Jonty himself didn’t need to feel any better than he already did. If he’d known that his light of love was suffering such thoughts, he might have felt a pang of conscience, but he didn’t know and he wasn’t suffering, having made the conscious decision to ignore the nagging voice in his mind concerning his “sin of omission.”
He was in a lovely hotel, awaiting the arrival of afternoon tea, with his sister at his side and the prospect of interviewing Miss Chambers ahead. Lavinia, in an elegant grey silk dress, looked every inch the daughter of a lord, but she also wore a friendly smile and, when their guest appeared, she scooped her up and fussed over her until she was entirely at ease. If that scooping up had involved one or two mild jibes at her younger brother’s expense, it was surely just in the interests of efficient investigation and couldn’t have anything to do with avenging any slights that might have happened when she was thirteen. Could it?
Miss Chambers was younger—and prettier—than he’d expected, well dressed, well-spoken, with excellent manners and a vaguely familiar face. Lavinia wasn’t exactly fond of the female of the species, but the secretary seemed to have even made a good impression on her.
The advent of the waiter with enough tea, sandwiches, and cakes to have fed the British Expeditionary Force gave Jonty a pang of concern for his slightly expanding waistline, but he decided he’d have to load his plate in a similar quantity to the ladies, purely in the line of duty. Lavinia, who despite motherhood was as slim as a reed (perhaps all that running around with George and Alexandra and their kites kept her fit), eyed the plates of goodies eagerly.
She and Miss Chambers set about ordering for filling cups and lading plates, which assuaged any lingering pangs of guilt Jonty had. The matter of cake quantity was out of his hands now.
Once everyone had their feast in front of them, Lavinia wasted no time in getting down to business. “Have you always worked as a secretary, Miss Chambers?”
“Oh, please call me Phyllis. Otherwise it all sounds so formal. And, to answer your question, I’m afraid it’s a resounding ‘maybe.’ I worked at something much more responsible during the war. The sort of managerial administrative work that has traditionally been the male preserve. Afterwards I struggled to just go back to doing the mundane and suitably feminine.”
“Very understandable.” Jonty spoke with feeling. Many women must think the same, having taken on roles that made the most of their brains and abilities, only to have to relinquish them when the men came home. It seemed such a waste of talent. “I don’t suppose it’s been easy to find another job that’s been as rewarding.”
Phyllis nodded. “I’ve been working for an agency, so I get some variety. I was so delighted to be taken on by Mr. Atherton. I liked working for him; he was a true gentleman. My last assignment involved somebody who wasn’t.” She flushed.
Never had Jonty been so pleased to have his sister by his side; he must be losing his touch or be out of practice or something, because the prospect of discussing whether Phyllis had been chased round the desk unnerved him. This felt like even more of an awkward moment than when the gamekeeper’s boy down in Sussex, who was built like a brick outhouse, had squared up to him. His brother Clarence had officially taken credit for felling the lad with his catapult before any Stewart bones had been broken, but everyone who’d been present knew that Lavinia had played the role of David to the rural Goliath.
Lavinia, who would no doubt have noticed her brother’s discomfort, leaped to the rescue again. She leaned forward, confidentially, lightly touched Phyllis’s arm and said, “I won’t ask the details, although I can guess what they might be. I’m afraid that’s something which many pretty girls have to endure but shouldn’t. It makes me so cross.”
Phyllis gave Jonty a swift sideways glance, then seemed to decide that he wasn’t to be tarred with the same brush. “I wish I’d been brave enough to report the swine to his wife, but as it was, I opted for punching him on the nose. I think he was so embarrassed at being struck by a woman that he didn’t mention it to anyone.”
“Good for you.” Lavinia winked at her brother. “Our mother would have approved having done a similar thing herself. I won’t go into the story now, though or we’ll never get down to business.”
“That punching old letches on the nose rings a bell.” Light suddenly, and belatedly, dawned on Jonty. “We’ve met before! During the war.”
Phyllis beamed. “I was wondering when you’d remember. I didn’t want to mention it, and we only worked in the same department for a few days. You had your colleague with you. Dr. Coppersmith.”
“Professor Coppersmith now.” Jonty grinned, then lowered his voice. “Phyllis and I were both working at . . . Well I can’t exactly tell you, Lavinia. The thing that I did during the war that I couldn’t even discuss with Papa.”
“Aha. I see.” Lavinia nodded.
Room 40. He and Orlando couldn’t talk about it at the time, and they wouldn’t talk about it now. They’d served their country well, dealing with codes and the like, before conscience—and the mounting toll of dead and injured among the alumni of St. Bride’s—had persuaded them to take a role out on the continent.
“Well, my dear,” Lavinia beamed, “you’ve gone even higher in my estimation, now.”
“Thank you.” Phyllis smiled. “Because of the nature of what we did, we got few enough thanks. I’d not have it any different, though. It was our duty.”
“It must have been a difficult duty putting up with this scallywag.” Lavinia nodded towards Jonty.
“We should press on,” Jonty remarked, before his sister could start listing his misdemeanours.
“If I promise to answer all your questions truthfully and effectively,” Phyllis said, “will you share that story about your mother before we go? I’ve heard mention of Mrs. Stewart and her charitable works.”
“If you can help us with our questions, you’ll hear about her right hook!” Jonty, delighted at the surprised look on the girl’s face, launched into the first question. “Did Mr. Atherton give you any indication that he was seeking to end his life?”
“Yes and no.” Phyllis frowned. “That’s not very helpful, is it? You won’t be sharing that story unless I pull my socks up. To clarify, when I first went to work for him, he seemed quite chipper, but then he became low. He was up and down, emotionally, all the way until the end. I suspected, even though he didn’t say so, that he wanted to make a record of his feelings, as well as his life story.”
“His life story?” Jonty and his sister spoke in unison.
“Yes. I didn’t just type up his business letters. He wanted a record made of his life, what he’d done in the war, and how ill he’d been afterwards. Maybe he wanted the story set absolutely straight before he took his own life.”
A sudden voice behind him made Jonty jump. “Hello, Stewart!”
He shot round to find one of his old acquaintances from University College days standing beaming at him. “Hello, Bertie.”
“Hello, Jonty. What have you been up to all these years?” The man eyed Miss Chambers with a twinkle and a knowing smile, as if Lavinia really was acting as a chaperone to a romantic encounter. Jonty didn’t seek to disabuse the notion. A man trying to hide his relationships in plain sight needed all the help he could get.
“If the ladies will excuse us, I’ll tell you.” He took Bertie’s arm, leading him away from the table.
When Jonty finally got away from his acquaintance, the residue of his tea had reached an undrinkable temperature and, almost more worryingly, his sister and their guest had become extremely pally.
“What have you been talking about?” He emptied his cup out into a convenient pot plant container.
“Not you,” Lavinia replied in exactly the sort of tones she’d used on him when he was seven and getting above himself.
“Don’t tell me. You’ve been discussing things which only ladies understand.” He picked up the teapot to get a refill, remembered his manners, and topped up all three cups.
“If you mean the advantages of using a braided silk line over a traditional one when fly-fishing, then yes, it was ladies’ business.” Lavinia grinned. She’d become quite addicted to salmon fishing, following a holiday in Scotland during the summer. Georgie was the envy of all his schoolmates, having a mother who could tie a fly and make a cast and gut a fish so effectively. “We left the nosing about in other people’s affairs until you tore yourself away from gossiping.”
“It’s not nosing about, as well you know. Atherton’s sister wants to know what really happened. As close as she can, anyway, given that there wasn’t a camera to observe and record events. Phyllis, you said his moods were up and down. Were there any reasons linked to those moods?”
“Yes. There was a period when he was much more optimistic, just after he’d started going to church. Properly going, I mean. Believing the liturgy rather than simply turning up for appearances’ sake, if you take my drift.”
“I do.” Jonty nodded. Phyllis was proving an extremely perceptive witness. “And did that new found faith make him less inclined to take his own life or more eager to reach the point where he’d rest in the everlasting arms?”
“I honestly don’t know. His moods seemed to vary so much, as though he was at war with himself about what was the right thing to do.” Phyllis stirred her tea, thoughtfully.
“Did that inability to make up his mind worsen as his physical state worsened?” Lavinia’s voice was soothing, maternal, made to elicit confidences.
“Now, that’s another odd thing. He seemed to have found something or other which he was secretly happy about. No, not happy, smug.” Phyllis tapped her teaspoon on her saucer, as if to emphasise the point.
“Smug—that’s an interesting choice of word. Might that have been because he’d discovered a secret about somebody? A secret which might give him power over them?” Jonty sipped his tea, grateful for the refreshment.
“That could well be so. He never mentioned what it was but something which gave him a hold over somebody would make sense. It wasn’t his sister by any chance?”
“No.” Odd that Phyllis’s thoughts had gone straight to her, though. “Did he not get on with her?”
“Oh, they rubbed together well enough, but he didn’t like the way she fussed over him. I suppose brothers and sisters will always be at loggerheads. Present company excepted,” she added, with a grin.
“We’ve had our moments.” Lavinia laughed. “No time to discuss them here, either, alas. Mr. Atherton could barely write his name, so did you type up his suicide letter?”
“I did. It was when he was in one of his blackest moods, would have thrown himself under a train if somebody had wheeled him along to the station. I didn’t like doing such a thing, but he insisted.” Phyllis took a drink of tea. “I told him I’d only do so if he promised to reconsider before he took any action. To wait until he wasn’t in quite such a slough of despond. I managed to defer matters anyway, by refusing to type the thing up there and then. He persuaded me to do so a couple of days later, but by the next week he seemed glad to be alive. He did, however, keep the letter for future use, aware how ephemeral his moods were.”
“Did he sign it immediately?” A faint light had begun to dawn in Jonty’s mind.
“No. He said he wouldn’t do so until the day he needed it in earnest.”
So there was a small chance that Robertson could have killed Atherton and faked his signature, assuming he could access the original document. “Where did he keep it?”
“In a document wallet containing all his most important papers. He had the thing stuffed down the side of his wheelchair so it was constantly at hand.”
At hand, and not just to Atherton, maybe? He’d surely not have been able to fight off someone who wanted to take any of those papers. “Can you remember what the letter said?” Jonty hoped they would get a clear insight into Atherton’s state of mind at last, even if it was only at the point he’d dictated it.
Phyllis frowned. “I’m afraid not. During the war I trained myself to forget lot of what I had dictated to me. In the ear, onto the page, and out of the memory always struck me as the safest option. One concentrates on typing quickly and accurately and not on the content of finished product.”
Jonty nodded. A wise approach in days when security was paramount and probably a habit that would be hard to shift. “Do you by any chance have a copy of it? Or did you train yourself to destroy things?”
“I managed to cure myself of that habit.” Phyllis grinned. “Because of the nature of the task, I kept my original notes. In fact, I have them with me.” She reached down for her bag, and drew out a large manila envelope. “They’re in shorthand, but I’ve done a fair copy to go with them.”¬
“Thank you. I’ll return this to you when we’re done.” Jonty took the envelope with delight. “Mrs. Blackett, who has the original suicide letter, alleges that she can’t put her hand on it.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me at all. I’ve never met her, so I could be doing the lady a great disservice, but from what I heard from her brother and . . . and things, I get the impression she can be quite stubborn.” The flush of colour on the secretary’s cheeks made Jonty wonder if the “and things” included Wilshire.
“You don’t by any chance have a copy of the other items dictated to you? Not necessarily the business papers, but maybe Mr. Atherton’s account of his life and feelings?” Lavinia probed gently. Maybe she too had noticed the blush.
“I’m afraid not. He kept all of them safely in a box at his London flat. Maybe so his sister couldn’t get her paws on them.” She grinned. “I suppose she got them after his death, anyway.”
Shame. A close examination of them might have yielded a clue, and Jonty wasn’t convinced that they could prize them out of Mrs. Blackett’s grasp if that’s where they were. “Your training notwithstanding, is there anything you can remember about them that can help us at all? Anything odd or suggestive that stuck in your mind?”
Phyllis knitted her brows in thought. Jonty let their witness rack her brains; there was value in patience and silence.
“He did have a bit of a bee in his bonnet. He left his money to Great Ormond Street Hospital, you know.”
“We did know.” Jonty liked the sound of bees and bonnets. “What was the buzzing about? The Peter Pan connection?”
“Yes. He told me that he knew the family ‘Peter Pan’ was inspired by. One of them died earlier this year.”
“Yes, I read about that.” Lavinia shook her head. She too must have noticed the family name and remembered their papa’s connection to the family.
“Mr. Atherton was distraught about it. He’d seen enough young lives wasted out in France to tolerate any such unnecessary deaths here.” Phyllis laid down her cup, shaking her head as Lavinia offered a refill. “No, thank you. I’m so awash with tea I fear I won’t think straight. Mr. Atherton had made a promise to one of the Llewelyn Davies brothers.”
“Was that George?” Jonty asked.
“Yes. He asked Mr. Atherton to keep an eye on Michael.”
Jonty nodded. “Yes, I see. Vows made to a comrade on the battlefield would be hard to break, of course. They’d feel almost sacred. Did George have a specific concern?”
“It seems he was worried Michael could be led astray.”
“Led astray? In what way?” Jonty made a face. “Excuse my sister, Phyllis. She’s given to the giggles.”
“And you seem to be given to inadvertent rhyming.” Lavinia held her finger to her lips. “I’ll behave.”
“He wouldn’t tell me what George’s concerns were, so I guess it must have been scandalous somehow. Young men do seem to be a bit wilder these days, don’t they?” Phyllis looked appropriately disapproving. “But he did tell me he didn’t think those drownings were just an accident.”
“I have some sympathy with that viewpoint.” Jonty felt wary about the path they were about to tread, especially in light of the “led astray” remark. “What was his opinion?”
Phyllis took a deep breath. “That somebody had been there, in Oxford, and somehow persuaded those two to go into the water, at a place their lives were bound to be at risk. Maybe even forced them into it.”
Jonty whistled. “Two murders, then?”
“He didn’t know, for sure, but he seemed determined to establish exactly what had happened. I don’t know if he succeeded. Maybe,” Phyllis nodded, meditatively, “he did find out and it upset him so much his thoughts turned back to taking his life. Because he’d let his old comrade down.”
“Quite possibly.” Jonty picked up his notebook, which had long been sitting idly on the table by his plate. He needed to improve his performance in the note-taking department or Orlando would slap him. “You had no indication whom he suspected of being culpable?”
“I’m afraid not. He said that if what he supposed to have happened could be proven, then the person involved could be brought to justice. Only then would he discuss names.”
“That does strike me as rather working against the idea of Atherton intending to take his life, or at least not to take it so soon.” Apparently Lavinia’s thoughts ran along the same line as Jonty’s. “When did he say this?”
“In the weeks before he died.”
“Then he’d have still had something to live for. A . . .” Lavinia waved her fingers. “A quest, if that’s the term I want, or some sort of determination to see the innocent avenged, following on from his meeting with the nun. I can imagine he’d have wanted to see a result one way or the other. Committing suicide would suggest he’d given up hope of ever proving the guilt of the man—or woman—he suspected.”
“That’s a pertinent point. I hadn’t considered it that way. Finding one’s sense of God can give anyone a new sense of purpose.” Phyllis nodded slowly. “I wish I could give you some clue as to whom he was thinking of, but I can’t.”
“We can make one elimination, in any case. It wouldn’t be the other young man who died at the same time.” Lavinia shook her head. “Not if the culprit was still to be brought to justice.”
“True.” Jonty looked at his notepad, then shut it carefully so as not to blot it. They’d probably reached the end of the useful questions, even if he had some less vital ones still to ask. “What did you think of the young man who acted as Mr. Atherton’s assistant?”
“Mr. Wilshire? I thought he was charming. He always made my tea just as I liked it, and bought the type of cakes I prefer. Not many men bother to show such consideration.” Phyllis seemed to glow at the memory. “We’re both friends now.”
Jonty shared a brief, secret look with his sister. Had Phyllis dropped a hint of that budding romance he and Orlando had speculated about? “We were most impressed with him. He’s observant, and eminently sensible. He was the one who helped us to find you.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. He’s wasted working in that garden.” Phyllis’s cheeks flushed even darker. “I mean it’s a decent enough job, for the right person, and the family treat their staff well, but a man wants to better himself, doesn’t he?”
Especially a young man with romance on his mind. Who could blame Phyllis if she preferred to walk out with a gentleman’s gentleman rather than a rose pruner?
“He does. It’s always good to meet men with ambition. Would it help him if we put in a word somewhere? Our brothers are always looking for the right quality of staff for their households. We could see if they have a vacancy.” Jonty caught his sister’s eye again. “Unless your Ralph needs a new valet?”
“Alas, not.” Lavinia pursed her lips in thought. “Albert will outlive us all. But I bet one of the boys could do with an extra pair of hands.”
“If I happen to see him, I could ask him if he’d be interested.” Phyllis’s voice sounded a touch too airy. “Now, have I answered everything about Mr. Atherton to your satisfaction?”
“You have indeed.” Jonty patted the manila envelope. “This alone is worth all the tea and cakes.” There was another thing he was less grateful for, but that element would have to wait until he was home.
Phyllis grinned. “I had in mind that story about your mother.”
“You’ve definitely earned that.” Lavinia laughed, then launched into an account that took in three suitors, various punches, an arras, and lots more laughter.