Jonty. If that little tinker knew all the aspects of what looked an intriguing case, he’d not be able to resist insisting they take up the case, even if it meant him going solo.

Orlando reread yet again his response to Professor Lewis-Duckworth, decided he was being ridiculous, then stuffed it into an envelope, sealed and stamped it, and set off to the post box. One in the city rather than the outgoing mail from the porters’ lodge from where he might be tempted to retrieve it later.  If it were posted when ’tis posted, then ’twere well it were done quickly, wasn’t quite what Macbeth had said, and his intention had been far less innocent than visiting a post box, but Orlando could appreciate the sentiment of getting on with the job. If he delayed sending this letter now, he’d risk it sitting on his desk for days if not weeks, with himself paralysed into inaction. Once slipped into the hands of His Majesty’s postal service there was no retrieval for it and no going back.

Going back.

He’d been to his old college only once since graduating from it, despite having dropped into Oxford a couple of times on what Jonty might call the business of obscure sums and what Orlando would call highly complex and potentially important mathematical developments. The visit to Gabriel had—unlike the mathematically related meetings—not been a success. It had been a reunion of his contemporaries and he’d felt awkward, embarrassed, overawed by the confidence and success of those who’d matriculated at the same time as him. But that had been in his pre-Jonty, pre-detecting, pre-loving and being loved days. He was a different person now, one entrusted with the business of kings, more confident and more sure of his own abilities. He should be able to go back, if not in triumph then in the capacity of a renowned expert in more than one field.

So why did he find the whole prospect of returning there now so daunting? Especially when he’d have Jonty at his side this time? The post box—at which he’d arrived automatically, without really being aware of where he was walking or what he was doing—stared at him, its opening rigidly fixed in what looked like a gaping, mocking square-cornered grin. Why don’t you want to go back? Because all your successes will come crashing down on your head if this mystery defeats you and you walk away leaving it unsolved.

Orlando hesitated, letter in hand, called himself all kinds of an idiot, still hesitated, imagined Mrs. Stewart’s voice telling him not to be such a silly boy, then thrust the envelope into the box. He might have told it to bugger off while he was at it, and hoped he’d only thought the words and not spoken them out loud.

He set off back to St. Bride’s, determined not to think about Gabriel or Oxford or any of this business for the next few days and certain that he’d fail miserably.

Chapter Two

The reply to Orlando’s missive came to St. Bride’s two days later, filled with effusive thanks and providing the telephone number so Professor Lewis-Duckworth could be contacted directly at his lodge to agree dates and make practical arrangements. The sooner the better, the text of the letter implied even if it wasn’t quite stated, the warden being less of a straightforward man than Dr. Peters was and never using three words where twenty three would suffice.  It had taken the master of St. Bride’s a matter of hours to reply to the note Orlando had left him, the response being, Of course. You must do whatever needs to be done. The final chance of honourable rescue had now gone.

Over lunch in the college, Orlando consulted Jonty on how to proceed.

“The game truly is afoot, as old Hal would say,” Jonty remarked, while dissecting his lamb cutlet. “Assuming Dr. Peters would be happy with our rivals employing our services.”

“Our rivals?” Dr. Peters said, with a grin, from the other side of the table. “The college next door?”

A murmur of disapproval broke out along the table. “I merely jest, gentlemen.  Although some of you might believe the situation worse than that. Dr. Coppersmith, as I’m already aware of the unusual situation, perhaps you’d enlighten the rest of the fellows?”

Orlando would have preferred the floor of the hall to be rent asunder and swallow him whole. While his confidence among his colleagues had flourished, and he really quite enjoyed regaling them with stories of his and Jonty’s successes, this particular instance still felt too daunting. Still, he had to oblige the master. “The warden of my old college at Oxford has contacted me—us,” he inclined his head towards Jonty, although everyone would have assumed that both had been included in any investigatory enquiry, “about a double mystery. A valuable violin that appeared at the bottom of a college staircase one night and of which everyone in college denies knowledge, and the strange death of a violinist called Denison.” He paused, in need of a breath and aware that the sentence was at risk of becoming over-convoluted.

Dr. Peters, nodding sagely as though considering an abstruse piece of academia, said, “Who leaves a violin of such value in such a place and then doesn’t go and retrieve it? Unless the person doing so was unable to retrieve it, as I’m certain has happened with certain hoards of coins which appear to have been inexplicably left in the ground.”

Jonty nodded. “I’m delighted to hear you say that, Master. I often think that deposits of valuables left by our ancient ancestors were less a matter of appeasing the gods than putting them into a supposedly safe place by somebody who was subsequently taken ill or died. Or forgot entirely where they put it. One part of a blasted heath being much the same as another.”

Maybe that had happened here, Denison’s death preventing him from retrieving the instrument, but this was all too speculative for Orlando’s comfort.

Dr. Panesar, who sat at the master’s right hand, inevitably focussed on the other part of the case. “You mentioned a man’s strange death. Are you in a position to tell us any more about it?”

“I can certainly report on what was reported in the newspapers although, alas, one can never vouch for their accuracy.” Orlando gave a summary of the musician’s career, medical history and sudden death. “The man’s own doctor was happy to sign the death certificate and there was no need for an inquest as natural causes seemed evident. But the warden of Gabriel—who was a friend of the dead man—is not so sure. Not least because he is sure that the violin found in the college belonged to Denison.”

“Perhaps Denison knew he was nearing the end of his life and wanted to donate the instrument for the college’s use,” suggested the Langer, the chaplain. A man who managed to combine biblical scholarship, common sense and a belief in practical Christianity was always worth listening to. “Then either something went astray in the gifting of it or he decided to make it appear on a whim.”

“That may be so,” Jonty replied, “but establishing a motive for its appearance may well be less important than establishing the means by which it appeared. Dr. Coppersmith informs me there is a mystery behind it.”

Taking his cue, Orlando explained. “The college was locked at the time, and a particular set of circumstances prevailed that the porters can categorically say nobody went in or out of the quad where it appeared. Nobody in the college admits to knowing what went on.”

“So, barring the violin being gently let down on a string from an air balloon, it’s either a piece of magic, or somebody in the college is lying,” Jonty said gleefully.

“You say that Denison’s arthritis came on suddenly and severely?” Panesar’s eyes shone as he, as so often, took the conversation down another path. “I believe I’ve read that poisoning with one or other of the heavy metals can mimic such symptoms. I would need to check my sources, of course, but if there’s anything technical I can help with in that regard, I’d be more than willing to do so.”

“The offer is much appreciated,” Orlando said, sincerely. Panesar had become one of those who occasionally helped with cases. Indeed, they had a whole coterie of folk—including Jonty’s sister, brother-in-law and parents, the master’s sister Ariadne Sheridan—who fell over themselves to get involvement in cases. A sort of Madingley Road Irregulars, who brought a variety of talents, knowledge and connections to the cause.

“I will make sure I report to you before you travel.” Panesar was clearly restraining an enormous grin of satisfaction at being allowed to play. “I will also see if I can locate another article I read. One concerning strange tales from the east about people eating fish, perhaps imperfectly cooked, and suffering similar symptoms in their joints.”

Orlando groaned, louder than he’d intended. “Oh please, Dr. Panesar, I would never approve of covering over facts simply because they get in the way of theories but I beg of you, for the sake of my sanity, not to turn up evidence of Denison being administered the obscure and untraceable poison so beloved of fiction.”

Jonty chuckled. “You’ve started him off now, Dr. Panesar. He’ll be moaning about authors playing unfairly with their readers for the rest of the day.”

“I apologise profusely.” Panesar inclined his dignified, bearded head. “Let us assume that the condition of the man’s joints was purely due to a medical condition. However, I suppose we are prepared to accept the possibility that his death was not.”

“Professor Lewis-Duckworth certainly is.” Orlando glanced round the dining hall then pursed his lips. “I believe this conversation would be better continued over coffee in the Senior Common Room. While not all of our young gentlemen are present, some of those who are have extremely acute hearing and I wouldn’t want to break confidences.”

He wasn’t sure he wanted all the fellows to know his business, either, given that one or two of them were in their dotage and inclined to gossip.

Only Dr. Panesar and the chaplain joined them for a post-prandial discussion, Dr. Peters having business elsewhere and the other dons either being similarly occupied or having no interest in the matter. As Dr. Rookwood observed pithily, the case didn’t concern the Devonian period, so it was outside his scope of understanding. Once they were all settled with coffee and a serving of nuts and fruit, Orlando continued the tale.

“In his latest communication, the warden of Gabriel informs me that Denison came to him a few months ago, to say he believed he was being followed. Not threatened, just being annoyed. Somebody—and not always the same person—was allegedly dogging his footsteps and sometimes lurking outside his home. In one instance he asked the local constable to confront the man but the lurker said he was simply waiting for one of the maids from the house next door to meet him, as they were walking out together. Which turned out to be perfectly true.”

“Although not necessarily an innocent explanation.” Panesar wagged his head enthusiastically. “Did not your antagonist Sherlock Holmes ingratiate himself with a maidservant in order to infiltrate a household?”

“He did,” Langer cut in, “although I am not ready to accept that something similar occurred in this case. It sounds less like a clever plan by the lurker than a touch of paranoia on the violinist’s part. Different people following him on different occasions? Might he not have imagined it all?”

Jonty nodded. “That’s an excellent point. I can remember a young lad who was up at Bride’s the same time as I was. He got it into his head that he was being sent messages by Princess Beatrice—Queen Victoria’s youngest daughter, for those of you with poor memories.”

“I think we’re all aware of who she is, Dr. Stewart,” Orlando said, although he appreciated the reminder. Not for himself, but for the chaplain, who while he could quote—literally—chapter and verse on the doings of the kings of Israel and Judah, wasn’t always as up to date as he could be on the chronology of the modern world.

Jonty carried on, undaunted. “He was convinced that strangers were standing in particular spots in order to convey some abstruse communication. He was fascinated by codes, rather like you, Dr. Coppersmith, although his obsession with them had become unhealthy. I believe he ended up in a privately run asylum, still happily convinced that the Princess had entrusted him with her secrets.”

“What were these secrets?” Panesar asked.

“I have no idea. He was adamant he’d take them unspoken to his grave, poor chap. And before any of you suggest that there may have been a grain of truth in his belief, for example because he may have been under observation by his family who knew of his likely mental illness and were worried about him, that horse won’t run. One of the people he claimed to be bearing him a particularly important communication, given the fact he was wearing a particular style of hat and standing with his arms in a certain manner, was my brother Clarence, up here for a reunion and simply waiting to meet a chum.”

Langer, brow creased in thought, said, “Is there any evidence that Denison may have suffered similar delusions?”

“Not according to Professor Lewis-Duckworth. You see, when I wrote to him to accept the commission, I asked him that same question. Having heard Dr. Stewart’s story before and being reminded of the circumstances,” he added, with a roll of the eyes. “Not only does the warden believe the story of Denison being watched, he believed the basis of it might have been in espionage.”

“Spying?” If Panesar hadn’t been sitting down, he’d have no doubt danced in delight. The only thing that could have made the story even more intriguing in his eyes would have been the inclusion in the narrative of small explosive devices.

“In his younger days, Denison had possibly been involved with intriguing on behalf of her Majesty’s government. He had spent some time in Boston and Washington—not the Lincolnshire or Durham ones—ostensibly playing in orchestras, although he may also have been involved with the local authorities in flushing out members of secret and subversive organisations.”

“By pointing his violin bow at them? That sounds awfully far-fetched.” Jonty shook his head. “Although I suppose as a cover for nefarious activities, an orchestra has its merits. And if somebody had been a spy, it would be hard to find proof of it. He’d be bound to keep everything secret.”

“Any spy worth his—or her—salt would surely have managed to keep that part of their life hidden to friends and family. Although why speak of it now?” Panesar’s eyes narrowed in thought.

It struck Orlando what an excellent agent the man would make. Always smiling, always ready to talk to any and everyone, from the noblest visitor to the lowliest servant in the college and treating them and with an equal degree of respect. Added to that, his reputation as an eccentric polymath, prone to making bizarre—and occasionally explosive—inventions, would surely provide a wonderful degree of disguise.

“Dr. Stewart, you stated earlier that the most likely way the violin got into the college was by an inhabitant of the place, who was subsequently lying,” the chaplain said. “I have thought of another possibility.”

Orlando dreaded what might come next. He vaguely recollected a sermon based on an Old Testament reading, where one of the prophets—possibly Elijah, Orlando hadn’t been paying that much attention—had gone off into the wilderness, which these chaps seemed to be fond of doing, and the birds had brought him food. Perhaps Langer would suggest that some large flying creature, such as a swan, fruit bat or seraphim, had delivered the violin in the night. Still, he nodded his head encouragingly.

“Colleges aren’t always the impenetrable places that the authorities give them credit for. I know that when the doors to St. Bride’s are locked and bolted and a reliable person stationed at them then access and egress are well-nigh impossible, but the same would not necessarily apply to Gabriel.” The chaplain, turning to Orlando, tipped his head. “How secure is your old college?”

Orlando wasn’t sure if he could begin to answer to that question, not being the sort of student who’d have cared to find out such things.  It struck a chord with Jonty, though.

“Excellent point, Dr. Langer. I daresay that since the time Noah packed Ham, Shem and Japhet off to university with their flint scrapers freshly sharpened, students have been trying to find ways to confound the authorities. Scaling up walls and in through windows, for a start.”

“I know exactly how I’d break into the college next door, should I need to,” Panesar remarked, producing a stunned and appreciative silence.

“Good for you.” Jonty cuffed his shoulder. “Will you share your secret with us?”

“Of course. St. Gengulphus Lane runs down the far side of it. Once when I was walking along there I noticed a delivery of coal being made—no doubt to feed the college dragons,” Panesar added, with a grin. “There must be an internal door leading from the cellar into the college or how would the dragon-keeper get his supplies?”

Jonty rubbed his hands together, gleefully. “Dr. Panesar, a conversation with you always makes my day.”

Before Jonty could go off on a flight of fancy involving dragons and dinosaurs and heaven knew what else, Orlando said, “Could one really enter the college that way?”

“Of course. I noticed that the street trapdoor is secured with a padlock that might be easily picked, or the chain cut through, and the internal door might present an equally easy prospect. In any case a good sturdy jemmy might do the trick if one didn’t mind the noise nor have necessity to cover one’s trail.”

“You amaze me, all of you.” Langer flashed his companions a charming smile. “Promise me you won’t apply your considerable intellects to a life of crime.”

“I promise you that we would never do anything that we couldn’t tell you about, Dr. Langer,” Orlando said, before realising there were plenty of things and he and Jonty got up to that would have turned the chaplain’s hair prematurely grey. He ploughed on swiftly. “Professor Lewis-Duckworth assures me the mystery of the violin is deeper than it appears on the surface, because he has proof of no members of the college being involved which he will share in detail when we meet him. However, we’ll bear your points about access in mind.”

While the matter of unauthorised comings and goings at Gabriel would need to be explored, that could wait until they were in Oxford. At the moment, Orlando would need to rein in a conversation that was becoming less useful by the minute. “The question remains why the violin was left there, irrespective of how it arrived.”

“Is it valuable?” Langer asked. “Could it have been donated for the benefit of musicians within Gabriel’s walls?”

“Or could it have been sold to swell the coffers?” Jonty finished the last of his coffee, then laid down his cup.

“The warden says he has considered this but is reluctant to act one way or the other until he is sure to the intention of whoever placed it there. He’s naturally informed the police in case any instruments were reported as lost or stolen, his first thoughts being that the arrival of the instrument was the result of an undergraduate rag. But nobody has come forward to claim the thing.”

Langer drummed lightly on the arm of his chair. “I may have missed this, but I am unclear about when this strange event occurred.”

Orlando wasn’t sure he’d actually stated the timeline of events: that alone was illustrative of his somewhat befuddled state of mind. “The violin appeared a month ago today. Two days afterwards Lewis-Duckworth read in the newspaper that his friend had died and on the same day he received a card through the post to the same effect, from Denison’s housekeeper.”

“Typical of newspapers,” Langer said, with passion. “They print stories willy-nilly without thinking of the effect they may have on their readers. I wonder who gave them the story. The housekeeper sending out notifications implies the man left no close family.”

“Indeed. He left no wife or dependants.” Orlando kicked himself for not having wondered about the newspaper. It might have no significance, but they couldn’t tell at present.

“It might have been the next door neighbours, if they saw the undertakers arrive and knew of Denison’s fame,” Jonty suggested. “Or one of his friends if they came to see him the day he died. There’s not much point speculating about that. I’d rather have my colleagues’ opinion on the issue of provenance, and whether one could tell a Stradivarius violin, for example, from one of the same age but without the same cachet in terms of a name. Dr. Langer, I believe you have some expertise in this area?”

“I would say I have a little knowledge, although to describe it as expertise might be overstating things,” the chaplain said, with a pleased little smile at having been consulted. “Most people with a musical ear could tell from the tone between a violin made by an expert and one which wasn’t, assuming it was the same person playing the same piece. A fair test. A real expert could detect more than that.”

“Real expert?” Jonty grinned. “But not, I guess, a self-proclaimed one?”

Langer tipped his head to one side, evidently puzzled. “Did you have an expert of dubious provenance in mind as well as a violin?”

“No, I was simply reminded of Papa and the whisky bores.”

“Whisky bores? Wells from which one obtains the water of life?” Panesar asked, but only in jest. “Please tell us more.”

Orlando, tempted to bring the subject back onto the matter in hand, forbore from interrupting. Sometimes Jonty’s flights of fancy took them to places that would prove invaluable—in hindsight—to solving a mystery, albeit at a tangent.

“My pleasure.” Jonty bowed. “As you well know, Dr. Panesar, I was referring to old buffers who profess to know everything about some subject or other. We have a number of them at the university but in the case I refer to, their pet subject was single malt whiskies. Papa invited some of them to our house in London, for luncheon. After the meal he organised a tasting competition for them, entrance fee ten bob, all proceeds to Mama’s charity and the winner simply rewarded with the right to brag. Papa had decanted three bottles into three decanters, labelled them A, B and C, then asked for them to be identified against a list of distilleries he provided.”

Orlando smiled at the ingenuity of his almost-father-in-law. “I’m surmising that they failed the test abysmally?”

“Of course. These chaps blethered on for ages after they sampled each one and narrowed it down to regions. Almost to particular Scottish rivers. They were all agreed the whiskies came from the general vicinity of the river Spey.” Jonty raised an eyebrow. “That’s where any agreement pretty much ended. Between the three men they could only agree on one of the distilleries and that was only between two of them. The third was adamant they’d got it wrong by a good twenty miles. It went on for ages and was absolutely glorious.”

“And it turned out they’d all three got everything wrong?” Panesar’s eyes glinted again.

“Absolutely. Of course, Papa being the devious creature that he is, the truth was much worse than their failing to pin down a distillery. None of the drinks were vintage malts of any kind. Two were the same brand of blended whisky he’d sent the butler to get from the local off licence and were therefore exactly the sort of drink these so-called experts would describe as being beyond the pale, and the third was from the Lea Valley distillery, so was manufactured hundreds of miles from the Spey and only a few miles east of where it was being drunk.”

Orlando snorted. “Your father goes up and up in my estimation. That sounds like exactly the sort of wheeze we should try on some of the bounders from the college next door. Were the old buffers furious?”

“Inside, no doubt. They blustered, of course, said that they knew all along that Papa was playing a game with them and they were playing along, but we both knew the truth. And they were charitable enough to each donate a further guinea to Mama’s charity.”

“But would a real expert, the sort of quiet, knowledgeable chap—or woman—who knew their stuff yet didn’t go around telling everyone what a genius they were, have been able to identify the distilleries? A person such as Dr. Coppersmith or Dr. Langer, who are both inclined to hide their light under a whole pile of bushels,” Panesar added, to Orlando’s secret delight.

“I have no idea. Papa reckoned anyone worth their salt should have known that the blended wasn’t a single malt, but as to narrowing the drink to a particular distillery or even a region he’d only known two folk who were blessed with such perception. One of each gender, by the way.”

Langer, who’d followed the conversation with great seriousness, said, “I believe the same could be said for violins. If the one left at Gabriel is supposed to be valuable it should be assessed only by the top people in their field. I could provide a list of names, should that be helpful.”

“It would indeed. Thank you.” Orlando checked his watch. “I’m afraid I must take my leave.”

Panesar glanced at his own watch, then shot out of his chair. “So must I. I fear I shall be late.”

With Jonty’s cry of, “Don’t disappear down any rabbit holes!” the party returned to their normal college duties.

***

The walk home consisted of a leisurely stroll up the Backs, a short cut across the playing fields and a brisk trot along the Madingley Road because their stomachs had started to rumble, despite the marmalade pudding. It should have been a delight for all the senses, given the beautiful weather. But the importance of the case to their reputation and the questions posed both by the warden’s letters and the post-prandial discussion made Orlando deaf and blind to all enjoyment.

“How can we find out if Denison was involved in spying?” He asked, sawing the air with his hand, a gesture which used to be habitual and which had mostly fallen out of use. “I don’t suppose there’s a list somewhere that just anyone can go and consult.”

“That would indeed defeat the object of secrecy.” Jonty, thank goodness, clearly appreciated that the suggestion had not been a serious one. “We both know who to consult, though. Don’t we?”

“Your father? I was intending to put a call through to him as soon as we reach home. Irrespective of the espionage he might have light to shed on the case.”

Mr. Stewart was the fount of many pieces of knowledge and while it was unlikely that even he would know off the top of his head whether Denison had performed a secret service for his king (or queen, depending on when this had allegedly happened) and country, he would no doubt know somebody who might be able to supply an answer. Even if it were a simple yes or no.

“For once, I was thinking less of Papa than somebody else. I wouldn’t be surprised if Dr. Panesar came up with something in that regard, too.”

“Why do you say that?” Funny how that mirrored what Orlando had been musing on, earlier.

“Has it never struck you that he’d make a wonderful agent? Nobody would be able to take him seriously, for one thing. His reputation as a dotty scientist persona would precede him. I often think that he and Mama would make a wonderful combination were this country in dire need of brains, charm and deep cunning.” Jonty picked a dandelion from the side of the pavement, then scattered the seeds to the wind with his breath. “I shouldn’t be surprised if he was in contact even now with his spymaster or whatever such a person might call themselves. Enquiring discretely on our behalf.”

Orlando didn’t feel he should favour this supposition with a sensible response. Surely it was as playful as his mention of a list had been.

“You clearly don’t hold with my idea.”

“I would merely describe it as possible yet unproven. I agree entirely that he has all the potential to successfully engage in espionage, but it’s impossible to prove one way or the other, given the circumstances.”

“Well that’s the nub for the whole case, isn’t it? If there is an espionage angle to this business, not only will we be faced with a wall of silence at every turn but we’ll possibly be putting ourselves in danger.” Jonty took Orlando’s arm, then halted, so they could talk face to face. “If he was killed, in revenge, then the killer might not scruple to turn their attention to us, or anyone else who risked exposing the truth.”

“Do you think I haven’t thought of both those eventualities? They’ve contributed to my reluctance to take on this case.” Orlando looked at the pavement, unable to bear the scrutiny of that piercing blue gaze, given what he was about to say. “I did think of going to Oxford alone so you wouldn’t be in danger but I’ve learned my lesson on that one.”

“Glad to hear it.” Jonty tipped Orlando’s chin up so they were eye to eye again. “We work best together. And if there is danger then we should be at each other’s side for it. Like the Theban band.”

Orlando nodded, then silently encouraged Jonty to walk on. Given what had happened to the Theban band, that wasn’t the best analogy.

Chapter Three

They took the motorcar to Oxford: it was indicative of Orlando’s state of mind that he made only a token protest against the suggested mode of transport. Jonty had prepared several propositions as to why the metal monster—as Orlando referred to it—would be preferable to the train, not least the flexibility it gave once they were there. If they had to travel around and within the city, they didn’t want to always be beholden to cabs. The lack of argument had been worrying, only confirming Jonty’s view that the next few days would be a sore trial to his dearest love. Still, they’d booked an excellent suite at the Randolph, and the recreational aspects of the visit should be made the most of, to counteract the strains of the investigation itself. Jonty had a hankering for visiting the Ashmolean, and also for taking a boat along the river to dally under the willows. Assuming the riverbanks actually had willows—surely the city couldn’t be so benighted as not to possess those?

The journey passed without incident, if also without much chatter, and they arrived in good time to take afternoon tea with Professor Lewis-Duckworth.

Gabriel College resembled most of its ilk, and the warden’s lodge could have come straight out of a textbook on building such residences.  Professor Lewis-Duckworth himself struck Jonty as being exactly how he’d envisage Orlando’s father. Not necessarily in appearance—he’d seen a photograph of the man and the Artigiano del Rame bloodline was noticeable there, whereas the warden had no hint of the Mediterranean. But his general demeanour, the stern visage and rigid posture spoke of self-restraint and maybe a lack of humour. Still, all the years of dealing with Orlando’s foibles stood him in good stead for dealing with men of such character.

To his credit, the warden made them most welcome in the drawing room of the lodge, thanking them profusely—if stiffly—for sparing the time to address a mystery that might end up being unworthy of their considerable abilities. The sentiment appeared to be sincere. The refreshments on offer certainly suggested his respect for his visitors: tea, sherry, exquisite little cakes and biscuits, both sweet and savoury.

Orlando, who’d been unsettled all day, now appeared to be under considerable strain. He put his sherry glass down on a table, then picked it up again. Likewise, he fiddled with a biscuit, risking it exploding into fragments. This was more like the Orlando of 1905, the man in whose chair Jonty had mistakenly sat and thus changed the course of both their lives.

“This case appears to be an intriguing one,” Jonty said, when it became apparent that Orlando wasn’t going to start proceedings. “Shall we start with the violin?”

“I was going to suggest that.” Lewis-Duckworth rose, then crossed the room to a large chest, out of which he produced the object in question. From the moment he had the instrument in his hand, the warden’s expression softened, just as Orlando’s did when he had his hands on something he had affection for. Usually Jonty himself. “You should hear the thing being played. It has such a lovely tone.”

“You’ve tried it?” Jonty asked.

“I couldn’t resist. I played in my youth, although not to any great standard, and not what some folk might approve of. Local music, traditional tunes.”

Jonty found himself warming to the man. He’d expected the warden to confess a passion for Wagner or some such clamorous composer: an appreciation of gentler and simple things was to be admired. “We used to enjoy playing those in the Stewart home in Sussex. Traditional folk music collected hither and yon, some of it very local. Perhaps previous occupants of the Old Manor have entertained themselves with some of the tunes you play.” No doubt with clean words for the gentry side of the green baize door and obscene ones for below stairs.

“You say you believe it belonged to Denison? One would have thought that was easy to ascertain.”

“One would, but it isn’t.” Lewis-Duckworth gave them a rueful smile. If he had noticed that the cat appeared to have got Orlando’s tongue he was too polite to show it. “He had half a dozen instruments and appeared to keep no written record of their make. Not even for insurance purposes, according to his housekeeper, as he deemed each of them irreplaceable and beyond monetary value. As for provenance, he told me he let the music itself prove the background.” He caressed the instrument again. “Gabriel dates back to the sixteenth century, as perhaps do some of the tunes this violin will have been party to producing. I have been wondering whether Denison had this brought as a present for me, knowing how much I would appreciate it,”

Jonty spotted that Orlando had assumed his what has this got to do with what we’re discussing? expression. Time to put fiddle airs aside for the moment, although the matter of why the man couldn’t produce a question of his own was becoming vexatious. “You’ll have had an expert look at the instrument? What is their opinion?”

“I confess I haven’t. It felt too…materialistic. Too tawdry, so soon after the man’s death.”

Orlando fished in his briefcase, then handed the warden an envelope. “Our chaplain, Dr. Langer, has furnished a list of experts who could give you a reliable opinion on the instrument, should you need it.”

Jonty felt like cheering at the silence at last being broken.

“Thank you. If is indeed valuable then perhaps it would be a proper mark of respect to my late friend to do so, once the time is right. And once we can be sure it was his.”

“An expert opinion might help you pin down the owner,” Jonty pointed out. “I have no doubt that experts gossip as much as the next man or woman and word would get around of this violin appearing. Maybe they are already looking out for one such.”

“An excellent point.” Lewis-Duckworth pocketed the envelope. “I’m afraid this business has seen me not thinking as clearly as I should. Forgive me.”

The discussion, clearly appealing to Orlando’s love of proof and dislike of sloppy evidence trails, had sparked him into something like his usual investigative self. “But the matter remains of its sudden appearance. Can you be absolutely sure somebody from Gabriel isn’t lying about placing it there, perhaps as part of a student rag. That would be the most obvious conclusion.”

“It would indeed, were it not for one thing. In my letter I promised I’d give you proof of that assertion. There was a small fire in the college that evening and the occupants of the first quad, including this lodge, were evacuated into the second quad. I stationed a porter at the archway between the two to stop anyone returning, and another porter was stationed at the main gate awaiting the fire brigade. As it happened, we were able to contain the small blaze ourselves, it having more show than substance. When we began to return to our rooms, the violin was found.”

“Where did the fire break out?” Orlando asked.

“In the vestibule that leads into the chapel. There are no bedrooms above that, only storage, so no immediate risk to life and limb unless the fire spread. Clearly when we decided to evacuate we didn’t know how small the thing would turn out to be.”

“Could it have been set deliberately to cause enough mayhem to allow someone to leave the violin and not been spotted because everyone’s attention was focussed elsewhere?”

“Perhaps. But everyone, students, dons and college servants, were accounted for from the first quad. The porters had a list to check against and they had nobody missing.”

Orlando suppressed a snort, which was just as well. Not a good idea to deride somebody so important even if they had made an obvious mistake of logic. “It is possible that the culprit wasn’t accounted for because they had no right to be there in the first place? A student from another quad or another college. One who was able to sneak out the next day?”

“Another quad, possibly—we had no need to perform a head count for the whole college. An outsider I doubt, as we had the porters on high alert the next day.”

“An excellent precaution, although we must ask if Gabriel really is only accessible through the official entrances. Students being students, they often regard access and egress as a challenge.”

Professor Lewis-Duckworth considered for a moment, teacup in hand but not moving closer to his lips. “I would say it was entirely secure. “The main quads wouldn’t be accessible unless one was a mountaineer and could scale the outside, then come over the roof.” He suddenly laid the cup down. “It occurs to me that someone quite determined could have scaled the lodge garden wall, the one that runs along All Saints Lane. But then they’d have had to come through the lodge itself and the French doors to the garden are always locked after dark.”

“And where do they deliver the college coal to?”

The warden, having almost dropped his cup, laid it down carefully. “Coal? I believe there’s a central depository somewhere adjacent to the porters’ lodge, but that’s not really my purview. Why?”

“Coal cellars have been used to access colleges in the past,” Orlando said, knowingly. “We were eliminating the option.”

Jonty appreciated how the question had surprised the warden, although his money would have been on gaining access through the lodge, if someone were bold enough to attempt it. They’d need to get into that garden and look. “Back to Denison himself, and your suspicions about his death. Have you been friends long?”

“About a year, I’d say. Shall I refresh your cups? It’s a long story.” As he poured, he explained. “I saw Denison play, some twenty years ago, and he was remarkable. So much so I begged tickets for this next performance, which had sold out, and he proved just as good, if not better. When I learned he’d moved to Oxford, I became determined to meet him. I was like the worst sort of simpering maiden, besotted with an actor, you might say. We fans of great performers can be incorrigible.” That showed remarkable self-awareness, and perhaps revealed an aspect of his character he might not have wanted revealed. What if that admiration had a romantic element as well as a musical one? It might partly explain the warden’s determination to find the truth behind the man’s death. “I was shocked to find out Denison no longer played, and to see the change in his condition. Still, he was most gracious and welcoming.”

“Do you know when the deterioration in his condition started?” Orlando asked.

“A few months prior to his moving here, apparently. A friend of mine saw one of his last concerts and said that he wasn’t quite the force he had been. Such a shame.” The warden took a sip of tea, that wonderfully fortifying substance. “We agreed to meet again, having hit it off from the start of that first meeting and subsequently became great friends. I admired the fact it never seemed to pain him to talk of his glory days. He quite revelled in regaling me with stories from the time, although one could never be certain they were true.”

Orlando shot Jonty a swift, intrigued glance. “He enjoyed telling tales?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as implying he was a liar, but he certainly took pleasure in embroidering a plain story with golden thread, if you get my meaning. It didn’t detract from my enjoyment of his company.”

More evidence of hero worship. How accurate a witness would the warden prove in these circumstances? Jonty pressed on. “You spoke in your letter of espionage. What evidence do you have that Denison was tied up in it?

“Only the evidence of his own lips, for obvious reasons. He told me about his time playing in America and how he’d become involved, as somebody who wouldn’t have raised suspicions.” Lewis-Duckworth drained his cup, clearly unaware that an outsider might have been exactly the person to raise suspicions in such a situation.

“Could this simply have been another example of his embroidering a plain tale?” Jonty asked. “His musical adventures across the Atlantic having turned out to be too underwhelming to be the stuff of enlivening after dinner chats?”

“That’s possible, of course,” the warden conceded, “but some of the detail he provided accorded perfectly with what I know of the situation there at the time. I had another friend, also now departed, who made a close academic study of the Molly Maguires along with other related organisations and individuals involved in what might be termed underground activity. He also studied the efforts of the authorities to counteract it.  He touched on the employment of agents in such cases and how their services had been used over the years in various ways.”

“Denison’s account matched what your colleague had learned?” Orlando’s voice reflected his pleasure that they were dealing in something factual rather than speculative.

“Yes. Corroborative evidence, you might say. I have to confess that being able to talk about such matters again was one of the things which cemented my friendship with Denison.  A mutually beneficial arrangement, you might say, with him no longer able to play so needing to find other means of amusement. I think it possible that his past came back to be avenged on him. The last conversation I had with him, the week before he died, he appeared agitated. He made some remark about making the most of opportunities, as this might be the last time we were able to meet. I told him he’d outlive us all, which wasn’t simply an old chestnut. He looked as well as I’d seen him for months.

“And yet a week later his heart apparently gave out?” Jonty said.

Lewis-Duckworth glanced out of the window, evidently choosing his words carefully. “The doctor’s judgement is not to be trusted. I can state that because he recently misdiagnosed one of the dons here, almost causing the man’s death. We won’t have Dr. Bundy on the premises as a result.”

From what he’d heard so far, Jonty didn’t blame them for taking such a stance. “Did Denison give a reason for being so morbid?”

“In part. He told me that he’d got himself too deeply involved in something shady—my guess was the espionage, but that is merely a supposition—and it had come back to haunt him. He might have said more, but his housekeeper entered the room and I know he didn’t like talking about his past in her presence.”

Orlando made a note of all that—although Jonty suspected the notepad was there more for show and comfort rather than usefulness—then said, “Revenge aside, who else might have benefited from Denison’s death? Did he leave a large estate? Are the other instruments he left valuable?”

“Without a provenance, who knows? As for the rest...” Lewis-Duckworth spread his hands apologetically. “He had a house, which he left to his devoted housekeeper, along with a small annuity, I believe. Otherwise I have no idea of the size of his estate. Not large, given his modest way of living, although I have no idea what constitutes a sufficient amount to kill for.”

“What would constitute enough to take a man’s life in our estimation wouldn’t be the same for somebody else, especially if they were desperate. People have been robbed and killed for very little.” Orlando spoke authoritatively, perhaps in recollection of a case that Sergeant Cohen, one of their favourite policemen, had related to them. An old woman smothered for a couple of guineas. “We will look into the matter of his will.” He closed his notepad. “Might we visit the lodge garden?”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Lewis-Duckworth, wearing a look of bewilderment, rose from his chair to comply with the peculiar request.

***

Orlando had vague memories of visiting the lodge garden for a glass of sherry as part of the then warden’s process of welcoming batches of new undergraduates. He had no memory of traipsing through the lodge itself so there must have been an external gate either to the road or to the quad, although he could see no evidence of the former. Well kept shrubs and espaliers graced the length of the wall; in fact, the whole garden spoke of a dedicated gardener having it under his wing.

“Did there used to be a way of accessing this area externally?” He asked.

“Not that I’m aware of. If it existed it’s long gone. Feel free to inspect the wall.”

“I’m more interested in inspecting this vine.” Jonty strolled over to the wall, peering closely at a grape vine which had been trained across the wall. He then looked upwards, and said, “Both of you are taller than I am. Could you come and examine this, please? I get the impression somebody has climbed over here, and quite recently.”

Orlando had to agree. One of the bricks on the top of the wall had been slightly dislodged, a branch from the vine had been partially snapped, and what appeared to be a wisp of trouser material was snagged on one of the retaining hooks, along with strands from what might have been strong rope.

The warden frowned. “That’s happened within the last fortnight. I know because we had a storm which left some damage in its wake. I had to repair some of the wire the vine is trained along and there were no broken branches at that point, nor was the wall damaged. We made a point of checking in case the brickwork became unstable. Might we go and inspect the other side of the wall?”

“You and I should,” Jonty suggested. “Dr. Coppersmith here can guide us to so we line up correctly with the vine.”

“Excellent.” The warden’s enthusiasm for the suggestion left Orlando unable to argue. He watched, peeved, as the other two crossed the garden, but all resentment disappeared as he saw Jonty being led down the side of the lodge to what must be a side gate. Sneaking after them, he established that not only was the gate unlocked—merely secured by new-looking bolts on the garden side—it could easily be climbed over instead of being opened. The means of access and egress to the quad had possibly been established.

That belief was reinforced when the others shouted over the wall that there was some damage to the exterior that could accord with somebody having climbed over it, although they’d have needed something to stand on—a ladder for example—to reach the top.

When they returned to the garden, to find Orlando standing by the gate, he pointed they now had clear evidence of how somebody might have accessed the college on the night in question.

“I had quite forgotten the side gate.” The warden raised a finger. “To be precise the gate itself hadn’t slipped my mind but the fact it no longer bears a padlock. The old lock and chain were so badly rusted they were barely usable, and when the gate suffered damage in the storm I referred to, we replaced the lock with bolts as part of the repair.”

It would be easy for something so everyday to elude one’s memory, but Jonty couldn’t help wondering how accurate a witness Lewis-Duckworth was proving.

Orlando was still studying the vine. “This fragment of rope could also suggest a means by which whoever climbed over the wall might have brought a violin with him. A long piece of sturdy line tied around either the instrument itself or the case in which it was contained, the whole being counterweighted on the other side to reduce the risk of losing control of the bundle and damaging it.”

“Or,” the warden suggested, “a piece of rope attached to some strong cord, one that was unlikely to fray. You could tie the rope to the branch but use the cord to draw the violin over.”

“An excellent piece of deduction.” Jonty nodded. “That’s the how possibly dealt with, but that’s not the key question, surely? We need to establish who.”

“Remember what Dr. Peters said about coin hoards and the person being unable to return to retrieve them?” Orlando turned to the warden. “I apologise. At Bride’s we were discussing...the phenomenon of buried treasure and whether those who buried it were prevented from digging it up again.”

A neat sidestep mid-sentence. Orlando had surely been going to say that they’d been discussing the case at the rival university and thought better of it. “That can’t apply in this case, if we’re considering that Denison’s death was the preventing factor.”

“Indeed,” the warden agreed. “We can eliminate Denison or anyone else who was encumbered by arthritis or a similar condition. He could never have scaled the wall, no matter how much help he received. Whoever did this would have had to be strong and athletic. And possessed with a ton of pluck.”

“Unless they knew that the fire would happen and the quad be evacuated,” Jonty suggested.

“An accomplice inside? That’s possible, given how small the blaze was and almost planned so that life would not be at risk.” Orlando consulted his notebook. “At what time did this blaze occur? I don’t think we’ve been told.”

“Around two o’clock in the morning,” the warden replied, “although I’d contest that there’d have been less chance of detection without the fire, given the number of people milling about.”

Orlando put away his notepad, having jotted down a few figures and words: he clearly wanted the interview to wind up. “If the violin was being donated to the college, why wasn’t it simply delivered by the hand of the solicitor’s clerk or the like, I fail to understand.”

Jonty had been mulling over an idea on that front. “Was Denison fond of jokes? Could he have asked somebody to play this trick on you so that he’d create a mystery after his death? I can imagine that a man who liked to embroider tales might indulge in such a flight of fancy.”

“Entering into college folklore in the process?” The warden clearly didn’t dismiss the notion. “That might well be so. I’m not aware of his being a practical joker, but what makes any man decide upon doing something peculiar? Take a goat into a porters’ lodge, for example.”

With a groan, Jonty noted the little snigger from Orlando. Would his misspent youth pursue him everywhere he went?

Chapter Four

“How did he know about the goat?” Jonty asked, as they set off from Gabriel to fetch the motorcar. “Did you tell him?”

“For once I’m entirely innocent of the accusation.” Delighted it had happened, though. “I believe that one of the dons from the college next door is now at Gabriel and I daresay he couldn’t wait to share the tale.”

“Hmphm.” Jonty, narrowed eyed and clearly peeved, resembled a dormouse that had been prematurely woken from hibernation and was not at all happy at the fact. The expression wasn’t unattractive. “Anyway, what was all that about?”

“What was all what about?” Probably not a lot of point in playing ignorant, but it was worth a shot.

“Don’t prevaricate. You know what I mean. All that nonsense at the start of the interview. I thought I was going to have to conduct the entire discussion.” Having crossed the road, he stopped, peering intently at Orlando.

“Ah. I was tongue tied. I could no more have spoken for those first few minutes than got up and danced the tango.” Orlando sighed. “I haven’t felt like that in years.”

“I haven’t seen you like that in years.” Jonty cuffed his elbow. “All will be well. Just be yourself. The 1911 Coppersmith, not the one who was here in 1855.”

“Very funny. I’m not that old.” Orlando almost managed a smile. “I’ll try my best. I do appreciate your being here to help. I may not show it, but I feel it.”

“Daft beggar.” Jonty pulled at his lover’s arm in order to clear the way for an approaching nursery maid and her perambulator. “Would you rather we simply got in the car and went home? We could pretend there was an espionage element and as a result we’ve been asked by His Majesty’s government to stand down while they ensure that Denison is avenged?”

Orlando, overwhelmed by both Jonty’s concern and powers of invention, shook his head. “No, that would be cowardly, no matter how deeply this affects me.” he encouraged Jonty to walk on. “Do you know I feared I’d lost my ability?”

“I never realised. Was that while we were talking to the warden?”

“No, back at St. Bride’s, when we were discussing the case with our colleagues over lunch. I’d not done simple things like laying out a timeline for them, nor had I considered several questions in the matter before they raised them.”

“You daft old thing.” Jonty—given that he couldn’t take Orlando in his arms—cuffed the man’s shoulder affectionately. “Of course you’re not losing your powers. In any other circumstances you’d have taken very little notice of omitting timelines or wotnot. You’d have called it a slip of the memory owing to that excellent marmalade pudding they served. One dollop of that would be enough to dull any man’s brains. Anyway, this afternoon you held your own with Lewis-Duckworth. Once the cat had let go of your tongue. And he clearly was impressed with you.”

“Was he?”

“Of course, you numbskull. You caught him out with the garden gate. How would somebody know that the gate was no longer locked, by the way?” Jonty asked. “Possessed of inside information alongside their ton of pluck?”

“Or possessed of a stroke of luck, their original intention being to ignore the lock and simply climb over. Compared to the wall that would be simplicity itself.” They’d reached a kerb: Orlando halted as an omnibus came past. How had Oxford become so full of people and traffic? He was certain it was never so busy when he was a student there, but perhaps he’d simply not noticed. “Inside knowledge must have been involved, though, to know about the gate itself. It’s not visible from the quad, giving side on to the little alleyway it leads into. A don or a dunderhead would be aware of it.”

“Or a visitor to the lodge who’d been taken to admire the garden?” Jonty stuck out his lip, pensively. “What about this spying business? The corroborative evidence and all that?”

“I’m not convinced. If Lewis-Duckworth’s friend had been researching into it, he may have published a paper on the subject, or given a talk. He may even have discussed it with Denison himself, for all we—or the warden—know.”

“Excellent.” Jonty cuffed his arm again. “I told you: no evidence of you losing your powers. While you’re still in such an acute mood, let’s go and see this devoted housekeeper, Mrs. Evans. Domestic staff know all the secrets of the household.”

“Ah, but do they always tell them to complete strangers who knock on the door?”

“We’ll have to charm her.” Jonty grinned. “Is housekeeper a euphemism, do you think? For common-law wife? I believe you said Denison left no legitimate family.”

“It’s possible. We can’t speculate until we have more information.” Orlando checked his watch. “We’ve just got time, then we can discuss our findings over dinner. I’ll even appreciate the metal monster getting us out there and back again quickly.”

Jonty almost broke into a jig as they walked along. “Miracles will never cease!”

It wasn’t long before they had plenty of information to discuss over dinner.

The house where Denison had lived was a small but well kept modern villa, dating to 1902 if the engraved block above the front door was to be believed, with ample room for a man, his violins and a trusted servant. Their knock was answered by a stout lady in black bombazine, whose sense of fashion hadn’t progressed out of the Victorian era. She’d be about the same age as Denison had been, Orlando guessed, perhaps in her fifties so there was no reason they couldn’t have been lovers in the past or more recently. He mentally shook himself, while Jonty effected the introductions: he shouldn’t assume that a romantic relationship should depend on the lovers being of a similar age. That really would be losing his touch.

Mrs Evans’s forbidding expression—here was somebody who’d clearly take no nonsense—transformed to a welcoming smile when she read Jonty’s calling card.

“Come in, gentlemen. I’ve been expecting you, since Professor Lewis-Duckworth told me he’d called you in. I’m sorry to have been so unwelcoming when I opened the door but I’ve had the men from the papers here more than once and I feared you were prying reporters. Have they nothing better to do than harass people in their time of grief?”

“I doubt it.” Jonty gave her his most winning smile. Always a good stratagem to form an alliance against a common enemy. “They’ll only make up stories, anyway, no matter what you tell them. They seemed pretty sharp off the mark, according to the professor.”

“Oh yes.” She rolled her eyes.  “I daresay that was the old biddy next door. Her nephew is a reporter, as she never ceases to remind her poor housekeeper. She’ll have seen the undertakers and rushed to tell him.”

It seemed a reasonable theorem.

Mrs. Evans led them into the part of the house where Denison must have practiced. Part drawing room, part study, part music room, it ran the depth of the house with windows to the front and French doors to the garden. A delightful, well lit and clearly well used area. “I’ve not moved anything, I haven’t had the heart. I’ve just kept his things clean. If you’re looking for evidence, I’m not sure you’ll find anything. I haven’t.”

Orlando would bet that if there was the faintest scrap of incriminating evidence she’d have located it. “You’ll appreciate that we have a number of questions to ask and apologise for any pain they’ll cause. Did he die in his bed?”

“No. He died out in the garden, which is a small consolation. It’s only a little plot, but he loved it.” Mrs. Evans dabbed at her eyes with an immaculately clean and starched handkerchief. “You probably think I’m being over-sentimental but I’ll keep the garden exactly as he had it, too. It was a terrible mess when we moved here and he had a lot of work done to make everything just so.”

“Not sentimental at all,” Jonty said, piling on the sympathetic charm. “You mentioned incriminating evidence. Does that mean that you also don’t believe he died of heart failure?”

“I do not. His heart was as strong as mine. He had the odd palpitation, about which he’d consulted the doctor, but to be honest that man’s about as much use as a boat with a hole in it. Drinks too much.” Mrs. Evans briefly shut her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I simply dislike inefficiency, wherever it’s to be found. Whether you sweep the streets or run the country you should do it properly.”

“My mother would agree with you.” Jonty cast a glance around the room. “You run a tight ship here, I can tell.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Evans beamed. “Shall I go and make us a pot of tea and find a piece of cake?”

“Tea would be most welcome but I fear that Professor Lewis-Duckworth has filled us with cake.” Orlando gleefully noted Jonty’s look of disappointment. The little toad needed to leave a hole for his dinner. “Mr. Denison always said he was a good host.” She blew her nose. “Please feel free to roam the house wherever you wish.”

With that, she backed out of the door and left them to it. On first inspection the room struck Orlando as being one full of activity, not just musical. Novels lined bookshelves, and two unfinished games of chess were laid out on miniature boards on a table in the window bay facing the street. As Jonty had a rummage through the contents of the desk and its drawers—coming up with a blank—Orlando concentrated on the blotting pad, carefully removing the top sheet for later inspection. While the page looked relatively fresh, so there was nothing obvious to view except a few spots of black ink, it bore definite impressions that could be elucidated later.

Jonty, clearly having given up with the paperwork, wandered about the room, pausing to idly flip through some music on a stand at his elbow. “If the doctor was wrong about Denison’s heart, was he also wrong about the arthritis?”

“Perhaps a wrong diagnosis or aetiology, but not the symptoms, surely? Denison would have known how his joints felt and it must have been bad to prevent him playing.” Orlando paused, cast a penetrating glance around him, and then said, “If he was so badly affected in his joints, how can it be that he was still playing? Surely this room hasn’t remained this way for the best part of a year, which is when both the newspaper and the warden say he stopped the violin.”

“Perhaps he kept it so for sentimental reasons, in the same way as Mrs. Evans is reluctant to make changes. Perhaps he couldn’t bear to tidy it all away because that would be admitting he’d never play again, rather like her clearing this room would be an admission that her employer will never return.” Jonty shrugged. “While there was music on a stand, there was hope for him.”

Orlando jotted down a note. “We’ll ask her about that. In the meantime, the garden, I think.”

But the garden gave them no clues, other than being more evidence of a property well tended. It would have been a pleasant place in which to walk or sit, especially in another year or so when the shrubs would be more mature. That was hardly an indication that Denison had expected not living to profit from it.

As they made their way through the rest of the house—carefully avoiding the kitchen and the servants’ room in the attic as they weren’t sure they’d been given licence to roam there—it told much the same story, the only items of note being pictures of the dead man playing his instrument or meeting dignitaries and a striking portrait, done in oils, of him as a young man which graced the upper landing.

“Handsome chap,” Jonty observed. “You can see him much clearer here than in some of those old photographs. I do like a portrait—more revealing than what the camera captures.”

“And what does this one reveal to you?”

“That I’d not be surprised if Mrs. Evans was smitten if he retained those looks. He’d have turned heads.”

Orlando lowered his voice. “What if the espionage angle is all smoke and mirrors on someone’s part? Could this come down to old-fashioned passion? A thwarted lover who takes revenge, for example.”

“That seems much more likely than the spy angle, on the face of things, although espionage and romantic intrigue can go hand in hand, I believe.” Jonty studied the portrait again. “He might have aroused great passion among his admirers. Especially when playing. If music be the food of love and all that. I’m glad I’ve seen this. It gives me more of a feeling for the man. Some of those old photographs are rather blurred.”

“Yes. I’m no expert, but I’m sure the quality of cameras has increased hugely over the last few years. Remember showing me those pictures at the Old Manor?”

“How could I forget?  That snap of my grandpapa could actually have been a photograph of anyone. I recall Clarence telling a guest it featured Queen Victoria and they believed him.”

The sound of Mrs. Evans moving about with what sounded like clinking cups in her possession ended the conversation and sent them downstairs again. Once established at a table in the music room, all three of them with tea in hand, Orlando asked, “If we promise to be as frank with you as we can possibly be, would you promise us the same degree of candour?”

Mrs. Evans seemed slightly taken aback at the question—whether because it had been unexpected or whether she took affront at anyone implying she was ever less than candid, Orlando couldn’t tell. “I believe that the truth never hurt anyone, Dr. Coppersmith.”

There appeared to be some hidden meaning in the sentence, but Orlando couldn’t yet fathom that, either. Maybe Jonty would have some inkling. “It might be hard to get at a truthful answer to this, however. We have been told that Mr. Denison may have been involved in espionage, at the time when he was playing with an orchestra in America. Can you tell us anything about that?”

Mrs. Evans glanced at Jonty then back to Orlando, before chuckling. “Espionage? What nonsense. I travelled out there with him, to ensure his domestic needs were attended to both on the ship and when he was working. You never know what sort of arrangements they have in these heathen places.  I never saw or heard anything that would suggest he was mixed up in that sort of business. Whoever told you that needs to get their facts straight.”

The assertion was an impressive one, but if Denison had been good at his job he might well have kept that part of his life from her, irrespective of what role she really held. The fact she’d gone with him to America meant she was, at the very least, an invaluable servant. It also accorded with what the warden had said about Denison not discussing secrets from his past in the housekeeper’s presence.

“Did he ever receive any threats, to your knowledge?” Jonty said, while stirring his tea, a gesture which was merely for effect as he’d had no sugar in it. “Perhaps he emerged from a meeting more upset than he should have been, for example?”

She dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. “He had rivals, of course, people envious of his talent. There were people who’d have been all too ready to snatch the musical opportunities that he was offered, but none of that was any worse than other musical rivalries have been. Or so Mr. Denison said.” She sipped her tea. “I can’t imagine any of those rivals doing anything worse than whispering behind backs to sully his reputation for their own gain. Perhaps they spread these ludicrous stories about spying.”

“Possibly. When did he stop playing?” Orlando asked.

“Oh.” Mrs. Evans for the first time appeared flustered, perhaps wrestling with her conscience before deciding how frank she should be, despite the earlier protestation. “In the interests of candour, I should tell you that he never gave up playing entirely. He couldn’t do without it, you see, despite the fact his glory days were gone. How could any man give up the thing which he loves most?”

A man would have to be made of stone to deny that argument: Orlando knew how he would feel if he could no longer have Jonty at his side or be able to understand his beloved calculations. It might drive him to the worst of actions.

“But he was unable to play in public, we understand?” Jonty chipped in.

Mrs. Evans nodded. “Exactly. The condition of his hands sometimes abated so there were occasions he could almost reach old heights in a short passage, but not enough to sustain even the shortest of performances, nor with any predictability. That’s why he only played for his own pleasure. And mine. I quite miss sitting in the kitchen listening.”

Would the condition coming and going accord with Dr. Panesar’s idea that the so-called arthritis was being caused by a chemical of some sort? How much evidence would they have to accumulate to persuade the police that an exhumation might be necessary in order to make the appropriate tests?

“Quite understandable.” Jonty scanned the room, with an appreciative smile. “He was clearly still playing to some extent right up until the time of his death. No sudden worsening of his condition?”

“No. He had been playing very nicely the evening before he died.” She took in the room with a sweep of her hand. “It was no secret, as anyone who peered in through the front window could have seen for themselves.”

“Did people often look in?” Orlando asked. “Professor Lewis-Duckworth tells us that Mr. Denison believed that people were following him, perhaps because of his involvement with espionage and that he also believed his life to be in danger.”

Mrs. Evans, smiling and shaking her head, topped up their cups. “Followed? That was just some silly notion. I remember there was some poor lad who was waiting to see his lass and Peter got it into his head that the young man was actually watching the house.”

Orlando had noticed the use of Denison’s Christian name, guessing that Jonty would have done the same and would add it to his evidence for a closer relationship between this pair. “Did you tell him he was mistaken?”

“I tried to. He’d believe me for a while but then he’d be off again. Sometimes people did stop and listen to his playing, if it was one of his good days and the windows were open.” She frowned. “I suppose that might have played on his mind.”

Orlando made a note, then took another drink of tea, leaving Jonty to change the line of questioning.

“Are all his violins still here? He didn’t bequeath any of them, for example?”

“Not in his will, although he told me that he wanted them to benefit young players. I’ve spoken to his solicitor and asked him for permission to give them to local schools. It might have to wait for the will to pass through probate.”  She glanced at one of the instrument cases. “Better they get used than sit here.”

“And you’ve not donated any yet?” Jonty asked.

“No. Ah...now.” Mrs. Evans steepled her fingers to her lips. “About a month ago, Mr. Denison lent a violin to someone. I’m afraid I don’t know who borrowed it, but my master was getting a touch agitated about its return. Rather a valuable instrument, I believe, although whether that was primarily monetary or sentimental value, I couldn’t say.”

“Did Mr. Denison keep a record of all his violins?” Orlando chipped in.

“No, he didn’t, more’s the pity, or I could have given you the details of the missing one and you could have retrieved it.”

Perhaps Orlando could still retrieve it. Time to address the main issue, though. “Mrs. Evans,” he kept his voice even, “you told us that your employer’s death wasn’t due to his heart. Do you think another medical condition was involved or do you believe there is a more sinister explanation?”

“I don’t know.” Mrs. Evans turned to stare out of the French doors, perhaps to the spot where Denison had died. “I’ve thought about it time and again, wondering what might have happened. I don’t think he was deliberately given a severe shock nor had poison administered to him or anything strange like that, although I wasn’t here when it happened so I can’t swear to that in a court of law, but something doesn’t ring true. The warden believes he was killed, and he’s not a stupid man. The times he came here and the pair of them talked over dinner about things that went right over my head. A lot of meaningless words I’d have called it but it makes sense to you clever gentlemen.” The handkerchief—less pristine and more crumpled now—made a reappearance.

“This is clearly painful for you,” Jonty said, “and I’m afraid that my next questions—I promise they will be our last for the time being—might be more painful still. Were you the person who found him dead?”

“Yes. I’d been out to get some eggs, because Mr. Denison wanted an omelette for lunch and the boy who delivers for the grocer really can’t be trusted to handle them properly. I arranged to visit a friend on the way, as she’s not been well and I combined my shopping with the things she needed. Mr. Denison didn’t mind if I took some time for myself.  When I came back, I saw him, just lying peacefully on the lawn. As though he was taking a little nap.” She dabbed her eyes.

It was the right time to ask the question that had nagged Orlando. “Is it at all possible that he took his own life, perhaps in frustration at his ability to play dwindling and no prospect of things getting better?”

Mrs. Evans looked into her teacup, like a fortune teller trying to read the leaves. “If he did, he gave no indication beforehand, but I suppose it’s possible. I hadn’t considered that before.” She glanced up, face awash with emotion but the meaning unreadable. “Yes, it could well be so, if the silly man somehow got hold of the means.”

Orlando pressed on. “You didn’t find anything hidden in the house that might support that point of view?”

“No. But perhaps he disposed of it, somehow. Dissolved something in water and had time to wash out the glass. Do poisons act slowly enough for a man to do that?” She fiddled with her, by now, completely dishevelled handkerchief. “If only I’d not gone out for those blessed eggs, I might have stopped him.”

If suicide was the explanation, given that Denison might have deliberately sent her on an errand for the eggs, Orlando doubted it. He’d seen his father take his own life, been tormented for years that he could have done something to prevent it, and finally concluded—with the help of Jonty and his family—that nobody could have made a scrap of difference to the outcome. Had Denison been prevented on that occasion, he’d have found another.

With that unpleasant association in his mind, it was time to draw the interview to an end.

Chapter Five

They’d returned to the Randolph with enough time to take a bath and wash the dust of the road and the sweat of investigation away. Jonty had been protective of Orlando on the way home, aware how much the talk of suicide would have unsettled him given his present fragile emotional state and had been reassured at how quickly his spirits had appeared to revive. So much so that they’d been able to discuss whether Denison had deliberately got Mrs. Evans out of the house, encouraging her to make the call on the sick friend, and what purpose that would have served. Killing himself wasn’t the only explanation: being alone suited the purpose of meeting somebody without her knowing. Perhaps he’d simply wanted some time to himself.

Now Jonty and Orlando were ensconced in the dining room with dinner ordered and a bottle of Chablis opened and poured into their glasses.

“It’s been quite a day, one way or another,” Jonty said, having taken a sip of wine then laid the glass down to let the contents breathe. “One part of the mystery solved and the others as convoluted as ever. Were you that detective whose name I won’t mention, you’d be regaling me with all the things I hadn’t noticed and all the clever deductions you’d made from them.”

“Fortunately for both of us I’m not and I won’t.” Orlando jabbed at the butter with his knife, as though he were jabbing at Sherlock himself.

“Not even to your loyal Watson? Although I’m not quite as star struck with you as Watson was with Mr. Seven per cent Solution. Unhealthily besotted.” Jonty took a bite of buttered roll. “Delicious. I’ve half a mind to get hold of the good Doctor and give him a piece of my mind.”

“I don’t think Watson even existed. Anymore than Moriarty did.”

“I hate to alarm you but none of them actually existed. Fiction and all that. I had in mind upbraiding Conan Doyle.”

Orlando airily wafted his bread roll, to wave away the objection. “You know what I mean. A Shakespeare scholar should understand the significance of the play within the play or—in this case—the story within the story.”

“I stand corrected.” Corrected but still not entirely sure what Orlando was getting at. “Pray proceed.”

“Were the Holmes stories an account of real cases submitted to a magazine, I’d have suspected the great,” Orlando sneered at the adjective, “detective himself of writing them under the name of an imaginary amanuensis. Playing up his deduction skills to make himself appear more intelligent, naturally.”

An interesting theory, and one Orlando had clearly applied his own formidable brains to. “And Moriarty? You’d have suspected Holmes of inventing him, too?”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised. Watson never sees him, does he?” Orlando averred. “He relies on Holmes’s reports.”

“That of a policeman too, I seem to recall. But it’s true his identity isn’t really presented in a manner that would convince the sceptics. “

“Exactly. Holmes could have recruited an actor to play the part, anyway.”

The scale on which Orlando had considered this was astonishing. Would he himself have done such a thing—invent an imaginary friend to show off in front of or a make believe enemy to pretend to have thwarted—had he not met Jonty when he did? How would that formidable intellect have found a non-mathematical outlet had he not been drawn into the sphere of investigations? How would those pent-up emotions have manifested themselves if they hadn’t been channelled into their romance? What a waste it would have been on both counts.

Orlando, waxing to his theme, carried on. “He uses the character to pretend he’s in danger and as a result be fussed over by Watson. He also uses Moriarty as an excuse to disappear when he feels like it.”

“Leaving Watson bereft.” Despite the fact they were discussing fictional people, Jonty couldn’t help but be impressed by the theory.

“Pretend Watson feeling pretend bereft. More grist to the Sherlock Oh look how everyone loves and admires me mill.” Orlando snorted, then took a fortifying sip of wine.

“To his credit, Holmes didn’t leave Watson—if he existed—carrying the can like Raffles did to Bunny. If ever a man needed a punch right on the end of his beak, it was him.” If Orlando had made a thorough consideration on Holmes’s behaviour, Jonty had done the same for the cricketer-cum-thief.

“I don’t think I’ve ever read any stories about Raffles.”

“Don’t bother. They’d annoy you. A man playing cricket for England and still having the nerve to commit robbery.” Jonty sniggered. “If he’d been real, Papa would have horsewhipped him.”

“Scandalous.”

Scandalous indeed, and not just for the unpunished thefts. Jonty was certain the stories held a lot of hidden meaning—perhaps even hidden from the author himself. There was little doubt that Bunny was in love with Raffles and that the cricketer himself had led Bunny on romantically. There’d been one or two lines in the early tales which had caused Jonty to raise an eyebrow and wonder what exactly was happening off the page. Orlando might have enjoyed that cryptic aspect of the tales, although the despicable way in which Raffles used Bunny and in which the latter let himself be used would have driven Orlando to despair. Better to leave the books hidden away at the back of the bookcase and leave Orlando in blissful ignorance.

The arrival of an enticingly aromatic clear soup occupied them for a few minutes. Jonty hadn’t realised quite how hungry he’d got—perhaps he should have succumbed to sampling Mrs. Evans’s baking.

When the last soupcon of the delicious concoction had been sent to its proper alimentary home, Orlando asked, “How upset would Denison have been at losing what he loved, by which I mean his prowess with the violin? I’d be mortified were I in his shoes but the impression I get is that he didn’t really bat an eyelid.”

“Perhaps he found succour—romantic or merely maternal—in the substantial arms of his housekeeper. She thought the world of him, didn’t she?”

“So it appears. That handkerchief got too much of an airing for my liking. As though it were a stage prop. I’m not convinced she hadn’t already considered whether he’d taken his own life.”

“Yes. I rather wondered if she was hoping that we’d be the ones to reach the suicide conclusion, to save her casting aspersions on the dead man.”

“It would be hard to prove at an inquest, if the doctor is both as adamant and as incompetent as they make out.” Orlando scanned the room, eyes probably unseeing and brain clearly working ten to the dozen.  “Why persist with employing him if he was so useless?”

“An old friend, maybe? Someone to whom Denison had an obligation? Or, if he was contemplating taking his own life, perhaps it was useful to have a man who was likely to misdiagnose. Avoid the scandal. I guess it’s too late and too much bother now for them to disinter Denison and rebury the body outside consecrated ground.”

Orlando rolled his eyes. “You do think morbidly at times. If that’s true, while they’ve saved one scandal, folk like Lewis-Duckworth are thinking something infinitely worse. There’s more than one thing that doesn’t add up here. That fire in Gabriel, for example. I struggle to believe it was set deliberately, so could it have been merely coincidental?”

“I can’t help agreeing. It would surely risk bringing attention to the violin-thief-in-reverse, rather than deflecting it.  How was he not seen or heard?”

“Heard isn’t the issue. Remember when we still lived in college and one evening we were evacuated because of a gas leak? You couldn’t hear yourself think with the hubbub of dunderheads getting overexcited.” Jonty topped up both their glasses.

“Could the wall climber have dressed all in black, with a mask or balaclava cap to cover their face?”

“They could, but they’d have had to be pretty careful moving across the court not to be spotted somehow. Unless, of course, they’d sneaked in earlier to do the deed?” Jonty almost spilled some wine in his excitement at this new theory. “For some reason they were prevented from putting the violin out so they went into hiding. I assume that Gabriel is as full of store cupboard and other nooks or crannies as St. Bride’s is. The evacuation allowed them to put the violin out to be found. Then they hid again and escaped later, when all the rumpus had died down.”

“Remember what Mrs. Evans told us about the missing violin: could Denison have actually lent it to Lewis-Duckworth and he put it in the court himself, making use of the fortuitously timed fire alarm. Afterwards he would make it appear to have come from an anonymous donor?”

“Because he knew that it’s worth a fortune? Or maybe even because he wanted the instrument for his own. You saw how lovingly he handled it. Almost as lovingly as I handle you,” Jonty added in a very low voice, assured that nobody was seated close enough to hear him.

“Behave. What about the marks on the wall and the evidence of rope?”

“Coincidence of timing. Surely they’re much more likely to be the result of a student dare than an attempt to smuggle in a violin. As you said earlier, lots of things don’t add up. Still,” Jonty raised his glass, “we’ve had cases before where nothing adds up but we’ve been able to make a decent sum of it in the end. And write QED at the bottom.”

Orlando, clearly not impressed with the analogy, almost snorted his wine out of his nose. Luckily the arrival of some trout meant Jonty wouldn’t for the moment be upbraided for getting his metaphors wrong.  An apt time to change the subject to something which would turn out to be more profitable. Always good to get one up on your lover.

“To espionage or not to espionage?” Jonty said, twirling his fork insouciantly. “This fish is beautifully cooked, by the way.”

“Agreed to the latter and we have insufficient evidence to tell for the former.” Orlando scooped up some mashed potato. “This is good, too.”

“Mrs. Evans thinks a history of spying is unlikely.”

“True, but he might have hidden his career for Miss Evan’s own protection. If she’d known, that might have made her vulnerable. To questioning, perhaps even to physical danger.”

“An excellent point, but—alas—one that is now null and void.” Jonty couldn’t hide a grin, even behind a forkful of potato and peas.

“What is it? You look like a cat who’s found a secret way into the dairy.”

“Very picturesque comparison. We’ll make a sonnet writer of you yet. I feel like I’ve found a whole stash of cream. Double and perfectly whipped.” Jonty reached into his dinner jacket pocket, to produce a letter, which he laid on the table. “I’ve had this letter from Dr. Panesar. He sent it yesterday, from London, to await us here.”

“Oh, so that’s what you picked up earlier? I thought it was an official warning from the university board here not to take any goats into any colleges.”

Jonty leaned forward and whispered, “Were we at home I’d take you over my knee and give you such a slap. I’ve a good mind not to tell you what this letter contains until tomorrow.”

“I apologise,” Orlando said, with no hint of sincerity.

“I accept. And you’ll appreciate this.” Jonty patted the letter. “On the surface of it he enquires how our holiday is going and clarifies the arrangements for what he’ll be doing this summer. I thought the chap might be going off his rocker as it didn’t make a lot of sense, then I wondered if he was being ultra-cunning. If it was a cipher.”

“A cipher?” If Orlando had been a racehorse his ears would have visibly pricked at the sight of the winning post. “Would you like me to decrypt it for you?”

“No need. I’ve done it all myself. While you were in the tub.”

“Oh. Well done.” Orlando visibly bit back on his disappointment. He loved to crack a code, especially one that was germane to a case. Of course, that had made Jonty’s deciphering of it twice as sweet. “Was it an easy one?”

“Easy?” Jonty slammed his hand on the table. “I’ll have you know it was based on looking at the letter following a certain type of word. Simple enough to make sense of if you understand the principle but otherwise perplexing. And being hidden within an ostensibly innocuous missive, rather than being a jumble of letters, it didn’t scream ‘I’m a code. I dare you to work me out.”

“Then double well done.” Disappointment gave way to admiration. “May I see it?”

“Of course.” Jonty passed the letter across the table. “I’ll see what you make of it before I tell you what it says.”

Orlando scanned the page, then held it to the light, probably to see if there was some sort of mark on the paper to indicate the important words and letters, then scanned it again. “I’m impressed. No obvious indication as to the key words. Ones with three letters? Letters consecutive in the alphabet? How long did it take you to fathom it out?”

“All of a minute.” Jonty’s whole attitude must have suggested mischief was afoot. Orlando should really have spotted that already but he’d been so taken up with the coded missive he’d ignored the other signs.

He laid the letter down, frowning. “Out with it, you’re up to something.”

Jonty held up his hand, then bowed his head. “I can no longer lie. You’ll remember our conversation ‘twixt St. Bride’s and home, in which I wondered if Dr. P might be involved in espionage? I followed it up.”

“You asked him directly if he was a spy?”

“Of course I didn’t. I refer you to that same conversation and how we decided it was pointless trying to get an honest answer from anyone to that question. I merely suggested that if Dr. Panesar—in theory—had anything he wanted to impart to us regarding the case, from any delicate source, then he might be as well to employ some method that couldn’t be intercepted and read by anybody he didn’t want to read it. Given that these could well be murky waters into which we dip our toes.” Jonty had been proud of the way he’d phrased the suggestion and delighted with Panesar’s equally diplomatic response.

“What did he say to that?” Orlando asked, great minds thinking alike.

“One of his conspiratorial smiles, for a start.” Jonty produced one of his own. “He said that if that theoretical state of affairs were to apply, then he would probably send me a piece of correspondence which would contain several adjectives and that the first letters of the words immediately following those adjectives would spell out whatever message he wanted to pass on.”

“You rotter.” Orlando thrust out his lip like a petulant child. “I thought you’d worked that out all by yourself.”

“That’s what you were supposed to think. I enjoyed my little moment of triumph. Anyway, knowing the key in advance, all I had to do was read the thing and make some notes.”

Orlando had already started to scan the letter while Jonty spoke, picking out the relevant parts. “No evidence that Denison was a spy. Hmm. Is that definitive?”

Jonty shrugged. “Who knows? We can’t ask Dr. P to reveal his sources, but he’s not the sort of man either to lie or to make such a categorical statement without a firm basis in important business such as this. And don’t contend that if he himself is involved in espionage then he’ll be used to lying, because my poor noddle couldn’t cope with all the complications. We’ll take it for what it is and put the spying angle into abeyance I think.”

“But why did Denison tell Lewis-Duckworth that he’d taken an active role?”

“Because, as the warden himself averred, the man liked to tell tales. Perhaps he wanted to impress his new friend and saw that as an excellent stratagem, seeing that—as we’ve said time and again—it would be impossible to prove or disprove and we know he could have researched the matter. Who do we trust in this? A victim we didn’t know or Dr. Panesar who we know like the back of our hands?”

Orlando raised his hand. “Accepted. This also adds weight to Mrs. Evans’s statement.”

“And detracts from Professor Lewis-Duckworth’s one.” Jonty picked his words carefully, unwilling to insult the head of Orlando’s old college, but knowing he’d have to get there eventually.  “She reminded me of Mama, who’s as honest and forthright as the day is long, and not always diplomatic, to boot.” He’d need to deploy some diplomacy skills now. “We do need to consider two possibilities. That the warden deliberately lied to us about the spying stories or was easily duped. Which of those two horses would you have your money on?”

Orlando, who’d famously won a pot of money when he’d been the Stewarts’ guest at the Derby, assumed the expression he used while assessing the runners in the paddock. Thank goodness he didn’t appear to have been offended by the question. “The second. The other must be a long shot, given that he called us in, and he was the person to tell us the spying story in the first place. Why bother if he knew it wasn’t true?”

“Why bother to call us in if he knew he’d planted the violin?” Which brought them full circle.

The waiter came to clear their plates, while the sommelier topped up their glasses and enquired if they’d like anything else. The offer was declined, Jonty feeling that his wits were befuddled enough and now feeling desperately tired. So tired that he felt he could only manage a little fresh fruit for dessert.

He soon bucked up when Orlando suddenly confessed, “I’ve a couple of ideas swirling around in my brain. Shall we leave discussing them until tomorrow?”

“No. Strike while the iron’s hot and all that. They might keep me awake.”

“For a start, could Denison have been mentally ill? Imagining he was being followed, inventing a colourful past and believing it, telling the warden one set of things—about both spying and his ability to play—while presenting another face to his housekeeper?”

Jonty picked up his glass, appreciating the changing colours as he swirled the last of the wine. “That’s an interesting point. Perhaps he even subconsciously exaggerated the extent of his arthritis or imagined it altogether which would explain why he could still play the violin in private. Although I’d hazard a guess that something really had happened to him. I spotted some photographs of Denison which appeared to have been taken in more recent days and couldn’t help thinking how old and tired he looked. I suppose we all have it coming to us—lines and wrinkles—but it wasn’t so much those as his face seeming to be etched with pain, too.”

“That can come from mental illness as much as from physical,” Orlando’s face, strained, revealed his thoughts, which surely would have centred on his father’s mental frailty and his own tendency to look on the bleak side of things.

Time to raise his spirits again. “What’s the second idea and is it as good as the first?”

“Only you can be the judge of that.” Orlando managed a smile. “I was wondering if a man could be literally scared to death. We’re accepting on everyone’s say so that the doctor is useless, but what if Denison did have heart problems? Would it be possible to terrify him into dropping dead?”

Another intriguing possibility. “What did you have in mind? Somebody leaping out at him brandishing a weapon that didn’t have to be used because the sight of it was enough?”

“Perhaps. Or being faced with something awful from his past. Some terrible secret he harboured that came back to haunt him.”

“As part of the mysteriously engineered meeting we speculated on.” Jonty spread his hands, looking around the room at the other diners. “It could have been anyone here, for all we know. Trouble is we don’t have any good solid facts to work on apart from Dr. Panesar’s assertion.”

“Actually, we do.” Orlando broke into a highly secretive—and highly annoying—little grin. Jonty was evidently going to be getting a bit of sauce for the goose in the way he’d delivered his cryptographic sauce to the gander. “Have you ever come across a tontine?”

“Yes, on Richmond Bridge.”

“I beg your pardon?” Orlando’s grin had changed in an instant to a look of bewilderment.

“You asked if I’d come across a tontine and I said Richmond Bridge. Papa prepared me in many ways to go into the wide world and not be taken advantage of, and one of them was warning me of the perils of such survivor-takes-all financial schemes. We were walking over Richmond Bridge at the time, which Papa had evidently engineered—the walk, not the bridge—so as to raise the topic.” Jonty paused to take a breath but before Orlando could jump in, he continued. “The capital to build the first bridge on the site, which I believe replaced a ferry service, was raised by a tontine. Papa then proceeded to explain how they worked and how they were open to skulduggery.”

“Oh.” Orlando looked so crestfallen at having his thunder stolen Jonty almost wished he’d pleaded ignorance on the matter.

“I’ve steered clear of them ever since so my knowledge is limited. Are they relevant to the case?” He asked as encouragingly as he could.

“Possibly. I once was presented with a mathematical puzzle centring on one, so I did a little research.  One of the things that struck me was that more folk who’ve invested in one don’t end up dead before their time. A villain’s charter, as your father clearly alluded to.”

“And Denison was involved in one?”

“Not for certain but look at this.” Orlando produced from his inside pocket a sheet of blotting paper, one that had been lightly gone over to reveal any impressions that had been left. “I picked this up in the music room, and while you were in the bath I got to work studying it. Two can play at your game.”

“Touché.”

“Holding it to a mirror revealed very little. Unfortunately, it seemed fairly fresh and apart from the occasional indication of what might be a yours sincerely and Denison’s signature, the only point of interest came when I used a pencil to highlight it. What appeared, as you can see, is the word tontine and something like Robinson.”

“Very interesting. Robinson? The name of somebody else who’d bought into the arrangement?”

“Or the name of the people who ran it? I was more interested in the mathematics of probability when I did my research so didn’t consider the administration.” Orlando took the blotting paper back. “Would a tontine be administered by a firm of solicitors or by a financial institution? Or by insurers?”

“I have no idea, but I know a man who will and it isn’t Dr. Panesar for once. This will be right up Papa’s street.” Mr. Stewart could always be relied on to furnish information of a financial nature. Like Jonty, if he couldn’t answer a question himself, he’d be able to find somebody who could. “I shall ring him after dinner.” He paused, aware that the secretive grin had returned. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

“I have another name. Under the blotter was an envelope, one which was named and addressed yet empty and unsent. I didn’t purloin it, you’ll be pleased to hear, although I did note the details and suggest we call on him tomorrow. A Dr. Somerset, based at Cranmer College, so we must hope he’s in residence.”

“Excellent. The purpose of the interview—at least on the face of it—being to see if he can cast light on Denison’s personality?”

Orlando nodded. “Yes. I’d also like to talk to Denison’s neighbours if we can. What, if anything, did they see or hear that fateful morning?”

“Then we’ve plenty to do tomorrow. Best get a good night’s sleep” Jonty drained his glass and wished he’d had crumble and custard. A man needed sustenance for his brain. And for other parts of his body that might well be in use very soon.

Chapter Six

Orlando woke the next morning feeling better than he had in weeks. The main influence on his state of mind was undoubtedly the pleasant hour he and Jonty had spent together in the latter’s bedroom before they actually retired for the night. Having a two bedroom suite easily facilitated such matters and so long as they slept apart for long enough that both beds had been clearly used for their proper purpose all would be well. There’d been an added frisson of doing his duty, as they habitually referred to having sex, in Oxford itself, partly because it somehow helped to lay the old demons of lack of confidence and isolation from his peers.

He’d been finding this case surprisingly unsettling and not just old college angle. Memories of his father had come flooding back when they’d spoken of Denison possibly committing suicide or maybe being mentally ill. To share intimacy with Jonty had been to gain comfort, especially as their coupling had been tender and slow, a celebration not just of their love but their concern for and support of one another. A married couple in all but name.

Now he could face the new day as something more like his normal, professional self.

***

The visits to Denison’s neighbours—which were conducted separately, Orlando to the left and Jonty to the right—bore some fruit although the usefulness of what they learned was unclear. The old lady to the left who was slightly hard of hearing, occasioning Orlando to have to raise his voice, was rather taken with him. Time and again she told him he reminded her of her sweetheart who’d died young and how she hoped he’d never have to go soldiering. When asked about her erstwhile neighbour, she said that while she enjoyed listening to Denison playing the violin, especially of a warm evening, she was less impressed with his troublemaking and wild accusations. It was this lady whose maid’s beloved had been accused of watching the house. Mrs. Evans, however, was a different kettle of fish and had been most helpful earlier in the year when all three people in the neighbour’s household had been stricken with influenza.

Jenny, the maid, was produced and confirmed that the housekeeper was an absolute sweetheart, always helpful and kind. As for Denison, she’d been much affronted by the manner in which he had caused trouble for her George. She also swore she’d never felt comfortable if she encountered Denison on his own, for example if he was leaving the house while she was cleaning the front door, although she couldn’t bring to mind anything he’d actually done to cause the sensation. Apart from the fact that he consistently struggled to pronounce the word doorstep correctly when he remarked about how beautifully she kept it. Even she knew that there was only one syllable in “door”, not the half a dozen Mr. Denison seemed to put into it. It grated on her nerves.

“He clearly gave that maid the creeps,” Orlando said when he reported back to Jonty, discussing the case as they drove back to the hotel to drop off the car again before walking to Cranmer. “It wouldn’t at all surprise me if it was her or her young man who reported his death to the newspaper. Any remuneration would help if they intend marrying.”

“Did either of them see or hear anything that morning, though?” Jonty manoeuvred deftly to avoid a cyclist who’d swerved into their path and who clearly didn’t have his mind on the road.

“No. The lady was with her great-nephew, who’s at All Souls, enjoying an end of term day out. The maid—Jenny—saw Mrs. Evans go out but nothing else of note until she heard the housekeeper screaming at finding Denison’s body. She went to see if she could help, as she was concerned that Denison had shown his true colours and the screams came because he was attacking the woman.” Orlando, never entirely happy as a passenger, adjusted his position. “Hence why I think the newspapers got to know so quickly. That and the fact her young man works for them.”

“Does he now? And what did Jenny say about the scene in the garden?”

“That Mrs. Evans was beside herself. The maid said she was tempted to slap the poor woman to calm her down.”

“I’d have liked to be there to see that.” Jonty chuckled. “It would have resembled a bare-knuckle fight.”

“Quite likely. Luckily, Jenny seems to have plenty of common sense, so instead of resorting to violence she offered to telephone for her employer’s doctor. Mrs. Evans’s proprietorial sense must have kicked in, because she said that no, she’d call in their man. While she was doing that, Jenny checked Denison’s body for signs of life but there were none. She said his face bore a horrible look, though. Shocked or scared or otherwise distressed. She reckoned his heart had given out and he’d been terrified to realise his end was nigh. Her employer says she’s a religious girl.”

“Interesting. And possibly arguing against his having committed felo-de-se. Unless he took poison, of course, and the horror of the experience showed on his face.” Jonty slowed to let a woman and small child cross the street. “You found out much more than I did. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton—a retired couple—were pleasant enough but they said they kept themselves to themselves, as did Denison. Mr. H told me he found Denison to be an odd fish. Sometimes he hobbled along the road looking like he was in agony with every step and at others he was quite spritely. He reckoned the man was vain and wore ill fitting shoes, although his wife said their maid had heard from Mrs. Evans about the arthritis, which appeared to come and go. Nothing new there.”

“No, indeed. A shame that neither set of neighbours could have conveniently been watching out of their back windows to see what happened—if anything—in that garden.”

“Is it really a shame? If they’d seen what happened then there’d be no mystery for you to solve as the coroner would have been informed.” They’d almost reached their destination. “It must be nice to live next to a virtuoso. The Hamiltons enjoyed the music, too, although the maid whispered to me when she let me out that she always shut her windows when he played. Nothing special.”

“Perhaps she had no ear for music. I admit that I find even the best of violin music uninspiring.”

“Heathen.” Jonty slapped his leg then prepared to find somewhere to rest his metal pride and joy.

At the hotel they found a telegram awaiting them from Mr. Stewart saying he believed he might have something to report that very day, and would it be convenient to tentatively arrange an appointment for dinner that evening?

“Sounds like he’s moved with lightning speed,” Jonty said, passing the telegram over. “Apparently he’s run to earth the man who administered the fund and if convenient they’re both catching the train and coming to dinner, either today or tomorrow.”

While Jonty arranged for a reply to be sent confirming that they’d make themselves available on both occasions and await further instructions, Orlando booked a table for four in the dining room and steeled himself to face Dr. Somerset.

Although what exactly they should ask the man he wasn’t sure.

***

Dr. Somerset was in residence at Cranmer, so when the porter returned to the lodge confirming that he had delivered their cards and that they were invited up to talk to the don, they thanked him kindly and headed for the correct staircase.

Somerset welcomed them into his set of rooms, which were well lit by summer sunshine dappled by the leaves of a plane tree, reminding Orlando of his old set at St. Bride’s.  He made the offer of a glass of dry sherry and posed the candid question, “Have you come to ask me about Peter Denison?”

“Yes please to the aperitif and why do you ask to the Denison bit,” Jonty said, as they settled into the seats they’d been ushered towards.

“Because there’s a rumour rippling through Oxford that the warden of Gabriel has a got a bee in his bonnet about a violin and has been seeking assistance from our rivals in the east.” Somerset handed them their glasses.  “A violin would make one think of a violinist and the arrival of two such lauded amateur detectives would make one think of a mystery. And as Denison died recently I’m speculating that he’s at the heart of it.” The word lauded had been spoken in what seemed to be sincerity.

“I would hardly call us lauded,” Orlando said, concealing his pleasure at the adjective, “although I admit the Professor Lewis-Duckworth has consulted us. I’m an alumnus of Gabriel.”

“As is well known.” Somerset raised his glass in salute. “They could only be prouder had you been operating from here rather than from St. Bride’s.”

Orlando, delighted and amazed to discover the high regard in which they were held, found himself unable to speak.

“Thank you,” Jonty said. “The warden has two bees in his bonnet and one, as you’ve rightly guessed, concerns his friend Denison. On the professor’s request, and with the agreement of Mrs. Evans, the housekeeper, we were allowed access to Denison’s home. That led us to your name and address. On an unused envelope.”

“Ah.” Somerset nodded. “That must have looked odd but there’s a mundane explanation.” He pointed to a corner table. “We kept up a chess game by correspondence. That may sound peculiar, given that we could easily have met face to face to do so, but it started when it turned out we were both playing long distance chess with the same person in Bordeaux. An English chap working abroad who couldn’t find enough opponents of a similar standard locally and whose chess club found him correspondents here. Denison and I completed the triangle, as it were. We’ve played since before he moved here.”

That explained the games laid out and left untouched on the table at Denison’s house. Orlando asked, “Yet you still decided not to play face to face?”

“Yes. We tried it, but it didn’t bring the same satisfaction.” Somerset stared at the light playing on the rug. “If I can be perfectly candid, I didn’t like him as much in person as I did at a distance.”

“Why was that?”

Somerset shrugged. “Partly whatever interaction—chemical or otherwise—that causes two people to get on and another to dislike each other at first sight. Partly because he had a fault, a seemingly harmless foible, but it was both annoying and, I believe, potentially dangerous. He was a weaver of tales. Tales about his background and adventures. As though being such a genius on the violin wasn’t enough for him and he had to embroider the rest of his life to make it match the former brilliance of his playing.”

“Did he consistently tell the same tales to everyone?” Jonty had pounced on a vital element.

“I suspect not. We only met a handful of times, but we shared a mutual acquaintance. Another chess player. He told me things about Denison that I hadn’t heard, which makes me think he had one tale for Macdonald and another for me.” Somerset drained his sherry. “It must have been quite an intellectual challenge, trying to keep a record of what you’d told to whom.”

Exhausting, to boot. Like how it must be to practice bigamy. Still, this would explain the disparity between the accounts they’d heard about the dead man’s life, and perhaps make them wary of what the people they met told them. They’d have to focus on fact, not speculation, and the evidence of their own eyes and ears, which wouldn’t be sullied with Denison’s tale telling.

“I appreciate that you only met Denison a few times and I assume you’re not a medical man so can only give an opinion rather than a specialised judgement,” Orlando took a breath, aware that he was sounding pompous, “but is it possible that he started to tell tales because of the illness he was suffering? Not being able to play meaning that he had to find another way of expressing himself?”

Somerset, frowning in thought, studied the light on the rug again. Perhaps that was his favourite thing to focus on when his students began to drone. “An excellent theory although, alas, one that I can neither verify or contest, being a mere scholar of inorganic chemistry. I suppose it possible that his need to create a particular image of himself was less a matter of causing mischief than some mental illness manifesting itself. Yet he appeared sane and gave the impression that he believed every word he said, rather than indulging in flights of fancy.”

Orlando suddenly brought to mind the unconsidered trifles that Dr. Panesar dropped into conversation. They’d had proof many a time that these seemingly wild tales were accurate—they’d seen some of the outlandish machines described, so they existed even if they appeared not to function. If they’d had the slightest inkling that Panesar was stringing Orlando and Jonty along, they would have been furious. “You said that this habit of tale-telling was annoying, with which we can sympathise, but you also said it was dangerous. Do you have a particular reason for that or was it a general observation?”

Somerset paused, perhaps weighing up how much he’d already said and whether he was casting terrible aspersions on a man no longer in a position to defend himself. “Both. Generally, when people indulge in lies they can enrage others. Nobody likes to be made a fool of and while one can forgive many things, it is particularly hard to forgive being deliberately duped.”

“All of which is true,” Jonty agreed. “You keep using the word both, though. Are you referring to a particular danger?”

“I am. I once happened to catch sight of Denison up ahead of me as I passed down Merton Street. He appeared to be arguing with a woman, one whom I didn’t recognise so I can tell you no more than what I observed.  It was rather awkward, because I thought to cross the street and slip down Logic Lane. It would be taking the long way around but I would hopefully remain unnoticed. Alas, he spotted me so I had to walk on. I raised my hat and scurried past but when we met to play chess the next day he made reference to it.”

“May I just clarify a point?” Orlando asked. “How did you know it was an argument if they were up ahead of you?”

“Raised voices, gesticulations, her shaking her fist at him. And the fact that Denison himself didn’t deny the argument had happened. Indeed, he was profuse in his apologies to me for having been forced to witness such a disgraceful scene. He said that the woman was either deranged or sadly misguided. She’d supposedly mistaken him for somebody else and was giving him a tongue lashing for having taken up with another woman. He said he’d had to call on a passing constable to rescue himself from her attentions.” Somerset yet again studied the sunlight patterns on the rug, which had now reached his feet. “That part is likely to be true, as I passed a constable as I made my way along the road.”

“Did you believe his account of what had occurred?” Orlando pressed him.

“To the content of the conversation, yes. That was borne out by the few words I did hear, which included her saying he couldn’t get away with what he’d done and that she’d found him once and could find him again.”

Orlando, increasingly frustrated, not least at the fact the witness seemed reluctant to look them in the eye, wondered if he was he being deliberately obtuse, “The matter being argued over isn’t the issue. Did you believe his explanation that he didn’t know the woman concerned?”

“Frankly, no. I wouldn’t swear to it in a court of law, but I had the feeling he called her by name. May? Marie? I don’t quite recall. But it occurred to me that he might well have been spinning one of his yarns on this young lady and perhaps on others. One could see how a man who is likely to embroider the truth might find himself tangled in a web of his own making with a coterie of women.”

Jonty nodded. “We’ve seen pictures of him and I’d guess he’d have a wide appeal. On which topic, if I may ask something indelicate, do you think that Mrs. Evans, his housekeeper, was simply a servant and nothing more?”

Somerset burst out laughing, then clapped his hands over his mouth. “I’m sorry, that was callous of me. While I saw very little of her, I gained the impression she was devoted to him, but a romantic attachment I doubt. He preferred his ladies younger, I believe. Like the one he was being upbraided by.”

“But how could any of this constitute danger?” Orlando observed.

“Ah, Dr. Coppersmith,” Jonty cut in, “what if the lady in question had a champion—in the form of a brother or father who’d want to horsewhip the scoundrel who’d offended his sister or daughter?”

“Denison wasn’t actually horsewhipped,” Orlando observed. “As far as we can tell no violence was practiced on him. The offended party would have had to decide to go straight to murder, and to conduct it in such a way as it not to be obvious.”

Somerset’s truculent snort showed what he thought of the notion. “As a theorem it has much to be said for it. However, this is 1911, for goodness sake. The voice of women is beginning to be heard in the land and quite rightly. What people still refer to as members of the gentler sex are showing their mettle. Does a woman need a champion to take her part or could she not deliver the horse-whipping herself if she felt like it?”

“Both my mother and my sister would be eminently capable of such an act,” Jonty agreed. “As for murder, we know that isn’t the prerogative of men, going back to the time of Jael. Still, we’re getting into the realms of speculation. Did you see Denison after that?”

“Not in person. The awkwardness would have been unbearable on my part.”

“One final question, then,” Orlando said. “Was Denison part of a tontine?”

Somerset considered for a moment. “Possibly. He certainly talked of coming into a windfall if he managed to live long enough, but I suspected it was simply another of his tall tales. Was it true?”

Orlando spread his hands. “That’s what we need to find out.”

***

They passed a leisurely afternoon, having stopped at a baker’s shop for supplies, which they took out onto the river in a punt. Orlando steered, as usual, as Jonty was better built for providing ballast and thereby steadying the craft—anyway, he was better at the job. Jonty banned all discussion of the case, insisting that they take time to enjoy the sunshine and clear their brains. They’d been hard at work the last twenty four hours and might be up to their ears in case-related discussion that evening if Mr. Stewart came to dinner, so a break wouldn’t come amiss.

“What did you think of Somerset observing that Gabriel—the college, not the archangel—could only be prouder were you still there?” Jonty, sprawled seductively on a cushion, beamed up at Orlando. “What have you got to say to that?”

“It’s not just me, it’s both of us. The synergy of the pairing.” Orlando gave his lover a tender glance then concentrated on his punt pole. A man might be easily, and disastrously, distracted in such circumstances. “But I won’t deny I’m pleased. Assuming Somerset meant it.”

“Oh, he did. Years of working with dunderheads has left me able to spot sarcasm from fifty yards. You should bask in the glow of his approval.”

Orlando tried to bask both in the endorsement and the bright Oxford sun for the next hundred yards, before saying, “I know that you’ve imposed a moratorium on discussing the case, but may I ask a general question?”

“Ask away. I will employ my veto if I feel it becomes too specific.”

“Why choose to put yourself in the care of a doctor who is less than effective—by which I mean potentially dangerous—at his job?”

“Assuming the man is useless and isn’t being serially slandered.” Jonty trailed his hand in the water. “Perhaps he had some hold over Denison...no, I’m breaking my own rules.  Let me rephrase. He retains patients by knowing some secret about them and insists on being retained or he will tell all.”

“I’d wondered that. Some embarrassing disease, for example.”

Jonty suddenly slapped the water, sending up a spray of drops. “Or perhaps because his being useless is of use to you?”

“As usual, you’ve started not to make sense.”

“I apologise, oh High Priest of logic.” Jonty inclined his head in contrition. “What I mean is that if you wanted an accurate diagnosis you’d avoid him like the plague. If, however you wanted to pretend you had a condition, then a daft old buffer who just happens to hold a medical degree and run a practice might be just the ticket. You could likely persuade him into believing anything. Such as the fact you had arthritis, or a dodgy heart, when you didn’t.”

“You’re saying Denison pretended to have those conditions?”

“I’m saying it’s a possibility. Fancy a sausage roll?”

“Not at the moment. And don’t try distracting me with food to cover up you’ve broken your own rule.” Orlando sped the punt onwards. “No baked goods until we’re moored and until we’ve finished this discussion.”

Jonty, guilty grin suffusing his handsome face, said, “Spoilsport. Anyway, I’m not saying he necessarily pretended to have both conditions. One or other might have been genuine. But a man with an undeniable habit of telling lies might well be the sort to either invent or exaggerate illness.”

“That I accept, but why? What would it gain him?”

“Getting out of doing what he didn’t want to do, for a start. You know the sort of thing. Most sorry, but can’t possibly come to dinner tonight, getting terrible gyp from my joints. Or alas, the doctor says I must rest in bed for forty eight hours to ease the strain on my heart. Slug-a-bed’s charter, I’d say.”

There was much to be said for the theory. While impressed with Jonty’s acumen, Orlando couldn’t help but be miffed that he hadn’t come up with it himself. There was a pleasing flaw in the logic, however. “I accept those instances and would add in that an imaginary illness might be used to explain why he could no longer be involved in the espionage he alleged he used to be employed for. But what about the violin playing? If he loved it so much why pretend he couldn’t do it anymore?”

“Pride,” Jonty declared. “If his ability had started to wane, then rather than admit he wasn’t the virtuoso he had been, he’d pretend that a medical condition prevented him from giving concerts. If the doctor backed then he must be telling the truth. For once. Right!” He slapped the water again. “No more about this case. Take to me to some quiet backwater where the willows fringe the banks and provide a curtain of shade for the weary traveller. There I will sit underneath the bough with a bottle of lemonade, a sausage roll and thou singing. The singing is optional, by the way, although the rest is obligatory.”

Chapter Seven

Two messages awaited them at The Randolph. One confirmed that Mr. Stewart—and guest—would indeed be arriving for dinner that evening, while the second requested their attendance in the master’s lodge at their earliest convenience as Professor Lewis-Duckworth had new information to share. After arranging a telegram to say that they’d meet him at nine o’clock the next day, it was time for ablutions and changing for dinner, with not even the chance of a nap on the horizon. Life on the ocean wave—or the gentle Isis swell—had proved soporific and raised the risk of forty winks turning into four hundred.

Jonty and Orlando hovered in the foyer of The Randolph, ready to greet Mr. Stewart and his guest as they entered. Jonty couldn’t help but notice how many female heads turned to appreciate the sight. His papa had a striking profile, as handsome now as in his youth, if the family portraits were to be believed, but the man at his side outshone him. He’d be perhaps nearing sixty and suggested how Antinous might have appeared were he to have reached that age.  Orlando also was stunningly handsome and Jonty acknowledged he too had inherited the Stewart looks, so they’d present a dashing combination at the dinner table. He hoped the waitresses—and any waiters who were so inclined—wouldn’t be so smitten they’d drop the soup.

“Gentlemen, may I present Mr. Robinson? I believe that what he has to say will be of interest.” Mr. Stewart oversaw the formalities of introduction, then they all headed for the dining room where Orlando had arranged for them to have a table in a quiet corner where they could talk freely. Which they did as soon as the important matter of ordering food and wine was dealt with.

“I’m so pleased you came to me for professional advice. These things can be complicated although this one is rather straightforward.” Robinson’s voice was as attractive as his looks. “Mr. Denison set up a tontine with three other men, twenty years ago. They had known each other from school days, never losing touch. None of them had dependants. Two were confirmed bachelors, one had been married but his wife had died young, in her childbed, while another had sown many a wild oat but was certain none of them had germinated, if you get my drift.”

“We do indeed,” Jonty said encouragingly, also wondering if the two who described as confirmed bachelors were so for the same reasons he and Orlando were.

“So, they decided that rather than leave any worldly goods they might possess to a charitable cause or such like, they would form an alliance so that the last man living would gain all. Then the money would go to somebody they all held in esteem. Denison told me it had actually begun as a light-hearted idea one evening over a dinner where the wine flowed a touch too freely, and for some reason the stratagem seemed as appealing in the sober light of day as it had when steeped in claret.”

“What if one of them had decided to marry after the tontine was established?” Jonty asked. “Even elderly gentlemen have their fancies. Time’s winged chariot and all that.”

“A good point.”  The arrival of a bottle of hock, of which Mr. Stewart sampled the bouquet and pronounced it excellent, temporarily halted the interview. Once the sommelier had departed, Jonty’s father continued. “And these men were by no means elderly, not so far as I’d define the word. If they’d been contemporaries at school they’d have been perhaps fifty years old when they set up the arrangement. Still time for love to flourish.”

Robinson nodded. “I insisted they allow for that. A codicil was written into the agreement so that in a limited set of circumstances—such as marriage or the appearance of legitimate offspring, whether subsequent or extant, if you take my meaning—the participant concerned could withdraw. All four men agreed to the codicil but it was never used.” He consulted his notes. “As to the fate of these gentlemen, one of them died in a railway accident five years afterward the tontine was sealed. There was nothing suspicious about the circumstances. A derailment caused by a landslip.”

“Thank you for clarifying these points.” Orlando had produced his notebook and was about to get his pen when a wave of Robinson’s hand forestalled him.

“No need to take notes. I have written down all the relevant names, times and circumstances.”

Orlando inclined his head. “Much appreciated.”

“Anything I can do to help a friend of a friend.” Robinson nodded towards Mr. Stewart.

Jonty’s father returned the nod. “Mr. Robinson’s business partner is a member at my club.”

“Your network of connections is exemplary, Papa.” Jonty raised his glass in salute. “So, after the accident three men remained. What happened next?”

“There was a substantial gap before anything of significance occurred. Then the year before last, another member of the tontine died. He had been suffering from consumption, possibly contracted when he was travelling on the Indian sub-continent and eventually his health gave out. Again, nothing to raise any suspicions.”

“Indeed.” Orlando sounded disappointed.

“The third death was in the March of this year, at which point Denison stood to inherit everything.”

Orlando glanced at Jonty, trying to convey all his disappointment. If the violinist was the last of the four, he would have been a rich man, and couldn’t have been killed by another tontine member to hasten their inheritance. Somebody else could have wanted to accelerate a legacy, though.

Jonty gave Orlando a sympathetic smile then asked, “Can you explain to us what happens to the money now, given that nobody remains alive?”

“As best as I can, although I’m not handling Denison’s estate. I have outlined how things stand in here.” Robinson indicated the papers he’d brought. “Frobisher’s estate—he was the third to die—has cleared probate in a straightforward manner. Nobody raised any challenges and the funds from the tontine went to Denison while he was still alive. Now they will pass to his heirs, once his own probate is dealt with.”

Orlando perked up again. Like Jonty, he’d seen that was a useful motive for murder. “How much will that heir or heirs stand to inherit? Do we know who they are?”

“Thirty thousand pounds, which is an amount not to be regarded lightly, assuming that Denison hadn’t frittered it all away already.”

“That would take some doing,” Mr. Stewart observed.

“Not if it went to paying existing debts, although I don’t believe Denison was in that position. As for the heirs, let me just check.” Robinson consulted his notes while the other three shared raised eyebrows at the substantial amount involved. “Denison told me a couple of years ago that he’d just had a relative write to him, out of the blue. Paul Denison, a second cousin from a second marriage, of whom Peter Denison knew nothing. They’d struck up a friendship, initially in correspondence and then in person, partly due to their mutual love of chess, but alas—from Paul’s point of view—there was no financial gain. Peter was thinking of changing his will, then Paul was killed in accident before that could happen, so the document and heirs remained unchanged.”

“This sounds like one of Shakespeare’s tragedies,” Jonty said, with a suppressed snigger. “Death and mayhem on all sides.”

“It does strike one as rather melodramatic,” Robinson agreed. “So, as to Peter Denison, he left a small bequest to a benevolent fund for retired musicians, a slightly larger gift to Gabriel College and the residue, including his house, goes to his housekeeper.”

“Mrs. Evans?” Jonty asked, impressed that Robinson had contacted Denison’s solicitor to elucidate the contents of his will.

“Miss Evans, I believe.” He peered at his notes once more. “Yes, that’s what she’s named as here.”

“We’ve met her. A most charming lady.” One who may have employed the illusion of married status to ward off scandal? Although it wasn’t as though the lady concerned was young and therefore likely to be subject to gossip. Perhaps it was simply a soubriquet more suitable to her status.

Mr. Stewart leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Did she strike you as so charming that she couldn’t have hastened her employer’s end, once he’d inherited the tontine and was a wealthy man?”

“I’m so glad you asked that, Papa, as I was desperate to explore the notion and didn’t want to appear impertinent. It struck us that...” Jonty’s words trailed off as the waiter arrived with plates of roast beef that smelled almost as good as the ones Mrs. Ward served up at home.

“Keep that thought in mind, youngster,” Mr. Stewart said, eyeing his plate appreciatively. “Let us not detract from the excellence of the food.

Once the last smidgeon of Yorkshire pudding had been used to mop up the last soupcon of gravy, the matter in hand was resumed.

“Returning to Mrs.—or Miss—Evans,” Orlando said, “I rather liked her. She seemed fiercely protective of her former employer and upset at his death. Also, she doesn’t appear to be the sort of woman who’d suffer any nonsense. Also, if you recall, Dr. Stewart, we have heard from the neighbours that she was not present when Denison died.”

Jonty snorted. “You don’t have to be present at the death to be a murderer, Dr. Coppersmith, although I accept the point about the way she came across to us.”

“I bow to your estimation of the housekeeper,” Mr. Stewart said, with a graceful inclination of his head, “and will strike her from my list of suspects.”

Orlando smiled. “Move her down the list as opposed to losing her entirely, just in case we were misled in being so impressed by her testimony.”

“She’d make a creditable showing in the witness box?” Robinson asked.

“I believe so. You’re anticipating that this matter might have reason to go to trial?” Jonty asked, after an excited glance at Orlando. Were they about to be privy to a key piece of information?

“Ah, sorry to disappoint you, no. I merely used that as a measure of a person’s credibility as seen through independent, trustworthy eyes. Although your opinion of her character, being tempered by your considerable experience in matters of crime, might be more dependable than that of a layman.”

“Don’t swell their heads any more than they’re already swollen,” Dr. Stewart said, the paternal pride in his voice belying his words. “Now, you’ll be interested to hear about and interesting conversation Robinson and I had on the train. It appears he is as wary of tontines as I am. He only agreed to administer this one after much persuasion.”

Robinson nodded. “Partly because I believed the four men would go elsewhere, perhaps to someone less scrupulous in their management of the process. If they were determined to have a tontine, and they appeared to be adamant, then I believed it had to be handled properly. I have tried my best to discharge my duty correctly.”

“Including guarding against foul play?” Orlando asked.

“Very perceptive, Dr. Coppersmith. That’s exactly what I wanted to prevent. While I couldn’t keep my eye on each of the men at all times, I made it clear that if I got any hint of malpractice I would inform the police. I also arranged for all parties to meet with me on an annual basis, over a luncheon which I provided.” Robinson waved his hand over the table. “Not as good as this one, but more than passable. At those meetings they could hold me to account for the performance of the funds I held in trust and I could look for any suspicious signs. In my profession, you soon get an inkling for when mischief is afoot.”

Mr. Stewart nodded appreciatively at the common sense approach. “When did you hold the last of these meetings?”

“Almost exactly a year ago and I feared at the time it might be the last. Denison looked far from well—I remember him being short of breath at one point—and Frobisher, who was the man who died in March, also appeared to have aged five years in just one.” Robinson shook his head. “Alas I was proven correct. I’d rather have been proven wrong. I used to enjoy those dinners. The men made a most amusing, if dwindling, company.”

“Might we trouble you for your overall impression of Denison? In terms of his character and so forth,” Jonty asked.

“Of course you may, although you will recall that I met him only once a year and any sense of the man would be both partial and subjective. I found him both pleasant and interesting. Professionally, I can be more objective. I saw him play the violin, many years ago, and I would swear an affidavit that he was an excellent musician, with a deft touch.” Robinson smiled in recollection. “I don’t suppose his musical skill is either in question or germane to the case.”

“We suspect not,” Orlando averred. “A shame that he had lost his ability to play to the highest standard.”

“He was distraught when he spoke about it, that last dinner. At that point he still retained some of his powers but he feared they even they would wane fast. When I heard of his death I admit I at first suspected he might have taken his own life, but apparently the doctor was adamant that wasn’t so.”

“Given what we’ve been told concerning Dr. Bundy, it’s possible his judgement is not to be trusted.” Orlando pressed on. “Did he strike you as a truthful man? Denison, I mean.”

“I always assumed so. He told many colourful tales, some of which grew in the telling, but I’d call him an inveterate exaggerator rather than liar.”

The arrival of dessert turned the discussion towards the quality of custard the men had sampled in the past, leaving Jonty with a couple of questions unasked. Once the table had been cleared and coffee served, they could return to the matter in hand.

“How did Frobisher die?” Jonty asked, as he stirred his drink.

“A tumour in his intestines, I believe.” Robinson sighed, ruefully. “He must have been in great pain when last we met. No wonder he appeared so pale and drawn.”

Orlando, who’d been cradling his cup without drinking from it, and was evidently nurturing the germ of a theory, said, “What about Denison? Did he give any indication that he believed himself to be in danger?”

Robinson, brow wrinkled and lip thrust out, shook his head. “Not as far as I’m aware. If your mind was running along the track of his being threatened by one of his fellow tontine members, that train runs out of steam on account of his being the healthier of the two remaining and as for his murder by them, chronology rules that out.”

Which was both true and incredibly frustrating.

Chapter Eight

“Gentlemen, I have to give you my abject apologies,” the warden said, as soon as he received them in his study. “The mystery of the violin is no longer a mystery. Please take a seat while I explain. Would you like coffee?”

Refusing the refreshments, but accepting the offer of a chair, they waited—Jonty clearly in as much bemusement as Orlando—for the story to unfold.

“Late yesterday I received a letter from the mother of two of our students. Non-identical twins, bright lads, only came up last year. Both of them well behaved, at least on the surface. One of them got tipsy at a family dinner to celebrate their homecoming and began to regale those present with tales of what he, his brother and his fellow cricketers had got up to as dares. I believe the twins began to egg each other on to feats of greater derring-do. One such was climbing over the wall to the lodge garden.” Lewis-Duckworth sniffed. “I have managed to speak to the lady concerned via the telephone and I’m satisfied this is the truth. The lad—Robbie Wigglesworth—said he’d snagged his trousers and the colour of the material we found matches the ones his mother examined.”

“What about the rope?” Jonty asked.

“I spoke to young Wigglesworth, who’d possibly been dragged by the ear to the telephone given the rumpus I heard down the line. When I asked when this had happened and if he’d carried anything with him, he confirmed it was a few days before the fire took place and that he’d carried a rope in case he’d needed it for his mountaineering. That had got caught up on the grape vine, too.”

“How vexatious. On all counts.” Jonty was evidently torn between scowling and grinning. He’d no doubt appreciate the scale and audacity of the feat.

“I will ensure they are gated for a suitable period on their return, although I suspect the ire of their mother will inflict a far greater punishment than I can produce. And I suppose we were all young once.” The warden leaned forward, confidentially. “I confess to rags when I was an undergraduate.”

Before the goat could once again rear its capricious head, Orlando said, “You mentioned the violin. How does that come into this?”

“Via the hands of the young scamp’s brother, Jamie Wigglesworth. He’d been challenged to make the violin appear in mysterious circumstances. It appears that it isn’t a valuable instrument, but a rather good fake that someone had sold to Wiggleworth’s godfather and which said godfather had passed on to him to do with what he wanted. And to be a lesson to both boys to check the provenance of things before purchase.”  The warden shook his head. “A lesson to all of us.”

“So, he took advantage of the fire to perform the dare?”

“Indeed, Dr. Coppersmith. He lives on this quad and simply ensured he was last out of his staircase after he heard the fire alarm raised. He left the violin and joined the others. He did not anticipate that so much would be made of it.”

“Did he set the fire in order to facilitate the opportunity?” Jonty asked.

“I believe not. There appears to be some faulty wiring in that area, so I am having the entire college system checked this summer. I suspect we were lucky it was nothing worse.” Lewis-Duckworth spread his hands apologetically. “And so, there is no mystery at all. I apologise for wasting your time.”

“There is still the matter of Denison’s death,” Orlando pointed out. “Surely that is a more important matter to be cleared up?”

“Perhaps I read too much into his death, as I read too much into the appearance of the violin. I would not have you chasing a wild goose.”

“In the Celtic church they call the Holy Spirit the Wild Goose,” Jonty said, in a still, small and unusually serious voice. “What better pursuit could there be for those of us in academia than to pursue the spirit of knowledge and truth?”

***

“Well done,” Orlando said, once they were outside Gabriel once more. “You took the wind right out of his sails.”

“He made me cross, Orlando. I don’t mind that he thought the business of the violin more significant than it really was, but to then say Oh, I got that wrong, I must have got Denison’s murder wrong, too is just sloppy thinking. Or covering up.” Jonty stared searchingly into Orlando’s face. “Has he been told to send us packing, do you think?”

“I considered that, but I suspect not. He has a reputation for his scholarly integrity, or so I have been told. Prides himself on not getting things wrong.”

“Then he’s found that pride goeth before a fall? Therefore, he’s trying to prevent another fall when word gets around Oxford that he’s had us stirring up trouble over a death that was truly from natural causes.” Jonty kicked at a stone on the pavement. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he puts his reputation before the truth.”

“Ah. I wondered why we got the sermon about the wild goose.” Orlando patted Jonty’s arm. “We’ll carry on, though. We’ve heard enough to make me think there are at the very least loose ends to be tied up. Your father isn’t the only one to find tontines a dubious business.”

“Except, as we know, nobody stood to gain from the tontine apart from Denison himself.”

“Ah. Now, I’ve been having a think about that.”

Jonty’s scowl transformed instantly to a quizzical smile at the words having a think. “I like the sound of that. What have the formidable Coppersmith brain cells come up with?”

“A tale of murder and revenge. For which I have very little in the way of evidence, I confess.”

“I thought I heard your brain beginning to whirr at dinner last night.” Jonty almost bounced on his heels. “As a student of the Bard I like the sound of murder and revenge. Let’s find a quiet bridge over the river and you can expound. For once we’ll ignore the lack of facts—we can pretend we’re dunderheads once more!”

“I know just the place.” With a smile and a wave of his arm, Orlando set off.

He led Jonty along the road, down a little alleyway, round the back of a small museum specialising in the history of some obscure branch of science, and onto a path alongside a small stream.

“This is the back of beyond,” Jonty said. “Watch out for those nettles.”

“It’s got rather overgrown compared to when I was a student. I used to come here when I wanted a quiet think in a pleasant place. Ah!” It was still there, the little bridge over the stream and still bathed in sunshine. He’d regarded it as his special place and to be able to share it with Jonty was joyful indeed.

“How delightful.” Jonty beamed, turning his head to and fro to appreciate the view. “I can picture you standing here, you old softy, contemplating terribly complicated sums.”

Getting away from other people, too, although Orlando was reluctant to admit that part. Jonty would no doubt have guessed that was part of the motivation. He leaned on the rail, which felt more secure than it looked, then said, “Is it possible that Denison himself hastened the death of one or two of his fellow tontine members? Not the chap who died in the train crash, obviously, but perhaps the others.”

“In order to inherit all?” Jonty shrugged. “It’s a reasonable motive. Are you thinking he might have employed one of Dr. Panesar’s beloved mysterious poisons that mimicked the symptoms of consumption or a tumour?”

“I had it more in mind that he might have taken advantage of their weakened state to hasten them out of the world. He might have needed the money, if his source of income from concerts had dried up.”

“I’d never thought of that. Clever clogs.” Jonty slipped an arm over Orlando’s shoulder. “In that case, who did him in? The housekeeper, she of the unclear marital status? By the way, how is Gabriel—the college, not the angel—for funds? Would they be desperate enough for a bequest that they did Denison in. No, you don’t need to answer. Your expression tells me I’m barking up the wrong tree.”

“I’m only looking affronted because you’re implying I haven’t contemplated the notion.” Orlando forced a grin. “As far as I’m aware they’re as awash with funds as any college is. And why would the warden have called us in if they had anything to hide? What about some relative of one of the two men Denison killed to inherit the tontine? Perhaps an illegitimate child who felt they should have had access to their father’s money.” Orlando waved his hand. “I know, it’s all speculative, but it’s all I have to offer. Unless everyone is wrong about the doctor and Denison did die of natural causes.”

“Hold on.” Jonty took his arm away, then placed both hands on the rail, drumming with his fingers. “We do have another character we keep forgetting. That woman with whom Denison was arguing. Rather than being a discarded paramour of his, could she have been the daughter—or common law wife—of Frobisher or the other chap? She’d tracked him down to where he’d moved and had come to demand the money she felt she was owed. Or to accuse him of murder.”

“That would accord equally well with what she was reported as saying.” Orlando stared down into the water as it rippled under the bridge. “Although so could a dozen other things.” He gave Jonty a sidelong glance then resumed his contemplation of the water. Funny how this place was working its magic of helping him see clearly. “Perhaps this is as much of a mare’s nest as the business with the violin turned out to be. No mystery at all.”

“Look at me.” Jonty’s voice, although calm, had a masterful edge and would brook no disobedience. “It might. But I’m reluctant to give up so soon. Something appears to be rotten in this state of Oxford, even though I can’t quite pin down what.”

Thank God Jonty was so sympathetic. “That’s exactly how I feel. As though we’ve been told something that gives us the key to everything and somehow, we missed it. The one fact that tilts all the others so they realign and make sense once more.”

“Well put.” Jonty slipped his arm round Orlando’s shoulder again. “Here’s a proposal. If we’ve not pinned down whatever-it-is in two days time, then we concede and leave the field with dignity, having given the case our best shot. If we can’t solve it then maybe, as you say, there’s nothing to solve.”

They stood in companionable silence until Jonty had the idea of dropping twigs into the stream and seeing whose emerged on the other side of the bridge first. After five goes, of which Jonty had lost four, he said, “Are you sure you haven’t nobbled my twigs, you miscreant?”

“No. You’ve just not got the correct technique.”

Jonty snorted. “Technique, my aspidistra. My part of the stream appears to be running out of kilter. Rather like the time in this case we’re supposed to be investigating.”

“What are you talking about now?”

“Time. Out of kilter. A year ago, Denison gave up the violin, moved here, made new friends and lost old ones, and had his garden dug over. Maybe that’s the era we should be looking into.”

Maybe Orlando had himself slipped out of phase with whatever Jonty was saying because he still couldn’t see what the garden had to do with it and told his partner so.

“A newly dug garden would be an excellent place to hide either a body or the means used to commit a murder.”

“What a horrible mind you have at times. I should ban you from reading all these Jacobean tragedies.” Orlando rolled his eyes. “You’d be better off with Euclid. No dead bodies in there.”

“That’s because he hid them in his grounds.” Jonty chuckled. “In all seriousness, think about it. All the changes made to Denison’s garden. Could they have included provision for hiding a corpse? Not that the landscaper would have included that in his schedule of work, of course. Just an opportunity grabbed.”

“If they did you’d have thought the neighbours would have noticed something. You’d have had to dig late at night and then you couldn’t hide the noise.” Orlando stared into the stream again. He’d have to find an equivalent place in Cambridge that was so conducive to thought, especially when Jonty was throwing wild theories about. “And the gardeners or workmen or whoever was doing the hard labour on the changes would have had to realise something was amiss, surely? You’d have to dig pretty deep to hide the body and how on earth would you explain the fact away that you’d been interfering with the work?”

“Perhaps you’d do it over a weekend, especially if your neighbours had gone away on holiday. Please note that two significant people in Denison’s life died at around that time.” Jonty tipped his head to one side. “So, if you’re allowed a theory with no supporting facts, then indulge me in one as well. Except that my non-existent facts are a sight more substantial than yours.”

With that wonderful piece of non-logic, Jonty went off to find more twigs.

***

The afternoon was spent in a mixture of intense activity—using the telephone, poring through newspaper archives in the library—and periods of boredom—waiting for telephone calls to be returned and results to turn up from the archive-poring. By the end of it they were wiser although not much further forward in the case. The order of events was clear: the death of Paul Denison happened a few weeks before his second cousin moved to Oxford, and Frobisher had gone to meet his maker a month afterwards. Reports of their deaths confirmed natural causes in the latter case and a horrible accident in the former, when a small block of masonry had dislodged from a building that was being refurbished, struck the scaffolding below a glancing blow, then deflected and plummeted onto Paul Denison’s head. The inquest had declared his death to be accidental and Peter Denison had arranged to have him decently buried in the family plot. The fact that neither man had ended up in the garden at Oxford was confirmed by their funeral notices in the Times.

Frobisher’s estate, small as it was compared to the tontine, went to his valet. Denison’s estate didn’t warrant a mention in any of their sources, although the redoubtable Mrs. Stewart produced an interesting tale of events a couple of months after his death. Through her charitable contacts she had come across—at the time—an account of a young woman who’d been accommodated at His Majesty’s Pleasure in Holloway prison as a result of indulging in a profession that no doubt dated back to when men offered women a nice slice of mammoth in return for their sexual favours. When released, this woman found that the man she’d been living with previously was dead and buried, leaving her destitute and having to apply for charitable aid rather than return to her former trade.

Mrs. Stewart’s memory had been jogged because the woman had subsequently received a small but very welcome donation from a retired violinist who was related to her paramour. She checked her facts and—as she suspected—the woman, Mary Beck, had been living with Paul Denison.

“So that could well be the woman who was seen castigating Denison,” Jonty said, as he and Orlando assessed what they’d learned over a well-earned pot of tea. “Somerset reckoned her name was May or Marie, which is close enough to Mary.”

“Come to demand more money from her lover’s only relative?” Orlando nodded. “That makes more sense than seeking revenge for Paul Denison’s dastardly death.”

“Well alliterated.”

Orlando favoured the quip with nothing more than a roll of the eyes. “It would also rob her of a motive to kill the man, alas. She’d want to keep him alive if she felt she could get more money from him.”

“True.” Jonty took a deep draught of tea. “So, we return to the only substantial motive for his death. The money. Did Mrs. Evans—I must remember she’s actually a miss—slip a little something into her master’s morning coffee to hasten his end? A touch of digitalis to work on a weakened heart while she conveniently took herself off. They have foxgloves in that garden, by the way.”

“I noticed. We have foxgloves, too, so it signifies very little. The trouble is every time she spoke about Denison she seemed genuinely affectionate and genuinely moved at his no longer being there. Is she that good an actress?”

Jonty shrugged. “Why don’t we nip down there now and try to find out? All other avenues seem to be dead ends.”

Which is exactly what Orlando had come to believe.

***

Miss Evans took a while to answer their knock at the door and then she appeared somewhat flustered to see them. “Oh! You caught me off guard. I feel quite guilty.”

“Hiding the evidence?” Jonty said, with a flash of his smile.

“What? Oh, oh, bless you, sir. You young gentlemen will have your japes.” The housekeeper stepped back and ushered them in. “It was your visit that did it, you know. Brought me to my senses.”

Orlando and Jonty shared a bemused look, then entered the music room, which showed much change since they’d last been there.

“I’ve decided it’s just silly to keep everything like it’s a museum,” Miss Evans explained. “Mr. Denison wouldn’t have wanted it. I’ll just keep one instrument for old time’s sake and then find the rest a good home at one of the local schools.”

“Very wise,” Jonty said, but his voice couldn’t hide his surprise at the volte face. “We’re the cause of this?”

“You and Dr. Kane. You’ve made me realise it’s time to sell up here and move back to London. I’ll be near my sister, then.” She threw up her hands. “Listen to me prattling on and I’ve not even offered you a cup of tea.”

“We’re not in need of refreshments, although we appreciate the offer,” Orlando said. “We’ve just a few questions to ask and then we’ll be out of your way. Did you know about the tontine Mr. Denison set up?”

“I did, although I was rather cross about it. I don’t believe in those things, but he was insistent. Said he’d done it for me, so that he’d be able to keep on employing me no matter what.” She dabbed at her eyes with her apron.

“But he couldn’t have known he’d get the money,” Jonty pointed out.

“No, although he thought it was a pretty safe strategy, given the other men involved. Not the fittest of creatures, he said, if that isn’t speaking ill of the dead. He felt it worth taking the chance.”

“A strong move to make early in the game?” Jonty suggested.

Miss Evans frowned. “Sorry?”

“Like chess. He enjoyed playing, we believe.”

“Oh, yes, I see.” Miss Evans shook her head. “I’m not at my brightest today.”

Certainly not as authoritative as she’d been previously. Something had happened—maybe involving this mysterious Dr. Kane—to shake her. Before Orlando could ask about him, Jonty posed another question.

“Mr. Denison had a relative turn up out of nowhere, we believe.”

“That’s right. Paul Denison.  Nice gentleman if a bit of a rogue.” Miss Evans rolled her eyes. “He tried to inveigle himself into my master’s affections, though he saw through him. I’m sad the man died in such a horrible way, and I’m glad everything was done properly by him in terms of the funeral, but I’d be a liar if I said I felt his loss the way I felt my Mr. Denison’s.”

“What about Mary Beck?” Orlando asked, immediately surprised at the thunderous look that crossed the housekeeper’s face.

“Her? No better than she should be. Contacted us for money when she had no right to any.”

Orlando noted the us but let it ride. “But Mr. Denison helped her?”

“He did, which was more than generous.” Miss Evans remained in tight-lipped disapproval.

“Yet she came back to ask him for more?”

Miss Evans gave Orlando a sharp look. “What do you know about that?”

“Enough. She tracked him to Oxford and confronted him. His chess partner, Dr. Somerset, witnessed the confrontation and thought, from snatches of conversation he heard, that she was accusing him of having done something. He told Somerset that he didn’t know the woman and that she’d mistaken him for someone else, but we don’t think that’s true.”

“You’re quite right. Deni—Mr. Denison—was trying to protect her, being a gentleman. He didn’t want the truth of her past and her being in prison being discussed willy-nilly. They’re awful gossips, those academic gentlemen,” she added, with another roll of the eyes. “As you’ve found out with Professor Lewis-Duckworth. He was wrong about my master’s death being suspicious, as was I.”

Jonty shot Orlando a look of alarm before asking, “What do you mean?”

“Dr. Kane is a colleague of Dr. Bundy. They share a practice. I hadn’t realised he’d treated Mr. Denison, but he had, and he confirmed how weak his heart was.” Miss Evans glanced towards the garden. “Dr. Kane inspected the body the day he died, when Dr. Bundy had sent me to bed to rest. He tells me he was positive it was simply due to natural causes.”

***

Neither Jonty nor Orlando uttered a word from when they’d made their final pleasantries and set off once more for the Randolph to when they were half way along the road.

“Well, what do we make of all that?” Jonty asked at last.

“I’m still trying to process it all. I need to sleep on things.”

“On the principle that when we wake in the morning today will have been a bad dream and we’ll still have two mysteries to investigate?”

Orlando snorted. “We don’t know that this Kane chap is any more reliable than his partner. He might have heard that the man was being denigrated and is trying to restore his reputation.”

“Hm. That’s a job for tomorrow, then. I can’t put any thoughts together until I’ve had my dinner.”

A pretty young lady came along the street, singing happily to herself. Jonty raised his hat and smiled as she passed.

“Who’s that?” Orlando hissed once she was out of earshot.

“The Hamiltons’s maid. Next door to Denison.” Jonty grinned. “She who reckoned his playing was nothing special. What a lovely voice she has. Quite wasted scrubbing steps and blackleading the grate.”

“Perhaps Denison would have left her a legacy to develop her singing if she hadn’t been so derogatory about his violin playing.”

“She wouldn’t have been derogatory to his face, but word does tend to get around.” Jonty passed at the kerb, waiting for a cart to pass before crossing. “I wish we’d brought the car. The stroll here seemed most pleasant earlier but the return journey feels like a cross-continental trek.”

Orlando wasn’t going to admit it, but he wished the same.

Jonty’s usual high spirits had returned by the time they reached the hotel, although they received a knock when they found another note from the warden of Gabriel—even more abjectly apologetic—awaiting them. Lewis-Duckworth explained that not only had he misled them about the violin, he’d now discovered he’d misled them about Denison’s supposed murder. Dr. Kane, who served the college as physician and whose medical judgement was to be trusted on all counts, had informed him that it was he who’d been treating Denison for his heart condition, the patient not trusting Dr. Bundy to deal with anything but the man’s arthritis. Kane was prepared to swear that there was nothing suspicious about the death, in fact he’d half been expecting it, having seen similar cases.

“So why didn’t he mention this earlier?” Jonty flicked the paper with his fingernail. “I don’t remember seeing his name in any of the information we were sent.”

“That’s because it wasn’t there. As you said earlier, this is a problem for tomorrow. Kane will be calling here to see us, so you can have your thumbscrews ready.”

Jonty’s brow wrinkled. “You seem remarkably chipper(w) given that you’ve just suffered a major setback.”

“That’s because I’ve got an idea. And no, I’m not going to tell you what it is until I’ve slept on it.” Orlando gave his partner what he hoped would be an enigmatic smile. “All I’ll say is, if I’m right, then we still have a case to investigate but it’s not the one we thought it was.”

Chapter Nine

Orlando was still in a good mood the next morning, although he refused to elucidate on his idea. There was something he wanted to ask Kane about and until he had the answer to that he was keeping his powder dry.

Jonty didn’t have long to wait. Kane arrived punctually at half past nine, apologising for having been party to sending them on a wild goose chase.

“I’ve not been in Oxford these last few weeks,” he explained, as they sat in a quiet corner, awaiting the arrival of a pot of coffee. “My father has been desperately ill and I’ve been attending him. As a son, not a physician. I thank God he appears to be making a good recovery.”

“We’re pleased to hear that.” Jonty could say that in all honesty. He’d rush to his papa’s bedside in similar circumstances. “We’d wondered why you’d not told Professor Lewis-Duckworth earlier.”

“I wish I had, believe me. I didn’t realise he’d be airing his suspicions quite so volubly. Or airing any suspicions at all.” Kane paused at the arrival of a waiter with coffee. Once it was poured he continued. “I tell you this believing you will respect my confidentiality. Bundy used to be an excellent physician, but he no longer has some of the mental acumen he once possessed.”

Jonty wondered if that meant he was suffering some form of dementia, although he wouldn’t force Kane into answering the question.

“He was correct about Denison’s heart condition, though?” Orlando asked.

“Yes. I confess I try to keep a discreet eye on some of his cases, especially where a mistake might prove fatal.” Kane glanced about him, then lowered his voice. “I suspect he won’t be able to practice much longer. There was an error made at Gabriel.”

“So we heard.” The sooner he was gently put out to pasture the better, by the sound of it.

Orlando, eyes bright, said, “Would you trust Dr. Bundy’s medical judgement on other, less serious matters? Arthritis, for example?”

“Ah.” Kane laid down his cup. “A perceptive question. Let me make it plain. Dr. Bundy is a good man and—what’s more unusual—a good listener. That’s why so many of his patients have stuck by him, despite his failing abilities. One has to admit that the medical profession is not as all conquering as some of its practitioners would like to pretend. Despite many advances, a number of diseases are neither curable nor treatable and sometimes all one can offer is understanding or make suggestions for palliative care. Bundy is good at both of those. Whether he diagnosed Denison correctly regarding the arthritis I couldn’t say as I was not consulted regarding that, just his heart.”

“Can you offer us no opinion, though, from your observation of the man?” Orlando pressed him.

“So long as you don’t expect me to back up the opinion with hard evidence or state it elsewhere.” Kane leaned forward. “I had doubts about whether Denison was as badly afflicted as he made out.”

Orlando sat back, almost purring with pleasure. “Thank you, Dr. Kane. Thank you very much indeed.”

***

“I will not budge from this chair until you tell me what notion you’ve dreamed up about this case.” Jonty folded his arms and looked daggers at his lover. “Nor will I enter into any other conversation.”

Kane had been gone a good ten minutes, a segment of time which Orlando had filled with ordering more coffee, using the toilet and attempting to start up a discussion about how confident patients could be in their physician’s capabilities.

“But it’s such fun to tease you,” Orlando said, eyes bright. “It’s so rare that I come up with a possible solution and you’ve not even got an inkling about it.”

Jonty had to admit that had the situation been reversed he’d have taken as much pleasure in it. “I suppose I am being ridiculously obtuse, for which you can blame the pernicious atmosphere of this city. If I bow to your superior judgment—in this case only, I hasten to add—will you please put me out of my misery?”

“I will. Eventually,” Orlando added, still milking the situation. “Consider this aspect of Denison’s behaviour to start with. Why tell such awful tales when you risked people finding out the truth of things and simply ended up with a reputation for exaggeration, if not downright lies? And why risk telling one person one story and somebody else another when there was every chance they could compare notes? He doesn’t appear to have been a very good liar, for somebody who alleges he’d been involved in espionage. One could say he wanted folk to know he was telling stories.”

“Overweening arrogance? Madness? A mixture of both?”

“Maybe.” Orlando sipped his coffee. “Or maybe something else entirely. Remember the little boy who cried wolf?”

“Not personally, as he predates me, but I’m aware of the tale. He kept pretending a wolf was threatening the flock, so when one of the lupine creatures did come along nobody believed him.” Jonty cradled his cup. “I don’t quite see the connection. Denison doesn’t strike me as being so stupid he’d do the same.”

“Indeed. He strikes me as being very clever.” Orlando smirked again. If he pulled that face a third time, Jonty might have to refuse any sexual favours until he was sufficiently penitent. “The boy had told so many lies that the truth appeared to be just another one. Turn that through ninety degrees and consider this. The best place to hide a flower would be in a bouquet, so the best place to hide a lie would be among many others. If you had a reputation for embroidering the truth nobody would notice a little dropped stitch in the tapestry of your life.”

“Oh, I see. I must be rising above the miasma of dullness and mental stifling this place produces.” Jonty smirked at Orlando’s disapproval of the jibes at his alma mater. The man deserved it. “Let’s imagine that someone’s whole life is based on a lie. As Somerset observed, it would be terribly exhausting to keep up such a pretence. If people knew that you were a bit of a liar then the odd discrepancy here and there would be ignored. Oh, he’s telling one of his tales again. Can’t even keep up a consistent story.”

“Exactly.” Orlando took a long draught then laid down his cup. “Very nice. Why can’t more places serve proper coffee?”

“Don’t change the subject, now that I’ve pinned you down. Carry on with the eighty per cent of the theory you’ve yet to tell me.”

“Remember that discussion with Drs. Panesar and Langer? About provenance?”

“Of course I do. The whisky bores and all that. How you couldn’t always tell the real thing from a lesser version whether it was a drink or a musical instrument. But we’ve eliminated the issue of the violin. What’s the rel—” Jonty paused, a light having dawned near the road to Woodstock. “You’re not referring to the violin at all, are you?”

“No. I’m referring to Denison himself.”

“Of course you are.” Jonty slapped the arm of his chair. “And do you know what? I think you had the key in your hands quite early in the investigation. Just after we first visited Denison’s house, in fact.”

“Now it’s my turn to plead ignorance.”

“Good.” Although Jonty wasn’t going to tease Orlando as he’d been teased. He’d a host of things that had just buzzed into his noddle on the back of this latest thought. “I bet your sub-conscious brain picked up on it. Your theory on Moriarty.”

“Moriarty?” Orlando wrinkled his nose. “Oh yes. The actor playing the part. You could well be right about my sub-conscious.”

Jonty immediately regretted making the point, because now Orlando looked smugger than ever. Perhaps it was only to be expected, their having been so close to leaving the city with the rug of a case pulled out from under their investigative feet and now—if they were proved right—they’d uncovered quite a scandal. “Let me add some more fuel to the evidential fire. That young maid, the one with the lovely voice.  She said she thought Denison’s playing nothing special. What if, instead of having no musical ear, she was the only one in the Hamilton household who did? The neighbour the other side was hard of hearing so she may not have been any judge. If the man she thought was Denison wasn’t really the violinist himself, no wonder he didn’t play in public. He simply wasn’t as good as he should have been.”

“That’s right. Well spotted. Anything else to add that I might have missed?”

Jonty wasn’t sure if Orlando really had overlooked those points or was trying to make him feel better about the situation. “A potentially small point of corroboration. Lewis-Duckworth said he was surprised that Denison spoke of his glory days without regret. If they’d not been his own glory days, no wonder it didn’t bother him.”

“Indeed. It’s a shame Dr. Bundy wasn’t as observant as you’ve been.”

“You think the arthritis was all put on, hence the choice of physician?”

“Yes, although he wasn’t so stupid as to let Bundy treat his heart. That problem was all too real.” Orlando poured them both another cup.

“Miss Evans would know it wasn’t him. She almost told us as much, you know. She felt the loss of her master, past tense, rather than feeling it, present tense.” Jonty took a sip—this was a three or four coffee problem. “So, if we accept all this to be true, who was the man pretending to be Denison and where’s the man himself? Why did Miss Evans get us all wound up to believe it wasn’t natural causes and what did she mean about the truth not hurting anyone?”

“That feels like a Tripos question. The sort where you get so wound up in answering one part you mess up the others.” Orlando laid down his cup, then held up his left hand, pointing to the finger where Jonty would have liked to place a wedding ring, had the world and its laws been entirely different. “Last part first, taking in the third question. Because she knew that the truth—that his heart killed him, which Kane would testify to—would send us on our way, tails between our legs. Meanwhile, she could safely pretend to be in line with the warden’s idea and so appear to be aiding our enquiries rather than hindering them.”

“I suppose so. Although wasn’t she running a risk letting us poke about that house? What if we’d turned up something that would have given us a clue earlier?”

“She’d surely have seen to it that there was nothing to be found, and not just for our benefit. No wonder the older pictures on display were less than clear. There was enough resemblance between the man himself and his newer version that they’d pass muster.” Orlando waggled his left thumb and middle finger. “Which leads us nicely to the first of your questions and again, following on, to the second. Who might have looked sufficiently like Peter Denison to pass for him? Of a similar age as well.”

“Paul Denison!” Jonty slapped his knees. “Excellent. The use of an impersonator would also explain the withdrawal from public life—on the count of both musical ability and meeting old colleagues—as well as the move to Oxford and making a new set of friends.” He wagged his finger. “Not entirely new. Somerset must have been in touch with Paul before he became Peter. Same initial so no suspicions aroused.”

“Exactly. I’d not be surprised if Paul did everything he could to put a stop to their face-to-face meetings. Too risky. He’d have been aghast at Somerset overhearing that argument.”

Jonty nodded. “Talking of chess, Miss Evans seemed a bit wrong-footed by the reference to the game, didn’t she? If her original master wasn’t that good at or keen on playing she’d not have naturally made the connection.”

“She’d have been grateful that Paul could play the violin. That at least was one aspect they could manage convincingly.”

“If it was Paul impersonating Peter, he might have jumped at the chance to take on the role at that point. Short of funds, his mistress in prison for gaining immoral earnings, no wonder he had problems with his heart.” Jonty, hearing a loud Harrumph beside them, suddenly realised they were no longer alone. He lowered his voice before they caused more scandal. “Perhaps Mary Beck following him here caused so much stress it brought on a fatal heart attack.”

“Or perhaps she’s been blackmailing him. The price of her silence.”

“As a theory, this has much to commend it. As you say, no proof as yet, but it ties many of the ends together.”

Orlando bowed. “Thank you. Not just for the compliment but for the fleshing out of the bare bones. Care to answer part two of your own question?”

“I could if I can remember what it was. Hold on.” Jonty mentally recapped the conversation. “Where is Peter Denison?  Not weighed down with stones and dropped in a lake would risk him turning up as would throwing him in the sea or in a river.”

“Indeed. When I dispose of you it will be down a disused well, or in a derelict icehouse that’s been abandoned. Or in a cave. I promise not to do anything too gruesome.”

Jonty raised his hands. “Spare me the detail. When I murder you and have to get rid of your earthly remains, I plan to simply find a fresh grave that I can open up afresh and bung you in. You’d appreciate the hallowed ground and pleasant surroundings. Which is, I’m guessing, what they did with Peter Denison. Except they put him in his own grave. In a manner of speaking. Under another man’s name.”

“Paul Denison’s. Exactly the conclusion I’ve come to. Peter Denison had the unfortunate accident, an accident which must have made identifying the body by face alone a challenge and the person who could have put paid to the dead man being identified under a different name—because she’d have intimate knowledge of any notable marks on the rest of Paul’s body—was locked up at the time. It seems like Miss Evans and Paul Denison jumped at the opportunity to keep the tontine alive.” Orlando shook the pot, but all the coffee was gone.

“Shall we order another?” Jonty offered.

“No, I’ve had an ample sufficiency for the moment, thank you. We’ve a busy day ahead. Calling on Miss Evans again, for a start.”

“Yes. I’d also like to contact Dr. Panesar if possible and no, I won’t tell you what about. Two can play at your game.” Jonty slowly and with much relish finished his cup of coffee.

Orlando made a face, then said, “Among the loose ends I’d like to tie up—assuming we haven’t gone down a blind alley with this and found a theory that fits the facts but is still nonsensical—is whether Miss Evans had really known her original master for a long time or is that another lie to add verisimilitude to the set up? Nobody here would necessarily know one way or another.”

“No need to ask about that. One of the photographs at the house shows what we must assume is Peter Denison being presented with something or other and she’s there in the group of people watching and applauding. It looks like the picture was taken in America because there’s the national flag on display, although I suppose it might not have been. Irrespective of location, she looked younger, so we must assume she told us the truth about that.”

“She’s a good liar about the rest, then. Just the sort of accomplice you’d need giving evidence if there had been an inquiry into the latest death.” Orlando produced his notepad to jot something in it. “I wonder if she appeared at Paul’s inquest. We should look in the newspaper archive again. That can’t lie.”

“Whereas she can? I wish we could go back in time and go through our conversations again. Did she actually tell us anything that’s provably untrue or was she incredibly clever to ensure that she neither let the cat out of the bag nor told us a lie? She referred to the victim as Denison, which was his name, and if asked to account for herself she could argue that she was speaking about two different men. Did she and Paul Denison act alone, do you think? Mary Beck appears not to have known anything about the impersonation.”

“No, I don’t think those two acted alone.” Orlando rose from his chair. “If you won’t tell me what you’re consulting Dr. Panesar about, then I won’t tell you who I think the third person involved was. Not until we’re en route to see Miss Evans. You’ve the time it takes me to read up about that inquest to work it out for yourself.”

With another smirk, Orlando headed off, leaving Jonty to reel through a list of potential candidates. Somerset, who’d known Paul Denison and had taken the trouble to distance himself when the man moved to Oxford. Although why then admit to overhearing the argument with Mary Beck? Professor Lewis-Duckworth himself, in order to get his hands on one of the genuinely valuable violins, so he could fiddle while Dr. Bundy’s reputation burned? But why call them in to investigate unless he was seeking to double cross his partner?

There was, of course, another option, and Jonty would have to refresh his memory as to what event had happened when—and be clear about the exact order—before he could make the accusation. Alas, if he was correct, the cat would be put amongst the Stewart household pigeons. In the meantime, he’d beg the hotel clerk for a telephone to put a call through to Cambridge.

***

This time they took Jonty’s motorcar to visit Denison’s house. While a leisurely stroll would have given them more time for discussion, Orlando seemed to feel that time was of the essence. Jonty had a fleeting vision of them pursuing Miss Evans along the street as she attempted an escape, cornering her near the bakery and enduring her parrying at them with one of her master’s violin bows. Still he agreed to the request, because the journey—although short—would be time enough for him to assert that he knew who the third member of the triumvirate was.

“Obvious, really,” he said, once the subject had been broached. “He’d have had to have known, given the sequence of events. Is that what aroused your suspicion? The vagueness of the dates he gave for what happened a year ago compared to the exact detail of the other information he produced?”

“Yes. That made my mathematician’s nose twitch. It twitched even more when we had the information about the timing of Paul Denison’s supposed accident and it was in advance of that last dinner, when he had the last two members of the tontine together. Frobisher must have been so unwell that there was every chance he’d not notice the change in the other man.” Orlando drummed on the motorcar door. “Which Robinson must have been fairly confident about. It might have formed a good test, anyway. To see how easily Paul could be passed off as his second cousin.”

“Do you think he was relying on us not to go down that route of enquiry?”

“Of course. And why should we? We were investigating this death, not the previous one.” Orlando’s drumming accelerated. “I never thought I’d ask this, but could you go a little faster?”

Once he’d recovered from the shock, Jonty said, “Not at present, although once we’ve cleared the town centre, perhaps. Why such a need of haste? Are you fearful the birds will have flown?”

“I am. I’ve come to the conclusion that it wasn’t our original visit that caused such a flurry of activity from Miss Evans yesterday. Robinson will have warned her of our interest in tontines. We might already be too late.”

Jonty prepared to make as much haste as he could on the journey, whenever possible. To have such licence should have felt glorious, but the enormity of the situation allowed him no time to enjoy it. “Perhaps we should simply make our way to the police station and ask them to put a warning out to the ports so that our birds can’t fly.”

“On what evidence? We might be convinced we’re on the right track but the local force may think we’re a pair of lunatics causing trouble. If Wilson and Cohen were here it might be different. They trust our judgement.”

Jonty nodded. “I’ll resist saying that’s the benefit of the Cambridge constabulary over the Oxford ones. I wouldn’t blame anyone for mistrusting us, given the circumstances. What are our chances of finding some compelling evidence? I suppose there is the discrepancy of dates between the last meeting of the tontine members and the accident with the falling slab.”

“Robinson could claim that he’d also been deceived by the imposter. He only saw Denison once a year—remember how he told us how shocked he’d been in the change in the man? Maybe he was establishing his story in advance.” Orlando stared at the road ahead, visibly willing it to rush under their wheels. “It would, naturally, be a course that abandoned Miss Evans to take all the blame, or to face all the rumours, as the case may be. I’ve been wondering why he asked for our opinion on how credible a witness she’d be.”

“She might abandon him, of course. Say he forced her into acting as she did, much against her better judgement. I can imagine a court being more likely to believe her story than his.”

“We’ll have to tread carefully. Robinson could quite possibly bring a charge of slander against us if we make a public accusation against him. And who knows where that might lead?”

Jonty shivered. Every man in their position was well aware of what had happened to Oscar Wilde. That had begun with a case of libel and ended in the man’s destruction. While they exercised more discretion than Oscar and Bosie appeared to have done, cultivating an image as a pair of not-so-old bachelors whom no woman could ever wrench away from their academic pursuits, they were still vulnerable to exposure of their true natures and relationship.

This was a powerful weapon that no enemy had yet sought to use against them and long might that situation remain, although they couldn’t rely on it never being brought into the field of battle.

“Perhaps Dr. Panesar will work his magic,” Jonty said, as reassuringly as he could manage. “I’ve set him to find out whether any of his mysterious contacts know anything about Paul Denison. It struck me that if he were the one with knowledge of espionage it would explain why he could speak do authoritatively on the subject and why he’d been so effective at impersonating his second cousin. Relevant experience.”

“Perhaps Dr. Panesar’s mysterious contacts could persuade the police to disinter what’s supposedly Peter Denison’s body, which would at least give us the opportunity to have somebody—Mary Beck for instance—verify the original identification. Which would stir up the hornets’ nest nicely.” Orlando, for the first time since the journey started, sounded more optimistic. “Robinson could well have a stronger motive than simply taking a fee for helping Miss Evans inherit all. If he was in charge of the tontine funds he might have misappropriated them or otherwise failed in his administration. One hears of fraudulent solicitors and brokers who draw on their clients’ money, only to find that they can’t repay what they’ve taken. If they ever had any intention of repayment in the first place.”

“In that case, the longer the Tontine ran, the longer Robinson would have to repay what he’d taken. Or to avoid being caught with his fingers in the till. Papa would back that theory whole-heartedly. I contacted him again, by the way. To make discreet enquiries on Robinson’s character and reputation.” Jonty rounded the corner into the street where Denison had lived, pulling up a little distance from the house. “If we stop here, we’ll retain an element of surprise.”

Orlando, unexpectedly, began to laugh. “I have visions of you slinking along the street, hiding in the doorways, or approaching the property from the back, leaping over the garden fence and causing alarm to the entire neighbourhood.”

“Sounds like great fun. But I’ll settle for strolling along road quite nonchalantly. To prove we have nothing to hide.”

When they reached the front door, it took four lots of knocking to produce an answer. They might have given up and returned to the car, had Orlando not been insistent that he could hear somebody moving around in the property. “All very suspicious,” he’d whispered, between the second and third sets of raps on the door.

“I bet she wishes she’d got rid of that blotting paper. The one that gave you the hint about the tontine.” Jonty leaned over to the left but couldn’t see in sufficiently through the window. “I bet if she’d know about the thing it would have been gone before we—or anyone else—arrived.”

When Miss Evans eventually opened the door, she appeared flustered. “I’m so sorry, gentlemen. I wasn’t expecting anyone to call and I was otherwise engaged.”

Jonty guessed, from the way she averted her gaze, she was implying that she’d been in the toilet, although he doubted that explanation. Perhaps she’d hoped they’d go away, not realising how persistent they’d be. He employed his best smile, then said, “I apologise for bothering you yet again, but things have moved on somewhat from when we last spoke. Might we come in and ask a few more questions? It’s beneath your dignity to talk on the doorstep, I’m sure, you now being mistress of the house.”

“Oh, yes.” She stepped back, with evident reluctance, to let them enter.

Much had happened since the previous day, the music room being pretty well denuded of what it had contained.

“The people from the school came first thing this morning,” she said, with a sweep of her arm. “Quite a relief that it’s all gone. They took the chess sets, too, and anything else they could make use of. I’m so pleased they found a good home.”

“Did Mr. Robinson help you to dispose of them?” Orlando asked.

“Mr. Robinson?” The look of innocent puzzlement followed by sudden recollection would have fooled nobody. “That’s the man who looked after the tontine, wasn’t it? Mr. Denison always used to say he was a true gentleman.”

“We’ve met him,” Jonty said. “He’s certainly charming.”

Miss Evans opened her mouth then clearly thought better of whatever she’d intended to say. The chance remark had caught her on the hop. He wasn’t sure Orlando had registered that, so he pressed on. “He’s what my mother would describe as a bit of a Beau Brummel. I suspect he’d win many a lady’s heart, old or young.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, sir.” Miss Evans’s words belied her expression. This line of enquiry continued to unsettle her. Maybe it was worth trying to exploit that situation.

“Is he married, do you know?” Jonty turned to Orlando, trying to convey by subtle facial clues that his partner was to play along. “Didn’t Papa say something about meeting Robinson’s wife at a gallery where she had paintings on display? Or am I confusing him with somebody else?”

“I’m sure you must be,” the housekeeper said, sharply, before correcting herself. “I mean, I’m sure that if Mr. Robinson was married to an artist, Mr. Denison would have said so. He liked his art. Have you seen the portrait on the stairs?” Miss Evans gestured towards the hallway, clearly anxious to distract her guests.

“We saw it when we first visited. A remarkable likeness,” Orlando observed. “I suppose it was done a few years ago. Mr. Denison’s appearance seems to have changed somewhat. The affect of the pain from his joints, I guess?”

“Yes, yes, quite right. He suffered terribly.” The housekeeper was become more flustered by the minute. How much more pressure would it take for her to tell all?

Jonty knew they’d have to tread warily and rely on asking the right questions in as seemingly innocent a manner as possible. If he was one hundred per cent certain that they were dealing with a villainess then he’d have no compunction about putting her under pressure but the chance that she was nothing more than a dupe, working at the behest of somebody else, played on his conscience.

“His anguish seems to be written on his face,” Jonty said, glancing round the room to find a photograph to back up his assertion, but they’d all been cleared away. “I could have sworn there were pictures of him, here. They didn’t go to the school?” he added, with a flashing smile.

“No, they’ve been boxed for safekeeping. Before the men arrived to take the instruments. You can never be quite sure how careful people will be.”

“Very wise. You’d want to keep those mementoes of him. Even if he almost looked like another man by the end of his life.” Jonty glanced away, ostensibly to look out of the window, but not before catching the expression of absolute horror that had crossed the housekeeper’s face.

Orlando had evidently spotted it as well. “I’m sorry, was that terribly insensitive? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine, thank you. It’s just that I miss him so much.”

Jonty strolled over to the French doors leading to the garden. With his back towards the housekeeper—confident that Orlando would keep an eagle eye on her—he said, with as much coldness as he could muster, “Grief is nothing to be ashamed of. Even when it’s lasted as long as a year. As yours has for Peter Denison.” He swung around. “It would help you to cope with his loss to tell us the truth, you know. We’ve pretty much guessed what happened.”

Miss Evans looked around the room, perhaps to find inspiration to face the quandary she found herself in. Before she could gather her thoughts, Orlando asked, “Was it your idea to pretend that Paul Denison had died in the accident or was it Robinson’s? You must have thought you’d got away with it.”

With a sigh, the housekeeper crumpled into a chair.

“I think she’s passed out,” Jonty said. “I wonder if there’s any sal volatile to be found.”

“I think there was a medicine cabinet upstairs.” Orlando was already heading for the door. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

By the time he’d returned, empty handed and apologetic, Jonty had already coaxed Miss Evans into consciousness—if she actually been unconscious in the first place and not just buying time. “Perhaps you could fetch a glass of water, Dr. Coppersmith. I believe our hostess has had a bit of a shock.”

Orlando set off again, leaving Jonty to fuss over the housekeeper, with much hand patting and making of soothing noises. When the water arrived, she took too large a gulp, nearly choked, then had to recover herself before apologising for making a spectacle of herself.

“There’s nothing to apologise for in fainting,” Orlando reassured her. “Whether you need to apologise for the rest is up to your conscience.”

“You can’t make me say anything,” she protested. “You’re not the police.”

“No, we’re not. But we have excellent connections within the force. People will listen to us.” The contrast between the way Orlando had spoken as they’d driven here and the confidence with which he spoke now was extraordinary. So must he employ his best bluffing skills when playing bridge. “You can hide photographs that might aid identification or give away instruments bearing incriminating fingerprints but were both Peter’s and Paul’s bodies to be disinterred, they would tell a tale that couldn’t be denied. There are other charges than murder you might face. Fraud for one.”

Miss Evans, ghostly pale, shook her head. “Nobody has been hurt. Mr. Frobisher was at death’s door and he had no close relations, so it would be scandalous if the money from the tontine had gone to him and then to the crown because there was nobody to claim it.”

Were they the housekeeper’s own words or was she repeating an argument that had been used to persuade her?

“But people have been hurt and badly used. What about Paul Denison, forced to live a lie?” Jonty asked.

“He was pleased to do it,” she insisted. “He had very little money when he returned to England.” Miss Evans spread a hand to take in the elegant room, the glimpse though the window of the delightful garden. “Imagine being able to enjoy all of this rather than living hand to mouth. He wasn’t the healthiest of men to begin with and life had taken a toll on him. Better to spend his days here than in squalor. He didn’t object when the idea was put to him.”

“And Mary Beck?” Orlando said. “What did she think of this arrangement? She’d have been left homeless, one assumes.”

“She was sent money. She wanted more, of course, but her sort always does. Paul Denison had too warm a heart so he made sure she was looked after as well as could be. She believed it was Peter Denison who sent her the money, out of sympathy.”

Better too warm a heart than be so calculating. Jonty’s view of the housekeeper was changing from her being a woman made use of to her being a scheming wench. Or perhaps she was a bit of both.

“She met him, here, didn’t she?” Orlando said.

“Did she?” That was evidently news to Miss Evans. “No, that can’t be right. He’d have said.”

“The meeting was witnessed.” Orlando paused, then abruptly changed the subject. “You’ve been left a rich woman.”

“I have. Mr. Denison was determined that I should have the house and whatever money he left, given that I’ve served him so well for so long. I would have it all above board, if it hadn’t been for the accident. Mr. Robinson told me this plan was for the best.”

At last the expected acknowledgement of Robinson’s role. “Perhaps a new plan would be even better,” Jonty suggested. “Come with us to the police and tell them everything. The whole truth and nothing but. They’ll look more favourably on you if it’s of your own volition.” He wasn’t sure that was true—nor that it was ethical because he didn’t believe that she’d been the solicitor’s dupe—but it might persuade her.

A sly look crossed the housekeeper’s face. “Can a woman be forced to testify against her husband?”

Jonty, puzzled both to the correct legal answer and the couple being referred to, said, “Were Mary Beck and Paul Denison married?”

“No.” Miss Evans flicked her hand towards him. “Don’t be silly. If she’d had marriage lines she’d have used them to get more money from the man she thought was my real master. I’m the one with the certificate, not her.”

“Are you telling us you’re Mrs. Denison?” In which case, which one—Paul or Peter?

“No,” Orlando said, slowly and confidentially, “I believe we’re addressing Mrs. Robinson.”

If Jonty was stunned at his partner’s leap of logic, he was equally amazed at the smugness of the housekeeper’s reply.

“I am. And why shouldn’t I be allowed to take a husband?”

“No reason at all. How long has this happy situation prevailed?” Orlando smiled, but his voice was like ice.

“Two years come August.”

Two years? Jonty had a rush of questions come to mind, although he simply started with, “Did either Denison know?”

“Of course they didn’t.” She couldn’t hide her self-satisfaction. “They thought I was using my days off and holidays to visit my sister. I suppose they couldn’t believe that a woman my age could find love.”

“You never gave them the chance to express a view one way or the other,” Jonty pointed out. “You might have found them sympathetic.”

Miss Evans—Mrs. Robinson—snorted, an even less attractive noise than when Orlando produced it. “Sympathetic? They’d probably have sacked me, believing my place was at home with my husband.”

“Many a husband might think the same.” Jonty, becoming quite riled, wondered what aspect to tackle next. Whose idea had it really been not to tell her employer? Given Robinson’s position, did they need to keep the liaison quiet, his peers perhaps likely to think he’d married below his station? Or were they in such dire need of funds the loss of her income, comparatively small as it would have been, would cut too deeply?

Orlando placed his hand on Jonty’s arm, cutting off any chance of posing a question. “We should go. Our work here is done.”

Jonty opened his mouth to argue, but the expression on Orlando’s face made him change his mind. “Yes, good idea. Thank you for seeing us, Mrs, Robinson. It has been most useful.”

The housekeeper, seemingly as surprised as Jonty had been at the change of tack, gave a desultory bob of a curtsey then said, “You’d needn’t bother calling here again. In a few days the house will be clear.”

Orlando produced a perfunctory half bow in return. “I doubt we have any need of return here. If we—or anybody else—needs to speak to you again they’ll know where to find you.”

He turned swiftly on his heels and headed for the door.

“Why the rush?” Jonty asked, once they were safely out of the house and half way back to the car. “I had lots more I wanted to ask.”

“Save it for the police to ask her, rather than us. Speed is of the essence.”

“Glad to hear it.” Perhaps he’d be allowed to get the motor car whizzing along again. “Still not sure why, though.”

“It suddenly struck me that we’ve put Mary Beck at risk. I don’t think Miss Evans—I can’t stop calling her that—and therefore, by association, Robinson knew about that meeting between Mary and Paul. They’ll see her as a threat, now. The only person who can identify which body is Paul’s.”

“Ah. Very good point. Hence why you changed the tack of questioning. Do you really think they’d do away with her? I’d have thought they’d bribe her to keep her mouth shut.”

“They might not want to risk it. Better a threat than an inducement. The former keeps its effect while the latter might wear off.” They’d reached the car, so got her started and settled themselves before Orlando said, “off to the police station, I think. Do you know where it is?”

“No, but you can direct me. I dare say you spent many an hour there in your rugby playing days.” Jonty eased the car along the road. “This rather changes things, doesn’t it? We’ve got the housekeeper’s confession and while she can easily retract it and call us a bunch of liars, it’s enough in itself to warrant the authorities taking an interest.”

“Even if it wasn’t enough, I’d still be warning them. I’d rather be thought an idiot and damage my reputation than have any harm to Mary Beck on my conscience.”

Jonty reached over to pat his lover’s leg. “I’m immensely proud of you. It takes a heroic man to take the right action rather than the easy or safe one. We should warn the police about the risk of Robinson taking flight, with or without his lawfully-wedded wife. Perhaps we should get word to Papa, as well. He will have contacts in London—police or otherwise—who can be quicker off the mark. They might have more idea about Mary Beck’s whereabouts, too.”

“Good thinking. You need to turn left here.”

“Thank you.” Jonty carefully negotiated an awkward corner round an inconveniently placed brewer’s dray, then observed, “What we’ve learned today does rather beg the question of why Mary Beck hasn’t already been to the police. Or anybody else she can kick up a fuss with.”

“For all we know, she already has.” Orlando sniffed, loudly. “Would they listen to a woman with her reputation and criminal record? She’d have had even slimmer evidence to give them than we have and wouldn’t have the benefit of reputation, track record and personal contacts with people of influence.”

Which was absolutely true and a sad indictment of society.

“If they don’t take us, seriously, they’ll have to listen to Papa. While something rankles with me in terms of making use of privilege, in this case it’s entirely justified.”

An hour later—it felt like several days—they emerged from the police station finally having persuaded them to take note. It hadn’t helped that the local Inspector had a low opinion of Professor Lewis-Duckworth, having had a run-in with him when the warden of Gabriel was a madcap undergraduate and he no more than a lowly constable. The Inspector had heard rumours surrounding the warden’s theories about Denison’s death, trusted Kane’s assertion that natural causes were involved and thought the whole thing a grown-up version of a student rag.

Telephone conversations with both Inspector Wilson and Mr. Stewart were needed to change his mind, the former emphasising Orlando and Jonty’s trustworthiness and nose for sniffing out the solution to intractable problems, while the latter involved considerable lashings of the Stewart charm and an invitation to Lord’s to see the cricket. Orlando’s brilliant suggestion that the Inspector finding the evidence to prove the swop of identities had occurred would be a feather in his cap which he could shake at Lewis-Duckworth whenever he wanted to embarrass the man finally sealed the deal.

All that was needed was to return to the Randolph, pack and set off for home with the job, if not done, then on the way to completion. They’d done all they could.

“Two years since Miss Evans got her marriage lines,” Jonty said as he stuffed his clothes into his case while Orlando meticulously folded and placed his. “Am I alone in thinking that casts quite another light on things?”

“You are not.” Orlando carefully smoothed one of his many spare items of underwear. “I’d assumed up until then that the whole plan had come together serendipitously. Now I wonder if it had been planned. They wouldn’t have wanted Peter to change his will in favour of Paul, would they? Even if it meant sharing the estate with him.”

“True. There must be somebody else who can verify that was Peter’s intention—perhaps his own solicitor—or why mention it to us?” Jonty paused, vest in hand. “Can you engineer an accident like the one that killed Peter?”

“That I doubt. Anyway, they’d have done better with the man himself alive until Frobisher died, so long as he hadn’t redone his will by then.” Orlando shrugged. “It will all depend on the timings of who intended to do what and when and at which point they thought Frobisher would depart this earth. I don’t understand enough about biology to know if anything like poison might show at an autopsy so long after the event.”

“You’re thinking of what Lewis-Duckworth said about his pal who’d seen one of Peter’s last concerts?”

“Yes. That might be stretching a point too far, but it’s entirely possible he was being drugged in some way by the person who could do it most easily.” Orlando smoothed down his clothes for the umpteenth time then carefully shut the case top. “Perhaps if he was under the influence of poison he might have been more prone to having an accident. Less likely to react and all that.”

“Such as a convenient fall down the stairs while nobody was in the house?” Jonty nodded, then crammed the last item into his case. “I’d not be in the least surprised if they had already spoken to Paul suggesting the plan to him in the case of Peter predeceasing Frobisher without the change of will.”

“The problem is that the two main witnesses in this are both dead. What if Mary Beck can’t identify Paul’s body? Or if she does she gets torn to pieces in the witness box? If only we had some proper evidence from a reliable party.”

Fortunately, Jonty hadn’t quite launched into the consolatory hug he was about to bestow on his lover, given that a loud rap sounded on the door of their suite. A young clerk had come up from the reception desk to say that a Dr. Panesar had telephoned for Dr. Stewart, and could he return the call as a matter of urgency?

Jonty, with a tingle of excitement building in his stomach—although he couldn’t say at what—tipped the clerk handsomely then went to make the call, leaving Orlando to finish the packing. The cuddle, alas, would have to wait, although perhaps he’d bring back something better.

***

When he returned to the room, Jonty found the cases by the door, ready to go. His looked suspiciously less bulging than previously, suggesting that Orlando had surreptitiously repacked it. On another occasion he might have upbraided him, but the chap had clearly been upset and must have found the activity both soothing and psychologically satisfying. The ordering of the unorderable.

“Was this the fruits of your consulting Dr. Panesar?” Orlando asked, emerging from the bathroom. “What were you asking him about? Evidently something that he’s come up with the correct answer to, given your facial expression.”

“The same thing as I consulted him about last time. Almost. Take a seat.”

“Is it that bad?” Orlando paled.

“No, you idiot. It’s good news. I don’t want you fainting from relief.”

Orlando had fainted before, quite spectacularly on occasions, although in this instance it was less a concern for Orlando’s welfare than Jonty’s aching legs which had prompted the suggestion. He settled himself in a chair, waited for his partner to do the same, then said, “I wanted to ask him whether Denison was involved in espionage. The other Denison, I mean. Paul. It could explain why he was a long-lost cousin, because he’d have been off doing nefarious things. It might also explain why he could speak so confidently about his experiences.”

“Excellent logic. For once. And the answer was?”

“A resounding yes. Dr. P was sparing on details, naturally, although he confirmed that the man had served his country on that front. Interestingly enough, there’d been some sort of a … something or other and he’d stopped doing his spying under something of a cloud. I know,” Jonty raised his hand, “I’m as frustrated as you are at not having the details, but that’s how it is.”

Orlando inclined his head in acknowledgement of the situation. “If true, that would give Paul Denison another reason for agreeing to the switch of identities. Did you perchance ask at any point whether one of Dr. Panesar’s contacts would be able to identify which body is which?”

“I did, when I first spoke to him. The answer appears to be able, yes but willing, no. All too much skulduggery.” Jonty hoped he’d never be called on to act in such a manner. “There was one amusing, touch, though. Dr. P was asked to pass on a piece of information that might be useful in identifying Paul Denison, even if it’s only to our satisfaction. He had a peculiar way of saying the word door. More like doo-er. Doo-erknob. Doo-erstep.”

Orlando leaped out of his chair, took Jonty’s face in his hands and landed him a smacking kiss.

“What did I do to deserve such a reward?” He asked, when he got his breath back.

“Put my mind at rest. I can return to Cambridge with a clear conscience, knowing that we’re correct. It’s up to the police to do the rest of it.”

“How gratifying. I’m still baffled, though.”

“Remember that I told you how Denison grated on the maid’s nerves? She of the young man who was accused of watching the house?”

“Young George, was it? Yes, I remember that.”

“What I didn’t tell you, because it didn’t seem important at the time was that one of the things which unnerved her was his inability to pronounce the word doorstep. He put in too many syllables.”

“That’ll teach you to keep clues from me, no matter how trivial they may seem.” Jonty extended a hand for Orlando to pull him out of his chair. “To Cambridge, to Cambridge, to buy a fat pig. We can roast it to celebrate.”

Orlando, sighing, rolled his eyes.

Everything was back to normal.

Epilogue

The sun beat down, the only clouds in the sky were small, fluffy and seemed to bear no threat of rain, the roads were clear and the larks were ascending over the meadows. No better day to drive home victorious.

“Another triumph for the team of Stewart and Coppersmith, I’d say. Even though we solved neither of the mysteries we were called in to solve, we found a third and put that to rights as best we could. Snatched victory well and truly from the jaws of ignominious defeat.” Jonty had decided that after the adventures in Oxford, where Orlando had insisted on speed rather than matronly safety, he should try driving with a lot more haste than he was usually allowed to employ. Orlando would soon shout if he was unhappy with the situation.

“Much as I hate to vaunt our successes, I feel you’re right on this occasion. A whole series of triumphs, I’d say. From pointing out to Professor Lewis-Duckworth that his garden was being used as a short cut, to persisting with the case when he’d tried to make us give it up.”

“Indeed. I know that you were worried for your reputation when you came here, but he’s the one who has ended up being made to look a bit silly. I’m only sorry that if any of this shines a bad light on Gabriel. For all that I tease you about the place, I do have a sneaking fondness for your old college. It was quite a nice place, for Oxford.” Jonty gave his lover a sidelong glance. “It must have all due credit for making you the adorable old curmudgeon you are.”

“Less of the old and less of the curmudgeon, thank you. And less of the speed,” Orlando added, wagging his finger. “Getting to Denison’s house was an exception, rather than a new rule.”

“See, curmudgeonly.” Jonty eased the speed back, though. A man had to measure when and where to annoy his lover to the best advantage and not being able to scrutinise Orlando’s expression made the whole thing less enjoyable. “We can relish the rest of the long vac in the knowledge we did our duty. In more than one sense, if you get my drift.” The word duty had become their private code for romping in bed and the bedroom at the Randolph has been witness to a magnificent episode.

“Concentrate on driving. If you start thinking smutty thoughts we’ll end up in a ditch.”

“I think I’ll make you drive. In that case we should get back to Cambridge by the time the new term starts.”

“Have I told you you’re the most infuriating man in the universe?”

“Yes, you have. Many times.” Jonty sighed contentedly. “And I love you, too.”

About the author:

Because Charlie Cochrane couldn't be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice—like managing a rugby team—she writes. Her mystery novels include the Edwardian era Cambridge Fellows series, and the contemporary Lindenshaw Mysteries. Multi-published, she has titles with Carina, Riptide, Endeavour and Bold Strokes, among others.

A member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, Mystery People and International Thriller Writers Inc, Charlie regularly appears at literary festivals and at reader and author conferences with The Deadly Dames.

Where to find her:

Website: https://charliecochrane.wordpress.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/charlie.cochrane.18

Twitter: https://twitter.com/charliecochrane

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2727135.Charlie_Cochrane

Also by the author:

Novels:

Best Corpse for the Job

Jury of One

Two Feet Under

Old Sins

Lessons in Love

Lessons in Desire

Lessons in Discovery

Lessons in Power

Lessons in Temptation

Lessons in Seduction

Lessons in Trust

All Lessons Learned

Lessons for Survivors

Lessons for Idle Tongues

Lessons for Sleeping Dogs

Broke Deep

Count the Shells

Novellas:

Lessons in Loving thy Murderous Neighbour

Lessons in Chasing the Wild Goose

Lessons in Cracking the Deadly Code

Collected novellas:

An Act of Detection

Pack Up Your Troubles

Love in Every Season

Standalone novellas and short stories:

Second Helpings

Awfully Glad

Don’t Kiss the Vicar

Promises Made Under Fire

Anthologies (contributing author)

A Call to Arms

Pride of Poppies

Capital Crimes

Lashings of Sauce

Tea and Crumpet

British Flash

Summer’s Day