Jonty had cycled down to St. Bride’s in a remarkably good mood, his sister’s upcoming tea party and Orlando’s broodiness over breakfast notwithstanding. A certain professor seemed to feel that finding a possible solution to a mystery, but not being able to prove it, was worse than having no solution at all. Maybe that mood would change with their proposed soiree, an idea Ariadne had embraced with alacrity. She hoped she’d be able to assemble everyone for Sunday tea, suggesting they include Lavinia, with whom she got on famously. Jonty had happily agreed; having these two formidable women present would give anyone second thoughts about dissembling.
The next few hours were spent in college duties of a pleasantly gentle kind, including helping the chaplain to plan something innovative for Advent. By early afternoon, Jonty was ensconced in his study with one of his students, deep in the robustly academic kind of conversation about Shakespeare that any man might relish. The sudden clattering of something cross and mathematical on the stairs broke the calm.
“Spitting melon seeds!” Orlando’s voice preceded him through Jonty’s door, making poor Burgess, the student—who’d only come to ask Jonty’s opinion on Hamlet—jump a mile.
“If that’s a minced oath, Professor Coppersmith, I have no idea what’s been minced in the making of it.” Jonty shook his head, before winking at the student, who eyed Orlando nervously.
“It wasn’t. It’s about our investigation.” Orlando nodded at the student. “I’m sorry to have alarmed you. I don’t usually wander about the college shouting obscure phrases.”
“No alarm taken,” the student replied, the mangled phrase showing his continuing dumbstruck-ness. That was another indicator of how times had changed and Orlando with them. Fifteen years ago nobody would have batted an eyelid at his scowling about the college scaring people left, right, and centre. “I’ll leave you to your sleuthing, Dr. Stewart. Horatio can wait.”
“No, Burgess, stay and listen. With an entrance line like ‘Spitting melon seeds,’ this scene should be good. So good it calls for sherry all round.” Before either of his guests could argue, Jonty had fetched the decanter; he poured three small libations of Oloroso.
“If you’re sure . . .” Burgess’s self-confidence had apparently gone up several notches. Clearly his status within St. Bride’s would be elevated by having been privy to detection-related discussions.
“Only if you swear to regard everything we say as confidential.” Orlando took his sherry, speaking with great solemnity. “If you can’t guarantee to keep it to yourself, then we can’t possibly say another word.”
“You can rely on me.” Burgess’s voice sounded full of regret, as though for the secrets he might learn of and never be able to share. “My lips will stay sealed.”
“Of course they will.” Jonty slapped the lad’s shoulder. “Melon seeds. What about them, Professor Coppersmith?”
“Edward Atherton used to see how far he could spit them, didn’t he? Back in undergraduate days.”
“Ye-es.” Jonty gave Burgess a swift glance—the young man’s eyes shone with interest, as he tried to pretend he understood everything in this peculiar conversation. He deserved a spot of elaboration. “He did indeed. I always feel that’s a rather revolting thing to do, but I can’t deny he’s supposed to have had a talent for doing it. A bit like my brother Clarence, who used to be able to discharge the things into a bucket at ten feet’s distance. It’s a case, Burgess, of two men in a locked room, one of them a doctor and the other a patient. The former is supposed to have helped the latter—a man who was crippled to the point of having almost no strength—to kill himself, then taken his own life. Only things don’t appear to be exactly as they are on the surface.”
Orlando took up the story. “We’d been looking into the possibility that the crippled man, Atherton of the aforementioned disgusting undergraduate trick, was actually murdered by the doctor, who then either committed suicide in an act of remorse or somehow poisoned himself by accident. Or, in a third possibility, was himself murdered by somebody who had laced the whisky which the doctor drank.”
Burgess, whose eyes looked like they were about to pop out his head, nodded sagely.
“But there’s another option.” Orlando confided. “That Atherton had murdered the doctor and then died. The stumbling block concerned how a fit and able man could be forced to take poison by somebody who was so weak.”
Jonty, who’d just had a revelation as to what might be coming, held his tongue. Such sacrifices had to be made in the name of love. “And have you an answer to that conundrum?”
Orlando couldn’t have sounded any more smug. “Quite possibly. Atherton’s suicide letter said, ‘I have use of my tongue and can employ it to voice a change of mind at any moment.’ Was that a subtle hint to what he had in mind or just coincidental? We know that the only parts of his body which he still had full control of and strength in were his face and jaw. And the poison was supposed to have been dissolved in a glass of whisky.”
“Or helped down with whisky,” Jonty elaborated. “The medical reports couldn’t quite agree. Enough doubt to make one think that something odd might have gone on and not been noticed, because everyone was so sure it was a case of double suicide.”
“Especially if the apparent victim was himself too weak to be suspected of committing a crime.” Orlando, uncharacteristically, bounced on his toes. “H—”
“He was given a poison capsule, but he kept it in his cheek, then spat it into the doctor’s glass when he wasn’t looking!” Burgess grinned, clearly unaware of having stolen Orlando’s thunder.
Jonty was torn between piling congratulations on his protégé—how wonderful to have an undergraduate who actually used his brains constructively—and telling him off for disappointing the professor. “Let’s see if my colleague agrees with you.”
“I believe you have the modus operandi correct.” Orlando, face solemn, was making a great fist of hiding his disappointment.
“But what if he’d missed?” Burgess asked.
Jonty nodded. “That’s a good point. I mean, our Clarence is a master of the art and nine times out of ten he hits his target, but what if Atherton made that tenth, unsuccessful attempt? What would he have done then?”
Orlando shrugged. “I suspect it was a risk he was prepared to take. The bold stroke for glory—or what he regarded as glory.”
“That must have taken a lot of gall.”
“Yes, but if it had worked, what a victory he’d have had. Shouting for help as Wilshire arrived, pleading for him and Mrs. McGinley to break the door down. He’d have acted distraught and nobody would have doubted him.”
Burgess, who’d furrowed his brow at the welter of names, piped up again. “So why did this man die? I mean, if he spat out the capsule he’d been given?”
“That’s the very question we’ve been vexing over.” Orlando snorted.
Jonty, who’d gone off on a tangent of thought, rapped the desk with his pen, making the other two men jump. “Sorry about that. I didn’t quite intend to sound so much like a schoolmaster bringing the class to order. I had this mad idea. Maybe the doctor gave him two capsules, one of which he spat into the man’s drink, and the other of which he intended to keep in his mouth. I’ve heard a story about spies doing the same, only biting into the thing in extremis.”
“That sounds fairly sane, so far.” Orlando encouragingly tapped the desk.
“I can even imagine a situation where he might have asked for two capsules, so he could spit one of them out on the desk, as corroborative evidence that Robertson had tried to kill him. Only he got overconfident in his abilities and bit the thing by mistake.”
“That’s brilliant, Dr. Stewart!” Burgess bounced in his chair.
Jonty shook his head. “It may well be but, as Professor Coppersmith always points out to his dun—students, we can’t be sure without proof.”
“Ah.” Orlando smiled triumphantly. “I might just have something to offer there. Remember how we were sure that coded note could be interpreted by anyone who had two brain cells to rub together?”
“I certainly do. Even by one of your students, I think we may have said.” Jonty grinned.
“Well, we didn’t have the sense to see there was more to it than met the eye. That rhyme. I’ve managed to find some more of it.” Orlando produced a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, which he unfolded and presented to Jonty, who held it where both he and Burgess could read it.
Pray what must we have for to eat, eat, eat?
Will the flame that you’re so rich in
Light a fire in the kitchen?
Or the little God of Love turn the spit, spit, spit?
Burgess jabbed his finger at the final line. “He was teasing you. Well, to be accurate, not necessarily you, but whoever he had in mind to read his coded note. Or maybe he was just having a joke with himself, like the Bard and his character Will in As You Like It.”
“You could well be right,” Jonty averred. Because if the “spit” part was just a coincidence, it was an extraordinary one.
***
The company assembled in the drawing room of the master’s lodge on Sunday afternoon, presented a range of emotions, all of which were played out on their faces. Lavinia appeared to be tickled pink to be in at the death; she sat explaining to her brother and Mrs. McGinley how she’d almost had to tie her son to a chair to prevent him coming with her. And how Jonty would have to recount the whole scene to him the next weekend or they’d never hear the last of it. The master himself, Dr. Sheridan, seemed equally delighted to help host the event and was happily engaged in familial conversation with Mr. Blackett. Charles Robertson had looked ill at ease from the outset, as had Mrs. Blackett, especially after Wilshire had arrived and been ushered in, a guest evidently on equal footing here with herself. Wilshire had appeared puzzled, then slightly daunted by the presence of his employers, but he’d visibly relaxed when Phyllis Chambers entered the room, at which point Ariadne announced that everyone was now present and refreshments could be served.
Once she had everyone fed and watered, Orlando and his partner in crime let the fun commence.
“I’d like to thank Dr. and Mrs. Sheridan for their hospitality today.” Jonty bowed his head graciously towards their host and hostess. “It seems appropriate to be here, where the first steps on our investigative journey took place. We believe we have, if not quite reached the end, found ourselves within the last furlong of it.”
Orlando kept his eyes peeled on those present, but cards were being played close to chests, faces giving away very little. He and Jonty had toyed with laying all their theories on the table, but had decided that would just put people’s backs up. What they needed was honesty from certain people here, not further impediment.
Jonty pressed on. “We have a few questions to ask which will help us to the winning post.”
“Was my brother murdered?” Mrs. Blackett asked suddenly, eyeing the rest of the guests as she did so.
“Yes, no, and quite the contrary,” Jonty said, with a smile. “All will become clear, I promise. Mr. Wilshire, would you mind clarifying some points?”
“Of course.” Wilshire laid his cup on a table, then sat up straight in his chair, like a schoolboy in the headmaster’s office.
“When you first entered the consulting room to find Paul Robertson dead, was there any evidence of saliva on the desk?” A puzzled murmur broke out.
“I’m not sure I follow you, sir.” Wilshire suddenly seemed to find his own shoes fascinating.
“I think you do,” Lavinia cut in. The honeyed voice with the steely tones made the gardener look up and Charles Robertson wince. “Whatever you say now can’t hurt him.”
Wilshire glanced at Mrs. Blackett, then took a deep breath. “There was some spittle down his front, but I thought that was just from where he’d been given that poison. There was also some on the desk, but I cleared that away. It wasn’t nice.”
“Wasn’t nice or wasn’t to be found?” Lavinia pressed on.
“Both.”
“What is this?” Mrs. Blackett bridled. “Must you discuss Edward in this way? I mean to say . . .”
Mr. Blackett laid a hand on her arm. “Have patience, dear. You wanted to know what happened, and you’ll have to accept the explanation, whatever it turns out to be.”
Orlando gave Blackett a nod of gratitude. “Had Mr. Atherton prepared you for what you’d see when you broke into that room?”
“Not directly.” Wilshire must have found the courage to stare Orlando in the eye. “He told me that I might be shocked and to be prepared to deal with whatever I found in whatever way was for the best.”
Jonty stepped in to ask, “He didn’t say that you’d be rewarded one day for doing that? By means of the trust fund?”
“What trust fund?” Wilshire queried, at the same time as Mrs. Blackett used almost the same words.
Orlando, who’d been primed with Ariadne to keep an eye on everyone in the room when the crucial question was asked, saw nothing but what appeared to be genuine surprise on everyone’s faces, with the exception of Blackett. He simply nodded and said, “The one Edward created to benefit those he felt particularly grateful to. I helped him to set it up and promised to ensure it was properly administered when the time was due. I also suggested he make sure none of those likely to benefit knew about it. For his own protection.”
“So who benefits?” Mrs. Blackett’s face was like thunder. “And why did I know nothing about it?”
“You would have had to ask your brother that second question. I have no idea,” Blackett remarked, although Orlando had a feeling the man was being stingy with the truth. “As to the first, maybe Dr. Stewart will enlighten you. I can confirm the accuracy of what he says. I’d also like to know how he knows.”
“The trust names Wilshire and Miss Chambers.” Jonty nodded at both of them. “No others, even though Paul Robertson had once been one of those to benefit.”
“Us?” Phyllis put her hand to her chest in surprise. Jonty and Lavinia shared a smile at the word. “I mean, Mr. Wilshire and myself?”
“That’s correct,” Blackett confirmed. “As is the point about Dr. Robertson. So how did you know?”
“Because Atherton left a coded message, detailing the trust and who it would benefit. The code was easy enough to decipher. It was in amongst the pages of the manuscript he left with you.” Orlando gestured at Wilshire, while keeping a subtle eye on Mrs. Blackett. As he’d expected, she’d made a face at the mention of the manuscript. “Did you give us all the papers, by the way?”
“Not all. I went through them to remove any pages that might upset the family, being not to Mr. Atherton’s credit. I suppose you can guess what they contained.”
“We can, but we’d like to hear it from you.” Orlando waited for an answer, willing everyone else to display patience and not leap in: Jonty in particular, who had the appearance of a sprinter on his marks. It would be too easy to give the witness a clue to the answer expected.
At last, Wilshire spoke, seeming to measure every word. “He was very angry at Dr. Robertson and made lots of accusations about him. He’d found out about something the doctor had done—or something Mr. Atherton suspected he’d done—and was hopping mad about it. He told me it was connected to the Llewelyn Davies family; Mr. Atherton had served with one of the boys, George, and had promised him faithfully that if he got home and George didn’t, he’d keep an eye on the other brothers and deal with anything which happened to them.”
Orlando nodded. “He wanted vengeance on Robertson?”
“He did. I think if he’d had full use of his body, he’d have gone round and knocked his block off.” Wilshire’s smile soon disappeared. He turned to Charles. “Sorry. Professor Coppersmith wanted the truth.”
Charles inclined his head courteously. “You’ve not told us anything I didn’t already suspect.”
Mrs. Blackett, who’d been slowly coming to the boil, sniffed loudly. “Must we insult the memory of my brother?”
Dr. Sheridan spoke in the measured tones he used for recalcitrant undergraduates. “The truth can’t be an insult, Sheila. Would it not be true to say that you’d ensured those documents of your brother’s which came into your possession were destroyed?”
“It would,” Blackett replied, before his wife could.
Jonty clearly couldn’t contain himself any longer. “Why did you do that if you were so sure he’d been murdered, and if you wanted us to investigate the fact? Those documents might have been germane to the case. Or were they too germane?”
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Blackett, ghostly pale, seemed more distressed than angered now.
“Did you begin to suspect there was something in those documents which proved your brother’s death wasn’t suicide, but not in the way you’d first thought?”
Mr. Blackett laid his hand on his wife’s arm in a tender gesture. “I’ll tell them. It’s the time for honesty now. Dr. Stewart, we all know that from the start my wife has harboured suspicions about her brother’s death. After she’d seen you and your colleague, she had the idea that Edward’s papers might contain something which would help you in your investigations. Something about the secret Dr. Robertson kept and which Edward knew about. What we found shocked us. I’m afraid we took the cowards’ way out and disposed of everything.”
Orlando guessed those papers, perhaps part of the incomplete manuscript they’d seen, may have outlined Atherton’s murderous intent. “What was so shocking? The depth of Edward’s anger at the man?”
“Yes.” Mr. Blackett’s normally ruddy face had paled. “And his frustration at his ‘useless body,’ as he put it, making him unable to exact vengeance. My wife is very conscious of the fact that Edward isn’t here to defend himself against any accusations made.”
“That’s quite correct.” Jonty inclined his head solemnly at the lady concerned. “Which is why anything we say here today, while we believe it to be the best explanation for what went on, must remain confidential. Those concerned can only now defend themselves at a higher judgement seat. I think,” he added, nodding at Orlando, “we’d better explain our thoughts.”
“Of course.” Orlando took a deep breath. “Back in May, two Oxford students were drowned at a notoriously dangerous bathing spot. As we’ve discussed, one of those young men was the younger brother of George Llewelyn Davies, a comrade who never made it home. Atherton believed Paul Robertson had been responsible for those deaths. He was not the only one to hold that conviction.”
Charles cut in to ask, “Have you been able to establish whether my brother really was implicated?”
“We haven’t. We felt that whether he actually bore some responsibility or not was outside our remit.”
“That sounds a touch sloppy if you don’t mind me saying so, Professor Coppersmith.” Among those present, probably only Ariadne would have dared make that remark, and it was spoken with an amused twinkle in her eye.
“Not sloppy at all, Mrs. Sheridan.” Orlando hid his grin as best he could. “The question of his guilt was not relevant; the fact of people believing he was guilty was highly relevant. A possible motive for revenge.”
“Was this the secret Edward referred to?” Mrs. Blackett had at last found her voice once more.
“Not necessarily. There are other related possibilities. Again, those concerned—and those number several people—can no longer either confirm or deny what went on, so we must content ourselves with what we can surmise.” Orlando stopped, aware that he was sounding pompous and possibly bordering on the incomprehensible.
Jonty took up the narrative. “The problem with this case is that it’s based on suppositions everywhere we turn and little in the way of fact. One fact we do have is two dead men in a consulting room in London. On the face of it, the doctor helped his patient kill himself, then took his own life. But both men had made the kind of arrangements which indicated they intended to come out of that consulting room alive. So either they’d had a change of heart or one man had murdered the other and then taken his own life, perhaps in a fit of remorse. Or, the murderer had himself been murdered by somebody outside the room. Poison already in the decanter.”
“Ah.” Mrs. McGinley wagged her finger. “That’s why you asked me what colour those capsules were. The whisky could have hidden them.”
“Indeed.” Orlando’s mind had cleared enough to pick up the story again. “But all those theories felt too haphazard for this case. Coincidence is all well and good, but we prefer an explanation which doesn’t rely on it. My colleague talked about suppositions, but this case has also been dogged by assumptions. The assumption that the two apparent suicide letters were just that. The assumption that it didn’t matter if the poison was in the whisky or not, because this was so clearly a double suicide. The assumption that a crippled man couldn’t murder an able-bodied one.”
“You don’t think Edward’s suicide letter was genuine?” The note of hope in Mrs. Blackett’s voice was so pitiful that Orlando, for the first time, felt pity for her. “He’d seen the light. It meant he’d never consider suicide again.”
“You may well be right, given that we suspect he had no intention of dying in that consulting room, once he’d played his avenging angel role. But the letter was real.” Orlando spoke slowly, and with as much kindness as he could muster. “If he’d changed his mind about using that letter in reality, we certainly believe your brother used it to persuade Dr. Robertson that he was still serious in his intent to take his own life. To get him into a locked consulting room with the means of murder close to hand.”
Jonty took up the tale before Mrs. Blackett could protest. “Robertson’s own letter intrigued us from the start because it read so oddly. Mrs. McGinley, did he write verse? Specifically sonnets?”
“Oh, him and his poetry!” Mrs. McGinley threw her hands up. “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Dr. Robertson’s work was atrocious. I like reading a bit of Kipling—he can rhyme, and he’s surprisingly moving for a balladeer—but the doctor’s work wasn’t fit to compare.”
Jonty nodded. “He must have read it to you, then?”
“He did, and to anybody else who’d listen. That would include Mr. Atherton.”
Jonty beamed. “That’s as we suspected.”
“Dr. Robertson said the man was quite enthusiastic about his sonnets, although I suppose that might have been part of his plan, whatever it was. I couldn’t share that enthusiasm. It was too painful, having to smile and pretend I enjoyed it.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “I told a little white lie. Asked him to forgive me my sentimentality, but I found the content too romantic and could he forbear from reading it in my presence. It upset me to be reminded of my late husband.”
“An excellent strategy.” Jonty smiled at the housekeeper, then addressed the rest of the company. “We don’t believe what he appeared to have left was a suicide letter, just a draft for a sonnet. If you rearrange the lines you get this.”
He took a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket to pass round, starting with Mrs. McGinley.
“Oh. I see.” She peered closely at it. “Yes, this looks like the other stuff, now. How did we not notice before?”
“Because we weren’t looking,” Jonty observed, with evident feeling. “People saw what they expected to see, or wanted to see. Or were intended to see, although we’ll come to that. Not least Atherton, who, we believe, took the word ‘pushed’ to indicate Robertson had pushed Michael into Sandford pool. Literally or figuratively. Mr. Robertson, did you not suspect your brother’s letter was one of his poems?”
Charles, who’d been studying his feet, looked up at the mention of his name. “I did. But I never imagined, whether poem or prose, it was anything other than an explanation of why he’d decided to end it all. ‘The way ahead is paved with misery,’ or some such stuff. That’s his final line. I really did think it meant the end of things.”
“That’s entirely understandable,” Lavinia cut in. “And it might be best not to discuss the nature of this poetry, given that your brother isn’t here to clarify his intended dedicatee.”
Orlando, once more, was grateful for her good sense. The thing he’d dreaded most about this scene had been the likelihood of discussing the love which dare not speak its name. “Suffice to say, it’s possible that Atherton confronted Paul Robertson, and asked him to produce that sonnet—which he’d have seen previously. He’d make an accusation that Robertson caused the deaths in Oxford, and the sonnet was corroboration of the connection.” Please God nobody would ask if the implication was less homicidal than sexual. Best to stick to that element.
“Then,” Orlando confirmed, “although this is all speculation as to the exact events, we believe Atherton would have professed that with his suspicions satisfied, he could end his life. Maybe he’d have produced a sob story about having failed his old comrade in not preventing Michael’s death.” Orlando had been avoiding Jonty’s eye, but he could almost feel the man’s discomfort at the reminder of an ordeal still to come. “He’d have asked for a final drop of whisky for each of them, which he’d have been helped to drink. Then he’d have been given a capsule by Dr. Robertson, which he’d have stored in his mouth rather than swallow or break open. While Robertson’s back was turned, he’d have spat it into the man’s glass.”
“Preposterous!” Mrs. Blackett shrieked.
“He used to do such things at university,” her husband reminded her.
“And Dr. Robertson always knocked his whisky down in one gulp,” Mrs. McGinley said. “It would have been easy for him to swallow a capsule or maybe break it open by mistake, if it hadn’t already dissolved in his drink.” She suddenly addressed Wilshire, accompanying her question with a disarming smile. “Did Mr. Atherton practice this spitting skill? I can imagine that if a man had so little he could still be proficient at, he’d want to keep his hand in.”
Wilshire avoided his employers’ gaze. “He did, at his London flat. He used to say it was the only sport left to him. We had competitions but he always beat me. It didn’t occur to me that he might be using that as preparation for something until after he was dead.”
“At what point did you move things about in the room?” Jonty enquired. “When Mrs. McGinley had gone off to get help?”
“I’m afraid so.” Wilshire was blushing, but nonetheless he spoke calmly and kept his gaze on Jonty. “When I served, my lieutenant used to say, ‘Quick’s the word and sharp’s the action, boys.’ You had to be decisive in battle, didn’t you, sir?”
“You did indeed.” Jonty brought his fingers up to his scar, then withdrew them again. “So you acted?”
“Yes. The two men were dead. I saw the cyanide, saw the letters, and I guessed there was nothing I could do for them. While Mrs. McGinley had gone, I realised that things might not be as they appeared. There was spittle on the table and down Mr. Atherton’s front, and all I could think of was those stupid competitions. I thought if I wiped the spit away and made it appear like they’d faced death calmly, that would be for the best. I could handle the rest later.”
“You said notes. Was Atherton’s suicide letter on display?” Orlando enquired.
“Yes. I put the two letters side by side, as part of the tableau. I wouldn’t have rummaged it out if it hadn’t already been there.”
“We understand.” Jonty, evidently trying to allay Wilshire’s distress, flashed him a smile.
The young man responded with a smile of his own, before recommencing. “I didn’t want him implicated in murder. I suspected it from the start, but I couldn’t be sure. I had to make a decision. I’m sorry if it was the wrong one.”
Dr. Sheridan, magisterial and dignified, sounded as though he were pronouncing a sentence. “Only God and his angels could judge that.”
The company fell quiet, each perhaps—like Orlando—wrapped up in thoughts of times they’d had to make a swift decision about what to do, a decision they might later regret.
Mr. Blackett eventually broke the silence. “But if things happened as you say, how did Edward die? Assuming he spat the poison out.”
“Maybe he was given two capsules, one of which broke in his mouth,” Orlando replied. “Maybe he was forced to take one by Robertson, once he realised he’d been poisoned. We’ll never know.”
“There was a trace of something on his mouth.” Wilshire nodded. “Like gelatine, maybe. It reminded me of France; the horrible, inhuman way it made him look. I wiped it away.”
“You shouldn’t have done that.” Mrs. Blackett’s protest seemed automatic and without conviction.
“Perhaps it’s as well he did,” her husband remarked. “Would you prefer the shadow of murder to sit over him? As you tried to put that shadow onto the doctor?”
Dr. Sheridan spoke again, obviously weighing his words. “We clearly have a decision to make, ourselves. We can’t know the truth of what happened in that room, even if we can construct a likely order of events. With that in mind, are we prepared to leave the memory of both men with a cloud over it? The memory of four men, if you include the two at Oxford. Or would we rather say the judgements of the coroners are not to be contested and leave all, as Dr. Stewart has pointed out, to a higher, all-knowing, authority? I believe we should particularly respect the wishes of Mrs. Blackett and Mr. Robertson, being those closest to the departed.”
A long, tense period of silence ensued, which left Orlando’s nails digging into his palms. Eventually, Charles spoke. “Let sleeping dogs lie.”
“I agree.” Mrs. Blackett raised a handkerchief to her eye. “Thank you.”
Orlando inclined his head, although who was being thanked and for what wasn’t exactly clear.
***
Once the Blacketts had gone, everyone in the room seemed to relax. Charles was effusive in his thanks for clearing his brother’s name and for the skilful way in which they’d managed to ensure Paul’s proclivities had been barely touched on. Those still present promised their continued discretion and determination to put the details of the case behind them, at which point Charles left with his head held high and a distinct expression of relief on his face.
“Anyone for champagne?” Ariadne announced once he’d gone. “I feel we deserve something for our efforts.”
“I agree with you.” Mrs. McGinley rose from her chair. “Would you like a hand?”
“Please.”
While Ariadne and Mrs. McGinley were fetching bottles and glasses, Dr. Sheridan suggested his guests move chairs to fill the gaps left, which meant Wilshire and Phyllis ended up side by side. The blushes and tentative smiles expressed their pleasure and embarrassment.
“You two really had no idea about the trust fund?” Jonty asked.
“None whatsoever. I’d be making more concrete plans for the future if I had,” Wilshire replied. “Mr. Atherton told me he was grateful for everything I’d done and would see me duly rewarded, but I thought that was to do with the money he left me in his will to have a couple of pints with. It didn’t occur to me there might be more.”
“I’ve been speaking to our eldest brother on your behalves.” Lavinia twirled her glass in her hand. “He lost some key men among his staff, men he’s found hard to replace. He’d be happy to find you a job if you felt the need to leave the Blacketts.”
“Thank you. I think we’ll need to consider our plans carefully.” Wilshire gave Phyllis a smile.
“I hope you’ll be well provided for.” Jonty raised his glass towards them. “I suspect it won’t be enough for the lap of luxury, but with any luck it will let you do a job you’d enjoy. Do jobs you’d both enjoy, I should say, as I’m sure Miss Chambers would like to carry on her career. She has brains, this girl. Don’t you forget it.”
“I won’t. She’s the one who worked out what some of those funny codes of Mr. Atherton’s meant.”
“We’d guessed that you might have done.” Orlando elevated an eyebrow at Phyllis.
“And I guessed that you’d have guessed.” Phyllis grinned. “But I gave up decoding them because they were all just nursery rhymes. I suppose he was trying things out.”
“Indeed. Or cleverly disguising things.” Jonty’s fingers drummed the arm of his chair. “If he knew you were likely to be able to break the codes, he might have produced lots of seeming nonsense so that if you found another message starting the same way, you’d give up on it. Then he could keep the meaty stuff for the end.”
“He was a very clever man,” Phyllis said with obvious affection.
“And one who knew whom he could trust.” Jonty’s fingers ceased their tattoo, then pointed at Wilshire. “Would you ever have admitted to moving some of the things in that consulting room if we hadn’t come along poking our noses in?”
“No.” The gardener shook his head. “As you said, he’s got a higher authority to report to now. I’d have kept quiet right until the end if Mrs. Blackett hadn’t started saying the doctor might have killed Mr. Atherton. And then hearing that his brother was under suspicion too, I knew I had to act. It wouldn’t be right to let two innocent people come under suspicion.”
“How did you know about Charles Robertson?” Orlando enquired.
“Ah, that would be my fault, I think.” Lavinia didn’t sound particularly sheepish about it. “I had tea with Phyllis. She told me she was worried that you wouldn’t tell the truth, Mr. Wilshire, although at the time I had no idea what that ‘truth’ would involve. She said that you wanted to protect your master’s memory above all things. I told her that the innocent might well suffer if you were so pigheaded.” The last bit was clearly aimed at Wilshire.
“Lavinia, I love you dearly, but I now remember why I sometimes contemplated hitting you with my cricket bat when I was only nine. Your trusting nature could have mucked this case up.” Jonty laid his hand on his sister’s arm and kept it there while he addressed the others. “We suspected you two as well, especially when we found out about the trust fund and realised you’d have had time to move things about in the consulting room, postmortem, as it were.”
Lavina squeezed her brother’s hand, while it lay on her arm. “And I now remember why I could have thumped you with my tennis racket. Grant me some brains. Remember how young Phyllis here made a point of saying she and Wilshire were now friends?”
“Yes.” Jonty faced Wilshire. “And you used the same sort of words, didn’t you? ‘We’re friends now.’”
“Exactly.” Lavinia beamed. “And I wondered if that what they meant was Friends. Quakers.”
“Oh.” Jonty smote his forehead, theatrically. “I see.”
“I was very impressed with them, during the war. I saw them driving ambulances. I’d always wanted to find out more.” Wilshire smiled, shyly. “The rest of staff would think I was soppy, but Ph—Miss Chambers here understood. We joined the Friends months ago, although I can rarely get to their meetings.”
“Maybe you’ll have more chance if you move to another job.” Lavinia patted her brother’s hand affectionately. “Don’t you see? Once I knew that they were Quakers I was pretty certain that they’d not have killed anyone.”
Jonty took her hand to his lips. “Mea culpa for being so precipitate and doubting you. You’re Mama’s child indeed.”
“Just so long as she doesn’t have the same right hook?” Phyllis remarked, much to Wilshire’s bewilderment.
“You’d better explain.” Ariadne refilled the glasses, while Jonty rubbed his hands together.
“Well, it was back in the days when my mother was just a wee slip of a girl . . .”
Orlando sat back contentedly to listen to the tale of the suitors, the punches, and the arras.