Irrespective of Jonty’s warning, Orlando took the offer of a cup of tea from Mrs. McGinley, even if he made sure his cup was empty before she poured—into both cups, from the same pot—and that she drank first. He felt awkward doing so, sure that Jonty’s mother was watching him from heaven and tutting at the palaver, but a man had to be careful. He’d been made very welcome, Mrs. McGinley evidently delighted to have a young (or younger) man to fuss over once more and even Dr. Gurney, the present master of the house, had been amenable, showing Orlando the consulting room and explaining what, as he understood it, had happened where. He’d shown Orlando what he kept in the poison cabinet, not that many of the names, apart from arsenic, signified much.
Orlando wished Jonty had been there to interpret the scene, because it didn’t bring the further illumination he’d been hoping for. Maybe picking the brains of the housekeeper might be more rewarding. Thank goodness he had some fresh questions to pose her, including, “Did Dr. Robertson routinely keep cyanide in his poison cabinet?”
“Not that I’m aware, but that doesn’t signify a great deal. The only time he referred to it was making a joke about me not wanting to go in there in case the hyoscine leaped off the shelf and grabbed me. He did have quite a sense of humour,” Mrs. McGinley added.
“Did you see the form the cyanide was in? Specifically the capsules or tablets which were left in the bottle?” There was only a slim chance she could answer accurately, because if the medicine bottle had been the usual dark brown, she wouldn’t have been able to get a true impression just from looking at it.
“I glanced at them before they got taken away by the police, but they were funny-looking things, sort of amber coloured. Not like the usual pills and jollop.” The housekeeper’s eyes widened. “Is that important?”
“It might be. Don’t be concerned about the volume of questions, it’s just that we have to make sure we get every aspect of the case clear. We can’t tell which will be the key one until we have them all lined up.”
“Like skittles to be knocked down?”
“It does feel somewhat like that,” Orlando conceded. But the colour of the poison seemed like a skittle that could potentially stay upright. “There could be no doubt about the colour? Sometimes these things look slightly odd in medicine bottles.”
“No doubt, no. That was an odd thing, too, because I always assume poison will be in a brown bottle. But this was clear glass.”
Orlando nodded contentedly. “You have no idea how satisfied that clear bottle makes me.”
If the capsules were the same colour as the whisky, then maybe they wouldn’t have been noticed as they dissolved to produce a lethal brew. Although, he realised with a sinking heart, if they were in the poison cabinet, how could Charles have got his hands on them?
“Did Dr. Robertson show his brother the contents of his consulting room?”
“Do you really want to know if Mr. Charles was shown the contents of that poison cabinet? And maybe purloined something from it?” Mrs. McGinley’s eyes widened again.
Orlando put up his hands. “Guilty as charged.”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you. I do know that Dr. Robertson took every care that the thing was locked. But don’t let that spoil your theory, whatever it is,” she added. “Anybody with an ounce of gumption should be able to get their hands on cyanide if they want to.”
Indeed they should. And if they gave a false name and false account of why they wanted it, the “means” part of the equation blew right open and let anybody in.
“But not everybody could get it into a sealed room, even via the medium of a decanter of whisky. Who apart from Charles could have tampered with it?”
“Not me.” Mrs. McGinley seemed to state this as plain fact rather than in her defence. “Nor did I tamper with that room at any point.”
“I never thought you did.” Orlando accompanied his white lie with a smile. “But you weren’t the only person to go into the consulting room.”
“You’re thinking of young Wilshire.”
“Yes. It sounds terrible to have to be suspicious of everyone, but we need to explore each avenue and examine each option.”
“I do understand that. You don’t have an easy job to do.” The housekeeper smiled, sympathetically. “Even innocent people don’t like having to account for themselves.”
“Very true. Dr.—” Orlando just stopped himself from confessing that Jonty found many of the things he said and did markedly peculiar if not downright suspicious. Mrs. McGinley, with her twinkling eyes and welcoming manner, reminded Orlando of his dear, long-departed grandmother, and it would be too easy for intimate things to slip out. He gave himself a mental dressing down, then finished the sentence with, “Let’s just say that my colleague has an extremely mistrustful nature and needs everything explained down to the last detail, blameless or not. Which brings me to my next question. This May just gone. Did Dr. Robertson visit Oxford then?”
“May. Let me think.” Mrs. McGinley knitted her brows. “That was after the measles swept through, so he might have done. Yes, he did have a weekend away, as he was so tired. There was one poor mite he almost lost, and Dr. Robertson sat up with him all night, as the parents were at their wits’ end.”
“I avoided the measles, but my parents nearly lost me to whooping cough. Nasty business.”
“It is. But this little lad survived. What date had you in mind for his trip?”
“Around the nineteenth.”
Mrs. McGinley nodded. “Yes, he was certainly away on that day. I remember the sixteenth, which was the doctor’s last surgery before travelling, because he had a new patient. A man about your age, suffering from very low blood pressure, so low that he collapsed in the waiting room and split his head open on the edge of the table. Blood everywhere.”
“Your job isn’t for the fainthearted, is it?” Orlando remembered passing out at the sight of a nosebleed. “How can you be so sure of the date?”
“It was my wedding anniversary.” Mrs. McGinley rose and fetched a picture of her with a naval officer. “My Tom would have been highly amused at the situation, blood notwithstanding. The patient’s name was Pellew, although he didn’t seem to have the physique nor the temperament of his admiral namesake.”
“Ah. Yes.” Orlando would have remembered any event happening on November the fifteenth.
“He might have been in Oxford on the nineteenth. He told me he was going to be travelling, but left a contact address of the Randolph Hotel only to be used in emergencies, so he must have been there for a minimum of one night.”
“Indeed.” Enough time to try to sew some seeds of discord between Michael and Rupert? Maybe Robertson didn’t need to have been present at Sandford pool if he’d created sufficient disharmony. Orlando could imagine Michael and Rupert going for a walk, too close to the riverbank, then arguing. Blows being exchanged, perhaps, one or both of them slipping into the deadly waters. “What was he like when he returned? Refreshed by his holiday?”
“Not at all. Worse than before he’d gone, I thought, but I didn’t press him about it. He was peculiarly touchy, for one thing. Much snappier than he’d been lately.”
“When you say worse, could you be more specific?”
“Very low in spirits. Worried about something, maybe. Not himself at all.” Mrs. McGinley studied the picture of her husband again. “Dr. Robertson was affected by the war, as many men were. But he’d recovered his spirits. Just after last Christmas he was as happy as I’d ever seen him.”
A man in love, possibly? Who’d found healing and redemption in that love? Only to find his hopes dashed because the object of his affection had found somebody else? If Paul had become so low after such a high, then maybe it would have put thoughts of suicide in his head.
If he’d gone to Oxford in May to try to win Buxton back, simply to end up with the man dead, it could have been the tipping point. It might also explain the words in the letter, if they were meant to show he’d pushed Buxton into a disastrous situation; that sort of thing might gnaw as deeply at a man’s conscience as if he’d committed the act of violence himself.
Orlando’s thoughts must have been reflected in his face, because Mrs. McGinley asked gently, “Is this sending your theories scurrying for cover?”
“It is indeed. I keep thinking the most sensible course would be to give up, that there’s no mystery to be solved, despite all the intriguing little aspects to the case. But the voice of conscience—rather than vanity for our reputation as amateur investigators—keeps telling me that we simply haven’t asked the right question, or turned the puzzle the right way. Like one of those pictures which can represent two things at once.”
“What do you think the other picture might be?”
Should he lay all their cards on the table? In the end, he opted for exposing half a hand.
“A murder. Or two murders, coincidental rather than with a planned connection. Because each suicide has had doubt cast on it, both in terms of the victim’s motivation, and the fact that they’d made plans for the rest of the day. There were also motives for both men to be killed, although I suppose,” he added in frustration, “that might apply to any of us. Having reasons people might murder us, I mean, but we aren’t all murdered.”
“And thank goodness for that. But I do take your point. That business between Mr. Charles and his brother might have been highly suspicious if the death had been in any other circumstances.”
“Exactly.” Orlando looked down at his cup, but his taste for tea had deserted him. They sat without speaking until he could bear the silence no longer. “When you broke into the room and saw what had happened, did you go for help immediately?”
“Yes, pretty well immediately.” Mrs. McGinley frowned. “Time gets distorted in an emergency; hours feel like minutes and vice versa, but I didn’t dawdle.”
“And do you—did you—have any doubt that both men were dead? They couldn’t have been simply drugged or unconscious?”
“I don’t think so, although I didn’t actually touch either of the bodies. Wilshire did. But he didn’t need to tell me they were dead—I could tell by the horror in his eyes.” Mrs. McGinley shuddered. “I’ll never forget that scene. I don’t remember going down the stairs to the telephone or what I did after that. It was like I was in a walking faint.”
“That must have been terrible.” Terrible but intriguing. “How long did that sensation last?”
“I have no idea. Ten minutes, perhaps, maybe twenty. I came to at the kitchen sink, with the knocker on the door going ten to the dozen. I suppose that’s what roused me.”
“Who’d arrived?”
“The policeman. And then the doctor I’d called came. The tea had got cold so I had to make some fresh.” She stopped, evidently distressed. “You don’t think I might have done something silly while in that daze? Something I don’t remember anything about?”
“I have no idea.” Jonty had suffered similar fits of “being elsewhere,” waking up with no knowledge of the last few minutes, but as far as Orlando knew he’d never done much other than sit, staring into space. “Where was Wilshire all this time?”
“I couldn’t say. He’d gone to summon that constable, but he must have come back before the police arrived. Is it important?”
“It might be.” Especially because it could have given Wilshire ample time to do whatever he wanted to do in that consulting room.
***
Jonty crossed the threshold of Georgie’s school with a determined step. If having Lavinia at his side wasn’t quite the same as having Orlando, she was an excellent substitute, not least because she’d reacted to the story of Hughes and Saunders with the maximum of good sense and the minimum of questions. First they bearded Charles Robertson in his den, as that was the lesser of the two evils he’d face this day, but the welcome they received was hardly warm. The man had made it plain that his duties—even on a Saturday morning—with the boarders meant he only had a short time he could put aside for visitors. Jonty suspected it had only been Lavinia’s suggestion that she talk to the headmaster instead that had got Charles to see them at all.
He escorted them into an empty classroom where he perched on the side of a desk while Jonty ushered Lavinia into a chair before taking his own seat.
“Thank you for seeing us. We’ll keep to the point.” Jonty took out his trusty notebook.
“I appreciate that,” Charles responded, although his face implied he’d rather be in the dentist’s chair having his teeth drawn.
Jonty smoothed down a page of his pad. “We’re interested in establishing your brother’s whereabouts in May. Could Paul have been in Oxford at the time Buxton died?”
“I am not—sorry, was not—my brother’s keeper.” Charles’s cheeks were suffused with an angry blush.
Jonty had bigger fish to fry than stroppy teachers. “That may be so, but it doesn’t answer the question.”
Charles’s resolve seemed to crumble. “I honestly don’t know. He’d been away at that time, but he wouldn’t tell me where. Told me it was none of my business. That’s what we argued about when I came to dinner, shortly before he died. He was being so damn . . . excuse me, Mrs. Broad, so very secretive. That’s why I was so desperate to talk to him again. I wanted to know the truth.”
“We’ve read his suicide letter. He clearly felt troubled, perhaps guilty, about something. Do you think he meant he carried some culpability for those two deaths?”
Charles blew out his cheeks. “It pains me to say so, but I believe that’s entirely possible. Not necessarily a direct involvement, even if he was bothered by a moral responsibility for the deaths.”
“I think you’d better explain. And be assured that you can speak freely in front of my sister. She has a remarkable understanding of the world at large.” Jonty nodded to Lavinia, who immediately began trying to look suitably wise and maternal.
“He’d got himself convinced that hostilities were on the horizon again. That all the bloo . . . excuse me, all the mess of those years in France and Belgium would be repeated.”
“Why on earth did he think that?” Lavinia wondered.
“Oh, wars and rumours of war. Any tiny bit of unrest, whether it was in Jaffa or Cairo or in the back of beyond was more ammunition for his argument.”
Lavinia gave a vexed little shake of her head. “Surely there’s always been unrest, in some part of the world or other, probably since the time Ham and Shem squabbled over which bit of dry land they’d have for themselves.”
“Exactly,” Charles agreed. “I’m not saying that his concerns weren’t valid to some degree. Nobody would want to see a return to slaughter on the scale we saw it, so many young lives lost.”
“Amen to that.” Jonty spoke louder than he’d intended to. He thought of sitting with Ariadne in the punt, humming “Tipperary.”
What’s the use of worrying? It never was worthwhile.
No, indeed, but many people couldn’t help themselves, finding consolation in having a worry to fret over. Orlando was often guilty of such behaviour.
“But seeing fires of conflagration in every spark borders on madness. In Paul’s case, madness fuelled by his infatuation with Buxton.” Charles, face haggard, ran his hands through his hair. “One night Paul was in his cups and spouting all this nonsense about young men like Buxton and Llewelyn Davies, how they’d just be cannon fodder. Worse than that, people would soon find out they were ‘so’ and make their lives a living hell. He was rambling.” He took a deep breath. “It was the shell shock talking. I know that.”
“We understand. Truly.” Lavinia’s voice, so consoling, so like her mother’s, and following so hard on his introspection, stunned Jonty. “But how does this relate to their deaths?”
“I believe he unnerved them with his wild talk. I suspect he scared Llewelyn Davies witless, for one thing. He’d already seen his brother not return from the last war.”
Lavinia spoke again, the velvet tone to her voice harbouring a cutting edge. “Is that all, though? Wasn’t there an element of jealousy? Seeing Buxton friendly with this other young man, someone more his own age?”
“Of course not. Buxton wasn’t like that, I tell you. More like the Earl of Southampton, who Shakespeare slavered over. Above it all.”
That didn’t quite agree with what Charles had said the last time, according to Orlando, but Jonty didn’t interrupt. His sister was doing a grand job making Charles uncomfortable.
“So they didn’t kill themselves? After entering into a lovers’ pact?”
“No!” Charles almost shouted. He glanced hurriedly over his shoulder at the door, then lowered his voice once more. “No. I believe that Llewelyn Davies tried to kill himself—otherwise why would such a poor swimmer bathe in such a dangerous spot? Buxton must have leaped in to save him. I know that. He was a good, decent, brave man.”
Jonty took advantage of Charles’s palpable emotion. “How strong was your brother?”
“Strong?” The teacher knitted his brows. “He was well built. An athlete in his younger days.”
Jonty liked the sound of that. “Strong enough to push two men into a river?”
“What are you suggesting?” The voice was raised again.
“I think my brother is wondering if your brother might have had a more active role in the deaths.” Lavinia smoothed a wrinkle in her gloves. “As his last letter stated, he felt bad about pushing somebody. Perhaps it was a literal push.”
“He’d never have pushed Rupert.” Distaste flickered once more on Charles’s face.
“Would he have needed to do so?” Lavinia pressed her finger to her chin. “If he’d shoved Michael into the river—which he might have done, thinking he was a rival—Rupert would have dived in to save his special friend.”
Charles’s pained expression indicated he was torn between supporting the notion of his friend’s noble nature and denying any indication that Buxton and Michael had anything “special” in their relationship. “I can imagine him laying down his life for any friend,” he responded finally.
“So much for Oxford. Now we need to clarify this.” Jonty ignored Charles’s snort of impatience at the change of subject. “The day your brother died. You’d gone to the house to try to see him.”
“Yes. We all know that. He hadn’t been responding to my messages. I had to get time off. Pleaded a family crisis.” The teacher stared at his shoes and then the wall.
Lavinia leaped in. “Did you only go to see him? What about Atherton? Despite what you said before to Professor Coppersmith, you wanted to see him as well, didn’t you?”
Charles’s head jerked up, his mouth working as if he was going to protest, but then he slumped back down. “Yes, I wanted to see him, too. He’d sent me a letter in early June, saying he believed my brother may have played some part in the drownings, but he had no proof. I wonder if he’d got the impression from Paul that I disapproved of him, so hoped he would find an ally in me.”
“Yes? And?” Lavinia waited, much as she might wait for Georgie to explain why he was teaching his sister how best to use a catapult.
“And I replied saying I would value meeting him to discuss my own concerns. The meeting never happened.”
“Why was that?”
“He told me he was having second thoughts about accusing people without just cause. He’d had a deep conversation with a nun not long before, which had come back to haunt him.” Charles’s raised eyebrows showed what he thought of that. “A few days before he died, he wrote to say he had the proof he needed. And he’d speak to me after he’d had his consultation with my brother.”
“Why didn’t you tell us this before?” At last, proper corroboration for the theory that Atherton had changed his mind about killing himself.
Charles blew out his cheeks. “Self-preservation. I’d already assumed you might suspect I’d killed my brother. I didn’t want to connect myself too closely to the other dead man.”
Jonty wondered what would happen if he punched the teacher right there and then. Would the matter ever get taken to court? Would Lavinia swear blind that it had been a case of self-defence? “Can’t you appreciate how suspicious this all looks, now?”
“Can’t you appreciate that it would have looked suspicious at any point? I have my position here to consider.” Charles defiantly stared Jonty down.
Lavinia broke the standoff with, “Can we return to the matter of the publisher? The one Paul had an appointment to see and whose name you say you can’t remember.”
Jonty watched the shutters come down in Charles’s expression and was pleased, again, that he had Lavinia at his side. While he only seemed to produce aggression in the teacher, she appeared able to get into the man’s mind.
“We’ve promised you our absolute discretion, Mr. Robertson.” The honey-laced-with-steel tone remained. “You tell the boys about the importance of truth and integrity. Please don’t disappoint George and the others like him by not living up to the standards we’ve always expected of you.”
Charles blew out through his nose. “The publishers are James and Parkins. I can’t recall their address, but they’re a London firm.”
“Thank you.” Lavinia laid her hand briefly on the teacher’s arm, as if in benediction. It seemed the interview was at an end, a warning note in his sister’s glance silencing any further questions Jonty might have. They shared some pleasantries before Charles led them from the room and into a small courtyard, where she let loose a final barb. “And you honestly don’t have any idea what your brother wanted to discuss with them?”
“You must ask them that. If I knew, I would tell you.” The wide-eyed, tense-mouthed expression on his face suggested he wouldn’t dare not tell Lavinia anything she wanted to know.
“He gave no indication that it might have been on Atherton’s behalf? An autobiographical manuscript?”
If Charles was putting on his puzzled surprise, then he must be an exceptional actor. “I don’t think so. I don’t remember hearing anything along those lines, certainly.”
“One last question. On my part.” Lavinia smoothed her gloves again. “When you met your brother for dinner, you’ve said you fell out. Concerning the business we’ve already discussed. The death of those two students.”
“Yes.”
“Was it just about that? Or was there more?”
“I . . . What more do you think there could be?”
“Well—” Lavinia’s sentence was cut short as a small boy dashed across the courtyard and skidded to a halt in front of them.
“Excuse me, sir. It’s very important, please. Excuse me, ma’am, sir.” He bobbed his head at all three of them. “There’s been an accident in the gym, and Henley minor’s bleeding all over the floor and could you come and administer first aid, please?”
“You’ll have to excuse me.” Charles was retreating as he spoke, relief at the unexpected rescue lighting his face. “The boys’ welfare must come first.”
“Of course.” Lavinia shooed him with her hand. “Don’t let us hinder you.”
When the teacher was safely out of earshot, Jonty asked, “What were you going to say? He didn’t look enthralled at the prospect.”
“I had an idea about that row he had with his brother. But I won’t regale you with it now. I need a bit of verification. All I’ll say is ‘Earl of Southampton.’” Lavinia smiled; an infuriatingly smug expression, redolent of bright ideas not yet to be shared, which Orlando insisted he’d often seen on Jonty’s face. At last he knew how exasperated the chap must feel at it. “I’ll run this publisher chap to ground as promised, which might help with my theory. As soon as I have something to back it up, I’ll let you know. However, I think I should tell Orlando first, as he was the one to set that hare running.”
Jonty thought about arguing, but there was little point once his sister had decided upon something. Instead he straightened himself up, took a deep breath, and saluted. “We should go and look for Saunders. Once more into the breach, old girl.”
“Not so old, thank you.” Lavinia took his arm tenderly as they went in search of their quarry.
Saunders wasn’t anywhere to be found. They asked at the school porters’ office, then waited for ten minutes, reading the notices and generally trying not to get in the way. The profusely apologetic porter returned to say that Saunders major had unfortunately been called away to accompany Saunders minor back to Sussex. The lad was suffering from mumps and had been ordered to rest in his own home. Jonty, who’d screwed his courage to the sticking place, felt no sense of relief at the postponement of the ordeal. It was as though he’d been revising madly for an exam, only to have it deferred to an unknown date and unknown setting. He dismissed to the back of his mind the uncharitable thought that Saunders minor had come down with mumps deliberately, just to thwart him.
“It can’t be helped.” Lavinia linked his arm as they set off for her home. “Maybe it’s for the best. You could come back on one of the days Georgie is here. He’d be the envy of all his classmates.”
“I’m sure he would.” Jonty patted his sister’s arm. “Although not if he knew what I’d come here about. Please God he never will.”
Lavinia stopped, then fondly kissed her brother’s cheek. “Over lunch we’ll say you have business here, but it’s a great secret to do with the war and if he snitches anything about it to anyone, even his best friend, he’ll be in trouble with the king. That’ll sort him out.”
“It will indeed.” Jonty returned the kiss. If only everything could be sorted so easily.