Jonty walked into the Bishop’s Cope to find Orlando—a tired Orlando, given the yawn he was stifling—already waiting. They’d both had a long day, but the prospect of steak and kidney pie (or snake and pigmy, as they’d always called it) was enough to keep any man going for a while longer.
“Success?” he asked, once he’d got himself settled with a pint of the landlord’s best ale, beer that was almost as good as the pie would be.
“I think so. The mechanical engineers seem a pretty decent crowd.”
“That’s not to what I’m referring, as you know well.” Jonty took a long draught of ale. “Mrs. McGinley.”
“Very informative.” Orlando contemplated his beer. “Would you like a précis?”
“Naturally. Covering all the salient points. Rather like,” he added, sotto voce, “your bathing costume.”
“Behave.” Orlando summarised his interview with the housekeeper, interrupted only by the arrival of the pies, and ending with, “So, on the face of things we have exactly what it’s supposed to be: a double suicide. Robertson murdering Atherton would be the simplest other option, given that locked room. A worryingly easy solution, I have to say.”
“Isn’t it allowed to be easy?”
“No!” Orlando clearly didn’t intend to answer so vehemently. He looked around hurriedly, in case he’d caused a bit of a scene. “Sorry. That sounded petulant. As if a problem with an easy solution isn’t worth solving at all.”
“Perhaps it isn’t.” Jonty tapped the table with the handle of his fork, sending a shower of gravy droplets onto his hand. He went to lick them off, remembered his manners and wiped them with his napkin. “We’ve been remarkably lucky in our career, haven’t we? No major case which turned out to be a mare’s nest or frustratingly straightforward, even if some have been distinctly topsy-turvy. It will happen one day. Bound to. Maybe it will be now and this case. Would that be too difficult to accept?”
“Yes.” Orlando looked bleakly at his pie. “Though I guess it would be what my mother used to call character forming.”
Jonty snorted. “I think our characters are formed quite enough, thank you. Back to the case. There are lots of odd little elements, aren’t there? To suggest that it’s not so straightforward.”
“Oh, yes,” Orlando nodded, with a touch of returning enthusiasm. “Like Robertson having made the publisher appointment for later in the day.”
“Exactly. And his not responding to his brother’s communication—or so the brother says—and this talk of secrets. All of these things probably innocent, but if they’re not, they might come together to make an excellent mystery. As excellent as this pie.” He scooped the final portion from his plate. “I wonder why the housekeeper kept being so prickly one moment, then nice the next? Her age and sex, if that’s not too indelicate?”
“I wouldn’t know about that sort of thing. Your Lavinia might. Maybe it was just the natural indignation of the accused innocent?” Orlando toyed with the remaining piece of pie crust, then seemed to admit defeat. “It has to be the brother next. And Miss Chambers. Maybe your Lavinia could help with her, too. Act as chaperone for an interview.”
“That’s an excellent idea. The old gal has a flair for getting to the truth of things. Quite like Mama.” Jonty felt a sudden tug at his heart at the thought of his mother, who’d probably at that very moment be sitting in heaven nursing a sherry and telling the angels off for not wearing their vests. “Talking of members of the clan Stewart, great and small, Robertson is a master at young George’s school.”
“Is he, by Jove? That’s handy.” Orlando’s delight turned to a frown. “Unless that would compromise Georgie’s position? His uncle turning up and asking questions.”
“I think Georgie’s quite capable of compromising his own position without any help from me. It’ll be all I can do to stop the little toad trying to help.” Jonty laid down his now-empty glass. “Would you mind awfully if I went to see him on my own?”
Orlando picked up his glass and slowly knocked back the last few drops. “Not if you have good reason.”
“I believe I do, but maybe best not to discuss it here.” He smiled, trying to put Orlando at ease, knowing full well what lines the man’s mind would run down. “And before you ask, it’s no fault of yours. Mea culpa.”
Orlando still looked concerned, but he nodded. “In your own time, then.”
The “own time” didn’t come until they were back in Jonty’s study at St. Bride’s. On leaving the Bishop’s Cope, a sudden downpour had sent them scurrying for refuge in the college, all cabs apparently having been washed away. They asked the porters to summon up transport for twenty minutes time, and went to dry out.
The experimental innovation of gas fires in the fellows’ rooms—the dunderheads were yet to be trusted with such modern amenities—meant they could access heat quickly, without the bother of laying an open fire. Soon steam was rising from their coats and the conversation could resume.
“Do you remember when I went to George’s school prize giving in the summer?”
“Of course I do.” Orlando snorted. “I’m not senile. And I remember you being a touch distracted when you returned although you told me that was because you were sad your mother and father hadn’t been there to see his triumph. I’m not sure I entirely believed you.”
“And right you were not to do so. I’d never been to the place, and it reminded me horribly of my old school.” Jonty shivered, despite the warmth the fire was throwing out. “Not the atmosphere—if I’d had any suspicions on that front I’d have made Lavinia get him out of there in a flash. He’s a handsome lad. The image of his grandfather.”
Orlando nodded, and laid his hand on Jonty’s arm. “I understand. Go on.”
“It was the buildings, the school hall, the grounds. It could have been a mirror image of my old place of torture.” He’d been a handsome boy, falling prey to a pair of older pupils, with the connivance of their housemaster. It had taken him a long time to find true healing, the start of which he could date firmly to 1905 and meeting Orlando. The war had set him back, but he was steadily regaining ground. “If I have to return and face it, then it might be wisest to face it on my own. I had to lean on Lavinia when I was there this summer, quite literally at times. If you’re there, then it could become obvious why I rely so much on you.”
“Oh, come on you. Pecker up.”
Jonty let himself be enfolded in Orlando’s arms, those wiry, strong, safe arms, and pressed his head onto his lover’s shoulder.
“You are such a goose.” Orlando held him tight. “Not for getting upset, but for not telling me at the time.”
“I know.” Guilty as charged.
“And you’re a double idiot for coming up with this harebrained plan.” Orlando tightened the embrace. “I agree that it might be compromising to go together if such memories would get evoked. So why not see Robertson somewhere else? He’s allowed off school grounds, surely?”
“I’m certain he is, but that’s where he wants to see us. I failed to think of a valid reason to persuade him we should meet elsewhere.” Maybe Jonty should have left the arrangements to Orlando. He might have been more forceful.
“In that case, there’s another solution. I’ll go and see him. You can take Lavinia off to a swanky London hotel and treat Miss Chambers to afternoon tea.” Orlando eased out of the cuddle, holding Jonty at arm’s length. “Will that work?”
“It might. If Georgie doesn’t get into a flap wondering why I’m not doing the job.”
“I’ll talk to him. Man to man. I’ll play the need for absolute discretion card. He’ll understand.”
“I daresay he will if it comes from you. All sorted, then.” Jonty pulled Orlando back for a kiss. “It’s been a long time since we’ve done this, here. Makes me think of our courting days. Shame that the porters will be coming up here to let us know about our cab, because I can think of other things we used to do in this very room that we’ve not done in an age.”
“Behave.” The obvious reaction in Orlando’s body contradicted his word, but Jonty saw the wisdom in caution.
“Fine. I’ll keep my rousings in the undergrowth for when we’re at home. But I’ll hold you to that promise.” They shared another kiss, then attended to the more pressing matter of a raincoat that was just starting to singe.
***
The morning of Orlando’s trip to see Charles Robertson dawned bright, clear, and apparently Jonty-less. He wasn’t in the bedroom nor the bathroom, although Orlando’s panic subsided when he heard a pair of unmistakable voices in conversation downstairs.
“You’re up early,” he remarked, as he went through the dining room door to find Jonty warming himself by the fire and Mrs. Ward retreating into the kitchen.
“Woke with the lark and couldn’t get back to sleep.” Jonty smiled, but he appeared preoccupied. “I remembered what I’d not done. Sort of.”
“That sounds ominous if it put you off your sleep.” What sin of omission could be so important?
“Less ominous than upsetting. I remembered I’d promised to do something, for somebody, but I can’t recall who or what.”
“It can’t be that vital, surely, or else the details would have come back to you, wouldn’t they?” Orlando rubbed his lover’s arm.
“I suppose so. But it’s a touch alarming not to be able to recall who I owe the favour to.” By the wild look in Jonty’s eye, his preoccupation had turned to anxiety. “I’m not losing my memory, am I?”
“Not as far as I can tell. Come on.” Orlando put his arm round Jonty’s shoulder, then led him to the table, as the housekeeper reappeared with the teapot. “Thank you, Mrs. Ward. Just what’s needed.”
“I’ll leave you to it.” The housekeeper returned to the kitchen, from where a wonderfully comforting aroma of cooking bacon drifted.
“Maybe there’s a reason you can’t recall things.” Orlando poured them both a cup of tea. “Here, this’ll do you good.”
“Thank you.” Jonty blew on his tea, then took a draught. “What reason would I have not to remember?”
Orlando chose his words carefully. “If it’s somehow linked to times in the past where your mind has tried to help you forget events. In France.”
Jonty nodded slowly. “You have a point. I can quite believe that things lie buried there still. But why start to disinter them now?”
“Maybe this case has brought them to mind. Something about the King’s Rifles or the Llewelyn Davies boys.”
“Or the reminders of my schooldays.”
“Yes.” Orlando hadn’t wanted to mention that. “And whatever it is, it will make itself known.”
“And what if it’s too late when it does? For me to do what I was meant to do?” Jonty cradled his teacup without drinking.
“Then no blame can attach to you. It’s not as if you deliberately avoided doing something.” Orlando reached over, took the cup from Jonty’s hands before holding them between his own. “You wouldn’t. It’s not in your character.”
“I suppose not.” Jonty took a deep breath, then smiled. “If this case has been the trigger, perhaps it’ll help me put all the story together.”
“Indeed.” Orlando just hoped it wouldn’t end up pulling Jonty apart.
***
The layout of Georgie’s school may have reminded Jonty of his own schooldays, but there were elements to make Orlando recall his college days, not least the magnificent sports pitches. What a wonderful setting to play in, completely walled off from the outside world and its hoi polloi, and at present bathed in autumn sunshine. He’d arrived early and been offered a tour of the place by an eager porter, who’d recognised the Coppersmith name.
“Splendid, isn’t it, sir?” he averred, with an expansive sweep of his hand.
“It is indeed. I think I’d have been in my element as a schoolboy here.” He’d been a day pupil, at a far less impressive establishment and even now felt a pang of envy for the boys who learned their periodic tables and the like in such surroundings.
“I’m not sure any of us appreciate our schooldays, to be honest. Not at the time. Only with hindsight.”
“Very true.” Orlando was interrupted as a man—likely to be Charles Robertson given the way he was gesturing—appeared.
“Professor Coppersmith?”
“Mr. Robertson?” Formalities were completed and the porter dismissed with profuse gratitude for the tour. “Thank you for seeing me. Where would be best for us to discuss matters? A bench out here might present less chance of us being overheard.”
Robertson wrinkled his nose and eyed the changing rooms with a rueful smile. “I think there’s a gang of spotty oicks about to appear and do something fanatically physical. We should repair to the chapel.”
“That seems sensible.” The chapel hadn’t been reached on the tour, so Orlando could only let himself be guided through a court and up a winding staircase, following in the teacher’s wake like a frigate behind a tug. He was pleased to find the place offered as much privacy as the bench at the far end of the rugby pitch would have done. The chapel could almost have been the larger brother of St. Bride’s chapel, a place where Jonty had always found succour and solace, even if Orlando had rarely experienced those sensations.
They settled themselves in the choir stalls, where the light streaming through the magnificent stained glass window would neither blind nor dapple them.
“Please call me Charles,” Robertson said. “I hate stuffy formality.”
“Then you should call me Orlando in return. That window is stunning,” he added, discomforted. Even he and Jonty didn’t address each other by their Christian names in public. What was the world coming to?
Charles, who didn’t seem to have noticed anything amiss, beamed. “Isn’t it? It’s quite new.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. It replaced the old one back in 1422.” Charles had a pleasant, lopsided smile. “These places move slowly, don’t they?”
“They do.” Orlando took out his notepad and pen, trying to subtly signal that business was about to begin. “Tell me about your brother. If you could sum him up in a sentence or two?”
“Paul was a nice enough chap, on the surface, at least. Easygoing, although the war hit him hard, as it did so many of us.” Charles looked over at the opposite wall, where a roll of honour listed the old boys from the school—and masters, maybe—who’d not made it home. “Sometimes I think the shadow of those days will never leave us.”
Orlando nodded, not trusting his voice to keep an even keel.
Luckily, Charles didn’t seem to expect a reply. “He was a good doctor, there’s no doubt about that, even if one might disagree with his ethics where easing those in pain was concerned.”
“You don’t agree with that concept?”
Robertson turned his shrewd gaze back on Orlando. “Do you?”
“I haven’t really given it much thought,” he replied, lightly. “You said that your brother was nice enough, on the surface. What lay beneath?”
“An unhealthy interest in men. Especially in young men.” Charles made a face, a clear expression of disgust.
So the conversation had arrived there; the place he and Jonty always wanted to avoid. Orlando took a deep breath before firing off his next question. “An unhealthy interest in young men? A romantic interest?”
“Precisely that. If grown men want to indulge in that vile stuff in the privacy of their own homes, that’s up to them, but when it involves those of a younger age, it’s nothing more than coercion as far as I’m concerned.”
Orlando kept his eyes fixed on his notepad, measuring his response and calming his thoughts. Had that first part, the grown men in the privacy of their own home, been aimed at him and Jonty? Surely not—how could Charles know, unless their names were being bandied about the school for some reason? He faced Robertson, facing his own demons in the process, but the teacher’s expression didn’t seem to indicate distaste for him. Best to plough on.
“In Paul’s case, did those younger men include boys? It happens, particularly in schools. Maybe even here,” he added, maliciously. If Jonty had been here he’d have no doubt, given the setting, sent up a speedy prayer asking for that not to be true.
Jonty. Thank goodness he wasn’t here, to have his memories stirred afresh.
“If it happened here, we’d stamp on it,” Charles said.
Hopefully that was indeed the case and not just an example of people sticking their heads in the sand. “Nasty things could never happen in a nice place like this” was exactly the sentiment that allowed nasty things to have free rein.
Charles frowned. “Not boys, as far as I know, but young men. Like the undergraduates you have at St. Bride’s. He likes—liked them to be intelligent, too. Well-spoken and well-mannered. He didn’t seek to associate with those of a different social status.”
Orlando held his tongue. What was so wrong with mixing with different types of people? They’d done it on the battlefield. There was no risk of catching something terrible from somebody, just because they’d been born in a different social echelon. Unless it was snobbery, which appeared to be infectious in some spheres.
“I blame the war,” Charles remarked.
Funny how people wanted to blame the war for everything. Yes, those years had wrought devastation on people’s lives, not least his and Jonty’s, but not everything could be laid at its door. “I was told he came home from France with neurasthenia.”
“You don’t need to use that term, Orlando.”
Orlando winced.
“We both know you mean shell shock. He returned home with it four years ago. He got better, but he was never the same as he’d been back in 1914, even though he’d not taken part in the fighting. He saw enough carnage in the field hospitals to upset the strongest stomach, doctor or not. That’s why he hated to see any suffering. He’d seen too much of it, knew too well what some of his patients went through.”
Yes, that made sense, even if Orlando wasn’t certain that was the only thing being referred to.
“So Paul liked men,” he stated, in a matter-of-fact way. “Did he like them before he went out to serve his country?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. It was the proximity to all those poor, suffering souls that turned his mind.”
Orlando knitted his brows, unable to believe such a ridiculous story. Surely Paul had always been as he was and his brother had simply denied it? “Hmm. Did he commit illegal acts with other men?”
“Illegal sexual acts?” The words must have tasted sour in Charles’s mouth, given his expression. He cast a swift glance at the altar, as if afraid to discuss such matters in this setting. “I suppose so. I have no proof.”
“Did Edward Atherton have proof? That your brother was doing things which the police might be interested in?”
“Edward Atherton . . .? Is that the chap my brother helped to die?”
“Yes.” Orlando noted the pause for thought, but let it go at present. If Robertson was pretending not to know Atherton, that could be exploded at the right time.
“I have no idea. Are you thinking he may have been blackmailing him and was silenced?”
The forthright answer took Orlando aback. “I’m not thinking of any scenario in particular. Atherton’s sister wants to establish the truth about what went on between her brother and yours, so far as we can establish it, given that we have no witnesses to what did go on in the room.” Orlando paused, aware that if he pushed his point too aggressively, he would risk antagonising his witness. He noted there’d been no flicker of reaction from the man at the mention of nobody being in the room. “One has to consider any and every reasonable possibility and assess which is the most likely.”
“Isn’t the most likely that my brother helped Atherton kill himself and then took his own life?” Charles ran his hand along the carved wood of the stall. “Must things be made more complicated?”
“Maybe they are more complicated whether we make them so or not. I believe you were at your brother’s house the day he died. Wanting to see him.”
The teacher narrowed his eyes, pausing before saying, “Yes. I needed to talk to him. I suppose that you already know that he’d not been responding to my previous efforts at communication?”
Orlando nodded. “I did. I’d like to know what you wanted to discuss with him that was so urgent.”
“The matter I referred to earlier. His unnatural obsession with young men.” Charles stared up at the “new” window. “Have you ever run across the Llewelyn Davies boys?”
Llewelyn Davies? Was this some oblique reference to Charles’s connection to Atherton? A connection the teacher had skimmed over earlier in the conversation. If Atherton and George had become chums out in France, he might well have voiced his concerns about his brother to Atherton, as a friend of the family.
“Not in person, but the Llewelyn Davies were known to my colleague Dr. Stewarts’s parents.”
“Ah, yes. Would that be G. J. Broad’s uncle?” Charles turned and smiled. “Excellent family. I’m sorry Dr. Stewart couldn’t be here today.”
“So is he,” Orlando lied. “But you’ll understand how pressing college business can be.”
“Please send him my regards. If he had that connection, he might have come across the story this summer. Of Michael’s death.”
“He mentioned it, in regard to this case.” Orlando observed a flash in the teacher’s eyes. “A tragic accident, it appears?”
Charles snorted. “Accident? Maybe. Michael couldn’t swim, so what was he doing in the water in the first place? And in such a spot? Only a fool would have gone to swim there.”
The teacher sounded calm, but his hands, gripping tightly to the choir stall, were white.
Orlando kept his powder dry. “Atherton had a connection to that family, as well. Is that why you wanted to see him too?”
“I’m sorry?” For the first time in the interview, Robertson sounded unsure.
“You said you’d wait to talk to both your brother and to his patient. Did you?”
“Did I wait?” The bullishness appeared to have returned. “Only for five minutes, then it seemed pointless. When I did come back, it was too late to talk to anyone.”
“You haven’t quite addressed my point. Did you or did you not want to talk to Atherton, as well?”
“Why should you think I’d have had anything to say to Atherton?”
“It’s not what I think. We have been told, by a most reliable witness, that you were there to see both men.”
“Then your witness is not as reliable as he or she appears to be.”
Orlando sighed. “So you say you only went there to see your brother. Would you share with me what was so important to discuss with him?”
Charles stared at the altar again, remaining quiet for so long that Orlando began to wonder if he’d been taken ill. Finally he said, “No, I don’t think I am able to. The matter can no longer be dealt with now that Paul is in his grave. We should respect his privacy as he can’t answer for himself.”
“But we have a duty to the living, too. To Atherton’s family. If, let us say, he found out about your brother’s penchant for young men and threatened to make that public, it would be possible that your brother killed him to ensure his silence.”
Charles’s face, deathly pale, showed Orlando his barb had hit the mark; he also got the distinct impression that this was the scenario the teacher had himself suspected and feared. He pressed on.
“Is what you wanted to talk about connected to Michael Llewelyn Davies?”
“No.” The teacher spoke slowly. “There was another young man killed at the same time. Rupert Buxton. He was a good friend of mine. And no,” he added, hands raised to stop any argument, peaks of colour rising again in his cheeks, “I don’t mean there was more than friendship in our relationship. I am not my brother.”
“I never implied you were.”
“I’m sorry. People have such filthy minds. I have a fiancée, whose mother is good friends with the Buxtons. That’s how I got to know Rupert. That’s how my brother got to know him, too.” Charles scowled.
Orlando was grateful that Jonty hadn’t come, that he wasn’t present to hear words such as “filthy,” nor the rest of the discussion. Would they have been able to hide their own opinions on these matters? These were difficult waters to sail through, especially in the presence of someone as ardent as Charles Robertson. Best to keep the conversation based on the principles in the drama and away from the investigators.
“However, I have to ask this, given the circumstances. Was there more than friendship between your friend Rupert and Michael?”
Once more, he had to wait for an answer. The teacher was clearly torn between the “filth” aspect and reporting the facts as he understood them. “I truly don’t know,” he said at last. “What I do know is that my brother’s continued association with Buxton worried me. I felt he—Paul—was a bad influence.”
“In what way?”
“In what way do you think? Have I not given you enough of an indication or must I spell it out?”
“He tried to seduce Buxton?” Orlando tried to keep his voice steady.
“I don’t know if a physical seduction had been attempted, although I suspect that was the end he had in view.” Charles sighed. “My brother was unhealthily besotted with the man. I saw them together, by which I mean at the same social events, on several occasions. The interaction between them didn’t seem natural.”
“In what way? Over affectionate?”
“No. Buxton seemed . . . uneasy in my brother’s presence. Not scared, but distinctly uncomfortable. I wanted to protect him. Protect them both.”
“Let me get this clear.” Orlando concentrated on his notepad; safer that than risk eye contact. “You wanted to protect Paul from his own inclinations?”
“Of course I did.” Charles ran his hands through his hair. “I didn’t want him brought into disgrace. The more he indulged those ‘inclinations’ as you put them, the more he put himself at risk. I suspect—” He stopped abruptly.
“Yes? What do you suspect?”
Charles fixed his gaze on the roll of honour again. “If I air my suspicions, you must promise me you’ll keep them confidential. As I’d ask you to keep in confidence all I’ve told you about my brother.”
“You have my promise that I will only share what you’ve told me with my colleague Dr. Stewart and that in aid of solving this case. I hope my word of honour would be good enough for you,” Orlando added, drawing himself up tall in his seat.
“That is more than ample,” Charles replied, turning back to face him. “I was about to say I suspect that’s why he might have taken his own life, to put himself out of temptation. Nothing to do with easing Atherton from this world. A convenient matter of timing to put the two together and so hide the real shame he felt.”
It could be true, but Orlando didn’t want to believe it. Easier for Charles to hide the shame he felt, certainly.
“Didn’t your brother’s letter contain any sign of why he’d killed himself?”
“Yes. To my eyes at any rate, although I didn’t mention it at the inquest. Better to accept their explanation of guilt at helping another man to die.”
Orlando made a note—a delighted note—that the letter’s ambiguity had been confirmed. “Might I be allowed to see it? Or a copy of it?”
Charles looked puzzled. “I suppose so. I’m not sure it can help you in any way. It was read out in court and nobody—except presumably Atherton’s sister—read anything into it that was amiss.”
“Nonetheless, I’d be grateful if you’d oblige us. You’d be surprised at what can help in a case. The merest unconsidered trifle. And your brother’s letter would be far from that.”
“I’ll send a copy to you if you leave your address. Is that all you want to know?” Charles made ready to get up.
Was that all they wanted to know? Not by a long chalk, but how could Orlando ask, “Did you poison the whisky?” Best to leave that consideration until they had a clearer view of the case.
“For the moment, yes. I may need to come back to you. It’s a bit like putting together a puzzle. One fits in a new piece and suddenly the picture looks subtly different and one has to reassess what one thinks one knows.” Orlando now had a second reason to be grateful Jonty wasn’t present: he’d have ribbed him for sounding so pompous. “Actually, there is one piece we have yet to fit in anywhere. The publisher.”
“The publisher?”
“Your brother had an appointment to see a publisher, later in the day he died. Can you tell us their name?”
“I . . . I can’t.” Charles paused, halfway along the chapel aisle, carefully avoiding Orlando’s gaze. “I think there may have been a letter from a publishing company with Paul’s effects, but I burned it. Along with any other personal things.”
“Wasn’t that a touch precipitate? What if there was anything important among them?”
“Then presumably somebody would have got in touch with me to discuss it, or visited Paul’s house. The account of his death was in the newspapers.”
That was eminently plausible, so why should Orlando feel so loath to believe him? Was it the jittery air Charles had worn about him since the publisher had been mentioned or were his own feelings coming into play? When Jonty had been believed dead, Orlando had been made to deal with a number of issues he’d had no desire to deal with, but they had been duties that needed performing. He’d had to force himself to read some of the post that had arrived addressed to his lover, but he’d been kept going by knowing he’d had the Stewart reputation to preserve. If there had been any chance of something untoward turning up, he’d have wanted to deal with it.
“Well, if you remember, will you let us know?”
“I will.” Charles held his hand out to be shaken with an air of finality. Orlando shook it, made his good-byes, and went off to gather his thoughts.
***
As Orlando walked to the station, unease hung about him like a crowd of black crows, a murder of them, as the collective noun so aptly had it, or maybe an unkindness of ravens—big, black depressing birds of thoughts. Recollections of Jonty’s blighted days at school wanted to escape their binds and haunt him afresh, igniting a desire to take vengeance for all those who’d had their innocence taken away against their will.
He halted. Perhaps those were precisely the ideas Charles entertained. Perhaps young men were inveigled by older men into doing things they’d later regret. Even he could appreciate how somebody on the brink of manhood might feel grateful for love, any sort of love. And Jonty, who had so much more of an understanding of human nature, had assured him that many young men experimented, toying with relationships with those of their own sex—either at school or university—before moving on to more usual relationships with women. Although whether that was a matter of choice or conforming with society, or maybe a mixture of both, Jonty hadn’t been sure, but the beautiful boy of the sonnets appeared to have trodden that path.
Maybe this Buxton had simply been dipping his toes in the waters of life, trying to find where his true course lay and Charles hadn’t wanted him set off down what he saw as the wrong stream. Perhaps Atherton had entertained some similar feelings about Michael Llewelyn Davies, on his late brother’s behalf, even if the exact connection there was yet to be established. All in all there was an awful lot that still had to be established, not least what had been written in the suicide letters.
The station hove into view, and he was back to where he’d started in more ways than one; there only, on the face of things, seemed to be two possible options. A joint suicide, as the coroner had ruled. Or Paul Robertson killing Atherton to stop him sharing his secret—presumably that he lay with men—and then taking his own life, for the same reason. It was the doctor’s death that stuck in Orlando’s craw. He surely couldn’t have been worried that he’d be arrested for assisting a suicide, as he’d plans in place to make that death appear natural, and he’d got away with euthanasia in the past.
Had he been worried that with Atherton dead, Charles, or somebody else in the know, would bring his secret into the daylight? In that case, why not murder Charles as well? Or just take his own life if he feared exposure from all sides?
There was more to this than what lay on the surface. Orlando needed to pin down this publisher business for one thing; he was sure it was related to the case although for the life of him he couldn’t yet see how. Much as he hated to defer to his lover’s intellect, perhaps Jonty would have some insight on the subject. Why did it all have to be so frustratingly obscure?
He hit out, an innocent London plane tree taking the brunt of his punch. It hurt, but he felt better for it. Maybe a romantic interlude with Jonty later would make him feel better still.