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Lessons for Sleeping Dogs (Cambridge Fellows Book 12) by Charlie Cochrane (1)


Chapter One

 

 Cambridge, September 1921

 

“Damn, damn, damn, damn, and blast.” A string of swear words preceded Orlando Coppersmith into the dining room of Forsythia Cottage.

“You seem slightly put out, old man.” Jonty Stewart, currently at the dinner table, put down the newspaper he’d been perusing. “Dunderheads playing up?”

“For once, no. I’ve been invited to address the Institution of Mechanical Engineers, at Birdcage Walk, in London.” Orlando took his place at the table, pouring himself a glass of wine and risking getting it all over the tablecloth given his lack of concentration, all the while waving what must be the invitation itself.

Jonty ignored the sumptuous smells coming from the kitchen in order to deal with the matter in hand. “Well, that doesn’t sound like anything to be cursing over. You’ll love discussing torque and moments and all that other nonsense.”

“I would, normally. But it’s the same day as the bridge tournament down at St. Francis’s College.”

“Ah.” That explained everything. Bridge was the thing Orlando loved most in the world, after mathematics and Jonty Stewart. And amateur sleuthing. “They can’t rearrange the date?”

“Of the talk? Or the bridge?” It wasn’t like Orlando to look confused, but today he seemed totally perplexed.

“Either. Or both. Although, in the latter case, preferably not to the same day.” Jonty smiled, amused at how an intelligent man could get himself into quite such a doodah over something so trivial—although that was Orlando all over. Maybe his appointment to professor had contributed, given that many of the breed seemed to be verging on stark staring mad.

“I don’t think that I dare ask them to change the bridge event. They can be set in their ways and quite belligerent.”

Jonty felt like saying, For goodness’ sake, you faced much worse in France than some crusty old dons who can’t decide on three no trumps or four clubs! but held his tongue. The war wasn’t a subject to joke about.

Instead he settled for, “Then talk to those there mechanical engineers. I bet they’re decent enough sorts. Plead a prior, vital university engagement, which is nothing but the truth.”

“It isn’t just that. There’s the date itself. November the fifteenth.”

“Ah.” The anniversary of their meeting.

“Now do you see the problem?” Orlando’s anger was now bordering on distress. The man was coming to terms with life again, after the long, bleak years of war—years that had set him back emotionally and left scars worse than the physical one across his chest. He’d returned from France in a slough of despond—understandable given that he believed Jonty dead—and had been dragging himself out of it since. While he wasn’t quite back to his 1913 peak of confidence, he wasn’t far off, and Jonty hadn’t had to worry quite so often about signs of regression. Although the fact this particular matter was clearly weighing heavy on him rang alarm bells.

“We could always defer our anniversary celebrations.” With affection, Jonty rubbed the gold ring he habitually wore on his little finger. Made from Welsh gold, of a stunning hue, this was the signet ring Orlando had given him in remembrance. “The world won’t come to an end if we push the date a day or two in one direction or the other. We’ve had worse anniversaries.” He didn’t add the years concerned—Orlando would know what he meant. The pall of war would take a long time to slip from the memory, if it ever did.

Orlando opened his mouth, as though to argue, shut it again, smiled, then nodded his head deferentially. “So long as you’re happy for me to proceed. But I’ll make sure the sixteenth of November is kept sacrosanct. Mark it in your diary.”

“I will do that very thing.” Jonty made the sort of sign he’d made as a boy, to assure his brothers he was making an unbreakable vow. “Any particular reason you’ve chosen that day above any other?”

“Of course. It’s only logical. That’s the first day I felt the urge to murder you. The chair incident, of course.”

“Of course.” Jonty smiled as his lover’s face relaxed. So far so good. He watched him ease into his seat, readying himself for the arrival of dinner, which must have been imminent given the sounds now coming from the kitchen. “Why hadn’t you already decided to do away with me? The wrong bottom having plonked itself into that chair the day before?”

“Because I was still thinking the matter through. I couldn’t have decided to murder you if I hadn’t already decided whether I liked you or not.”

Jonty snorted. For all his lover’s much vaunted sense of logic, he did talk twaddle at times. “Speaking of important engagements, I’ve got several coming up myself and one might involve you. Would your whites pass muster?”

“Whites? Isn’t it a little late in the year for a game of cricket?”

“It’s a traditional late fixture. Some clubs make a point of playing at unusual times of the year, like midwinter, although I suspect that’s mainly to take advantage of a nice roaring fire and a hot toddy or three afterwards. Ah!”

The arrival of Mrs. Ward, bearing plates of beef stew with vegetables on the side and dumplings on the top, put discussion to a temporary halt.

“You asked if my whites would pass muster? I noticed yesterday that yours were out on the washing line, where poor Mrs. Ward has no doubt had to employ the local fuller to get the accumulated grime of summer off them. And you were out in the garden last evening, practicing your cover drives.”

“I thought you were working on that paper of yours!” Jonty felt distinctly miffed at having been spied on.

“And I thought you were working on your exposition of ‘Sonnet 29.’ Or so you told me.”

“I was. A man can do two things at the same time. And the elegant, flowing lines of a cut over mid-off exactly correspond with the elegant, flowing lines from Shakespeare’s pen—quill,” he corrected himself. “Anyway, I believe that all my impressive wrist and foot work will be to no avail, despite the invitation for me to play.”

Orlando narrowed his eyes. “I don’t recall an invitation coming my way, not that I’m complaining about the fact. Why might this involve me, if you’re the one who’s been put on the team sheet?”

“It’s another case of double booking. I can’t make that date.” Jonty carried on tucking into his food. Such an excellent meal needed to be eaten while it was still hot. “I’m already spoken for. An engagement I dare not break, or my guts would be made into garters.”

Orlando looked up, grinning, fork laden with beef and peas that seemed—by some stroke of magic—to be safely adhering to the tines. Jonty could never have managed the feat. “That means women. Lavinia? Or Ariadne Sheridan?”

“Ariadne, naturally. We’re meeting for a cup of tea and a cake or two—our occasional celebration of the day she walked straight into Dr. Sheridan.” Quite literally and totally accidentally, changing her life in one random incident, much as he’d done by sitting in Orlando’s chair.

“Rather like you sitting on my chair.” Orlando, whose thoughts never seemed to go far from that incident, put his fork back to work again. “Irrespective of me wanting to murder you for it, would we have met otherwise, but for that random act?”

“Of course we would, you great noggin. I’d have been sitting across high table from you and you couldn’t have failed to notice my boyish charm, nor I to notice your unruly curls. Such things are meant to be.”

Orlando smiled. “Do you re-enact this meeting literally? On the threshold of the tailor’s shop or wherever it was?”

“I should say not, given that they don’t provide food or drink. We usually meet on King’s Parade, which also featured in the story. But on Friday she’s insisting it’s chez Sheridan, so I’ll be knocking on the door of the master’s lodge at St. Bride’s.” Jonty gleefully stabbed a carrot with his fork. “Much more comfortable in terms of seating, and a better nosebag.”

“Do you ever think of anything but your stomach?”

“Sometimes. I think of your stomach quite a lot, as well. How flat and smooth it still is. How muscular and—”

“Do be quiet.” Orlando cast a glance at the closed door.

“It’s a shame when a man can’t praise his lover’s anatomy in the privacy of their own home,” Jonty said, with a grin. “And we’re at no risk of Mrs. Ward hauling us up in front of the beak. Nor her granddaughter, as it would risk her continued employment.”

“Clearly all that serious consideration of the sonnets you allege you’re indulging in is stuff and nonsense. I don’t think your thoughts ever get off parts of your—and my—anatomy. And no—” Orlando held up his hand. “No taradiddle about iambic pentameters and rhyme schemes or whatever. It’s nothing more than a smokescreen to hide your true nature.”

Jonty, recognising the signs, concentrated on his food. Orlando’s tetchiness could only mean one thing. “You need a case. To improve your mood.”

Orlando opened his mouth as if he was going to argue, then shut it again and laid down his fork. “You’re right. I have no idea how I filled my days before this all happened.” He swept his hand in a gesture that seemed to take in Jonty, their cottage, and the elegant piece of silverware on the mantelpiece. The long-necked jug, a gift from a grateful client, was symbolic of investigations.

Jonty held his tongue. He had no idea how Orlando could have survived back then, cocooned in his own little world.

“Maybe,” he said at last, “our guardian angels—the ones you refuse to believe in despite all the evidence that they’re working like billy-o—are even now trying to push a case in our direction. The devil makes work for idle hands, and they wouldn’t want us put into temptation, would they?”

Orlando broke into a grin. “You do talk rot.”

Jonty lifted his napkin to his mouth. “So, can you take the field for me? You’ve an excellent eye for a ball, and that fifty you put together back in May for the St. Bride’s Fellows XI was a poem. A sonnet in itself, iambic pentameter or not.”

The talk turned to sport, and the beef was enjoyed against a background of leg spin and off drives.

 

***

 

The seats in the master’s lodge were just as comfortable as Jonty had predicted, and by the look of the laden plates on the table, the nosebag promised to be equally good. His hostess had made him nice and cosy, as she always did, finding them a seat in the autumn sunshine; although Jonty couldn’t help noticing there were three chairs at the table.

“Dr. Sheridan joining us?”

“Not today,” Ariadne replied, offering no further explanation. She’d always had a formidable knack of saying things in a manner that brooked no reply; Jonty would simply have to be patient and see who she’d invited. Maybe it would be Dr. Panesar, the brilliant but batty fellow of St. Bride’s who brought a formidable intellect—and more than a hatful of daft ideas—to the Senior Common Room.

Jonty’s thoughts turned to the last time Dr. Panesar had tried to create a time machine and the startled faces of the firemen who’d had to put the consequent fire out.

“How are things with ‘himself’?” Ariadne asked.

“Not so bad.” He shrugged. “Getting a bit restless, as he always does when nobody’s beating a path to our door pleading with us to solve some mystery that’s perplexed everyone else for years on end.”

“I might be able to help.” Ariadne picked up her cup and sipped her tea demurely.

“You haven’t got a case hidden in that reticule of yours by any chance?”

“No.” Ariadne smiled, a mischievous grin that took ten years off her age. She could by no means be described as a handsome woman, but when she smiled her face lit up with inner beauty. “But I know somebody who does. And”—she looked up at the clock—“he’ll be here in about three minutes’ time. Assuming he’s punctual.”

Jonty sighed happily. What better present to take back to Forsythia Cottage than the possibility of a case for Orlando to get his nose into? If he felt a fleeting pang of guilt that Orlando wasn’t there as the starter’s gun went off on a new investigation, he soon dismissed it; the man concerned would be having fun over his cuts through mid-off, so couldn’t complain. Even though he would. “You’re magnificent, do you know that?”

Ariadne beamed. “I have to admit I did, as my dear Robert reminds me of it often. You might not think so when you hear about the case.”

“I’ll reserve judgement.”

A loud rapping from the knocker on the lodge door sent Ariadne scurrying to open it—strictly the butler’s role, but she preferred to usurp it for honoured guests. Jonty could hear her greeting whoever it was, with a profuse apology to the butler for having got to the door first. She’d evidently charmed him, as he said there was nothing to forgive and formally offered to take the visitor’s hat. Moments later, Ariadne ushered a man into the room and towards the third chair, a seat with a better view than the one Jonty occupied. It was plain that the visitor must be someone for whom his hostess had great affection. The smile she wore would have made that plain anyway.

“Dr. Stewart, this is Robert’s cousin, Gerald Blackett.”

“I’m delighted to meet you.” Jonty, already standing, held out his hand, appraising him while they passed a few pleasantries. Younger than Dr. Sheridan by ten years, maybe; handsome in a rather Victorian fashion; well dressed, with an elegant cane in his hand; possessor of a winning smile.

As they resumed their seats and Ariadne ensured they all had adequate refreshments, Blackett laid down his cane. “You will, I hope, forgive me if we get to the matter in hand straightaway?”

“Please do. Straight at ’em, as Nelson would have said.” Jonty’s mother had said that too; mind you, she’d have brought off the victory at Trafalgar in half the time and got all the prizes home. The storm wouldn’t have dared to sink any.

Blackett smiled. “My wife’s brother, Edward Atherton, died in peculiar circumstances. Not, I should add, that there is any doubt what happened to bring about the end. He was very ill—a terrible wasting disease, which had left him barely able to move.”

“I remember him only a few years ago, the life and soul of the party.” Ariadne shook her head. “Full of tricks, full of fun. He could keep the most fractious child enthralled.”

“Some people have that knack,” Jonty said, in fond remembrance of someone who had the same facility, the same irresistible charm. “You should have seen Papa with his first grandchildren. He’d say, ‘Thomas, we don’t cry in Grandpapa’s house,’ and he’d just stop. I don’t know whether it’s the male voice, exerting calm and kindly authority, or some sort of innate reaction, like how you respond to your bank manager, but it worked a treat.”

“It is a particular gift, one that would be terrible to lose. Such an awful thing for the mind to outlive the body.” Blackett took a fortifying sip of tea. “My brother-in-law had got to the point where he said he couldn’t bear to live. He couldn’t take his own life, though.”

“Because of the hurt it would cause your family?” The illegality of the act was unlikely to be a consideration for someone determined to succeed. They’d have no repercussions to face in this world.

“No.” Blackett shook his head. “The practicalities defeated him. He was reliant on other people for everything; therefore, he had to rely on them to help him commit the deed.”

“Ah.” A shiver went up Jonty’s spine at the direction this case was moving in. Orlando’s father had taken his own life, something that had affected his son for years afterwards.

“Dr. Stewart, what is bothering you?” Ariadne’s voice, all concern, snapped Jonty out of his thoughts.

“I’m sorry. I’d spotted that dark cloud,” he dissembled. “Professor Coppersmith is supposed to be playing cricket today and if that decides to let loose a deluge over the wicket, he’ll never get to bat.”

“The opposition will be grateful for that,” Ariadne replied smoothly, although the keen look in her eye suggested she was trying to read Jonty’s mind.

“Back to the matter in hand.” Jonty smiled at Blackett. “Did your brother-in-law find someone who’d perform that service?”

“It appears so. Dr. Paul Robertson.”

Ariadne had glanced up at the word appears. “Is there any uncertainty surrounding Robertson’s involvement?”

“Not as far as I’m aware, though the exact nature of it is a puzzle, perhaps. There is little uncertainty surrounding the events which occurred. It was in Robertson’s consulting room, where we’d taken Edward earlier that day. To be treated, so we thought.” Blackett spoke slowly and objectively, but his face betrayed a wealth of emotion.

Jonty got out a notebook—not his investigational one, as he’d not assumed that would be needed, but the serviceable one he kept for writing comments about the dunderheads or making up rude limericks about St. Bride’s archenemy, “the college next door.”

“Was Robertson brought to book for this crime?” Could this be their commission? To see that justice was served?

“He wasn’t, and couldn’t be, due to the fact he took his own life at the same time. Possibly,” Blackett added, “or so it seems, because he was feeling guilty about hastening my brother-in-law’s death. He left a letter explaining how he’d offended and wanted to be forgiven. Although the letter was slightly ambiguous.”

“Ambiguous? Go on.”

“It wasn’t a straightforward case of, ‘I can’t go on; this is the end.’ It was open to a range of interpretations, which were aired at the inquest. Including the implication that he too felt he had nothing left to live for.” Blackett finished his cup of tea, and then, at his hostess’s insistence, offered it to be refilled.

Jonty came to the end of a sentence, then tapped his notepad with his pen. “Could one of the interpretations have been that he actually had no intention of committing suicide, whatever the reason behind it?”

“Nobody thought that. The whole thing pointed to his taking his own life, as did the fact that people felt it hadn’t been written at the time, but earlier.”

“Earlier?” Ariadne frowned. “So how could it have been interpreted as remorse if he hadn’t yet committed the act concerned?”

Blackett shrugged. “They were of the opinion he might have agreed to go through with helping Edward to kill himself, but the guilt at having done so tipped him over the edge.”

“Extraordinary.” Jonty wasn’t sure that motivation added up, although could one expect a potential suicide to think logically? “So how can we help? Given that there’s no obvious mystery to be solved except for why Robertson killed himself, and I somehow don’t think you’re here to pursue that.”

“Ah. There’s the rub. My wife believes her brother had a last-minute change of heart. Not quite at the last minute, but during the last weeks of his life. A light on the road to Damascus, only it was the road to St. Albans.” Blackett smiled ruefully. “Edward had never been a religious man, hence his having no qualms about the sacredness of his own life or the need to face up to judgement. But that changed.”

“How? I mean,” Jonty added, “I believe that men see the light as effectively as St. Paul did, and have the subsequent change of heart, but what actually prompted the change in your brother-in-law?”

“Not what, but who. A nun he met in a park of all places, discussing the dabbling ducks in the water, the beauty of nature, and so on.” Blackett shrugged. “I don’t know the details, but that simple conversation profoundly affected him. My wife, Sheila, says he’d never have countenanced taking his own life after that.”

“Nobody knows the content of another person’s mind. Not in its entirety.” Ariadne spoke with gravity, evidently not wanting to belittle Mrs. Blackett’s feelings. “And which of us keeps the same attitude all the time? Especially when somebody is feeling depressed in spirits, as Edward must have been. People can have periods when they’re happy and rational, then the dark clouds draw in and they think quite irrationally again.”

Jonty nodded. Orlando’s family history seemed peppered with men who would fit this bill.

“That’s what I keep telling Sheila, but she won’t have it. Says she’s absolutely certain Edward wouldn’t have killed himself. Which leaves . . .”

“Accident or murder.” Jonty tried to tone down the enthusiasm in his voice at the prospect of a new case. Death was no matter to be excited about.

“Precisely.” Blackett inclined his head. “I suppose it could have been an accident, maybe some treatment that went wrong—although I fail to see why Edward would have been treated with cyanide. And before you point out that I’m no medical expert, which I freely admit, the coroner and Edward’s doctor agreed that it wouldn’t have been appropriate.”

Ariadne nodded. “How was it administered? And in what dose?”

“As capsules; however, there is some debate as to whether those were dissolved in a drink to make them more palatable, or taken separately and washed down. And I’m afraid the dose itself would mean nothing to me, but I know it was ingested—by both of them—in a sufficiently lethal quantity for death to have been guaranteed, although not immediate.” Blackett shook his head. “Dr. Robertson, I assume, watched Edward die before inflicting the same fate on himself.”

Jonty, who’d been diligently jotting down his observations, tapped his pad. “And if he’d somehow administered it to Edward in error, one might have expected him to try to treat him, or to seek help, so we appear to rule out an accident. Although we must note there’s no way of knowing that for sure, given that Robertson isn’t here to bear witness.”

“It seems extremely far-fetched that there could be two such accidents, one hard on the heels of the other.” Ariadne raised her eyebrows. “And it certainly wouldn’t explain the suicide letter. A letter suggests premeditation. What does your wife think really happened?”

“My wife has convinced herself that her brother was murdered—probably by Robertson—who took his own life afterwards so he wouldn’t face the consequences.”

“But that doesn’t explain that wretched letter, either!” Ariadne slapped her spoon on the table.

“Sheila believes the letter was a smokescreen, and Robertson had intended to take his own life, being happy for people to think Edward’s death was an act of mercy for a patient who had begun to suffer beyond his ability to cope. She’s convinced herself that Robertson didn’t want them to think he was a murderer.” Blackett spread his hands apologetically. “I can tell from your faces that you think as little of that theory as I do. But she is determined to find the truth, for her brother’s sake.”

It seemed thin, perilously thin to base an investigation on, but they’d had cases that had started just as tenuously in the past. Sometimes a person’s instinct that somebody had been done away had turned out to be correct, despite the superficial evidence that all had been aboveboard. And the contrary, too, it had to be admitted: suspicious deaths that had turned out to be natural. Best to take this at face value.

Jonty wrinkled his nose. “What motive does she think Robertson had for killing him?”

“That’s part of the mystery. All we know is that Edward, in an unguarded moment, told us that Robertson had secrets, things that he wouldn’t want made public. Edward had found out, although he didn’t share the details with us.” Blackett ran a hand across his brow. “But he told Robertson that he knew about them, which Sheila thinks led Robertson to kill him. I take a different interpretation.”

“Which is?”

“That Edward used the information to persuade Robertson to help him take his life. Why else would a physician do such a thing?”

“It happens, I’m afraid,” Ariadne said—slowly, quietly and with the sort of moral authority that brooked no argument.

“So Edward used blackmail? It’s possible.” Jonty wasn’t sure he believed the whole I know a secret but I won’t share it thesis, but it had to be considered. People did like to boast of some special knowledge they possessed. He tapped his notepad. “Your wife hasn’t considered whether anyone else could have committed the murder? A double murder, perhaps, with both men killed by a third party? Someone who was drawn into this web of secrets?”

“That would be a possibility to explore, were it not for the locked door, which sealed the room they were found in.”

Jonty stifled a groan. Orlando loved a mystery, but he hated reading one featuring a locked room. Too often he felt the solution was too clever and contrived to be likely in real life. “I think you’d better explain the scenario as you understand it. My colleague Professor Coppersmith will want all the details.”

“Very wise.” Blackett nodded, then began. “Edward’s visit to Robertson was, on the surface, just as they had been in the past. He always found some relief in the mixture the doctor made up for him. He was taken in a cab, with our gardener’s lad—who’d become a sort of manservant to him as his needs grew greater—to carry him into and out of the vehicle and to manoeuvre his wheelchair.”

“Did this manservant stay with Edward? And do we need more tea? Or does this require something a little stronger?” Ariadne glanced briefly at a decanter of sherry on the sideboard.

“I’d be happy with tea, thank you,” Blackett replied, much to Jonty’s disappointment. A small dry sherry might have been just the thing to oil his brain. He’d have to settle for another bit of cake, instead.

After Ariadne had ordered a fresh pot of tea, Blackett continued. “Now, you asked whether the manservant stayed. He didn’t, but that was usual. He’d go to run some errands for us, then return at the time he’d been instructed to. On this occasion he’d been asked to stay away for an hour and a half.”

Jonty contended with cake, notepad, pen, and trying to understand what had gone on. “That seems a long time for a consultation. Was that unusual?”

“We didn’t think so back then.” Blackett shrugged. “The visits had been getting longer and longer. Sometimes Dr. Robertson would employ someone to massage Edward’s limbs, and he would need to rest afterwards, before travelling home.”

“Was the masseur there on this occasion?”

“No. My wife, of course, has even wondered if the massages were just a ruse to lull us, so we wouldn’t be suspicious of a longer visit.” Blackett’s voice had an exasperated tone. “Anyway, when Wilshire, the servant, returned, he found that the consultation was still going on and Mrs. McGinley, the doctor’s housekeeper, had been told not to interrupt them. They waited, but Wilshire became increasingly concerned. Bright lad. He insisted on listening at the door even though the housekeeper protested that it was unacceptable. I’m pleased he did, because the lack of any sound from inside made him suspicious.”

“What did he do?” Ariadne asked.

“Broke in. Luckily he’s a big strong lad and the door had a panel which could be smashed so he could get his hand round to the key. By then it was too late to help either of them.”

A door locked from the inside so they couldn’t be interrupted—that would be equally appropriate for murder or suicide. The arrival of another pot of tea led to a round of cup filling and the opportunity for getting thoughts straight before they carried on.

Jonty smoothed out the paper in his pad. “They were both dead?”

Blackett nodded. “Yes. And appeared to have been for some time, although neither Wilshire nor Mrs. McGinley could give an opinion on that. The medical man the housekeeper called for was of the opinion that death had followed shortly after their going into the consulting room.”

Ariadne looked up, cup poised halfway to her lips. “They both died at the same time?”

“He couldn’t give the exact minute, naturally, but he seemed to think the two deaths had been pretty well concurrent.”

They sat, quietly drinking their tea, listening to the sounds of college life filtering through the window.

“It’s an intriguing puzzle,” Ariadne said at last, “but how do you—or Sheila—anticipate Dr. Stewart and Professor Coppersmith finding any solution to it, given that you have no witnesses to the event?”

Jonty was relieved his hostess had asked the question, because it was uppermost in his mind.

“Don’t think I haven’t considered this.” Blackett sighed, then took a long draught of tea. “I told Sheila that it feels like an impossible task, but Ariadne here”—he gave his hostess a smile—“had told her you can work wonders. The men who solved the Woodville Ward case, as my wife keeps reminding me.”

“In that instance we had a bundle of newly discovered manuscripts to get our teeth into. Codes to break, good solid information.” Jonty needed to get a grip; this was defeatist talk, but how could they hope to decode what had gone on in that room? “I suppose it won’t hurt to make a few preliminary enquiries, starting with your good lady. It’s always possible that she knows, or suspects, more than she’s shared with you. As Ariadne said so perceptively earlier, it happens.”

Blackett smiled. “I know that from experience. Young Wilshire might be able to furnish you with further details as well. An eyewitness account is better than one related third-hand.”

“Indeed. And Mrs. McGinley also saw what he saw. Maybe she noticed some detail which would help us.”

Blackett leaned forward. “You would have to tackle this with a degree of discretion, but I’m sure you have that capacity. Edward dropped hints that she knew about her employer’s secrets too.”

“Of course! The staff know everything that goes on.” That had always been true of the Stewart household as Jonty had grown up. Luckily for him, several of his misdemeanours hadn’t been reported back above stairs. He made a note of all the names and addresses as Blackett produced them, then went down his list. “Your wife, Wilshire, the housekeeper. Anyone else we should be considering?”

“I believe Robertson had a brother, although I have no idea of his address. Mrs. McGinley would be able to provide it for you. Oh, and I nearly forgot this.” Blackett picked up his briefcase, opening it to withdraw a thin manila wallet. “My wife put these together. A report of the case from the newspapers and some notes she took at the inquests, so I’d have been in trouble if I’d not given them to you.”

Jonty took the file. “Inquests, plural?”

“Yes. She attended both Edward’s and Dr. Robertson’s. The brother was at both of them too. You’ll find his name there amongst the papers.”

“Thank you.” Maybe there would be some other people mentioned there who’d be worth talking to.

A sudden squall driving across the court and the first splashes of rain against the window made everyone look up.

“It looks like Professor Coppersmith’s game will be interrupted, unless this is very localised.” Ariadne got up to close the window where the odd drop was getting in. “He’ll be disappointed.”

“I doubt it.” Jonty grinned. “He was ever so slightly coerced into playing. But any disappointment will soon be overcome when I tell him about this case.”

“You’ll be doing us a great favour by taking it on.” Blackett gave a gracious inclination of his head.

Jonty made an equally gracious gesture with his hand. “Not half as much of a favour as you’re doing us in asking.” Soaking at the cricket match notwithstanding, Orlando was going to be thrilled.

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