Lessons in Power (5 page)
muttered had been suicide. That was before my time and I’ve often wondered whether he was another
victim. I’m certain there must have been others afterwards, as well, but who those poor souls might be…”
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Lessons in Power
Orlando winced. He’d always assumed, despite one or two hints that Jonty had let drop, that his lover had been the only one to suffer. Now he suspected there were a whole string of young men who needed to heal. He patted Jonty’s leg, unable to think of anything constructive to say.
“Anyhow, he goaded Jardine and his pal Timothy Taylor—the Honourable Timothy Taylor, mind
you—into performing their nasty little deeds on me, while he watched and got whatever pleasure he could from it.”
“How do you know?”
“Because of what
they
said. They made it perfectly clear to me that someone was watching the show and it didn’t take long to establish who the peeping Tom was. I think I heard him once, no doubt standing with his hands down his pants giving himself a special thrill every time I pleaded for them not to do it.”
Jonty studied his waistcoat. He’d done well so far, but his nerve was failing.
Orlando nudged him, opening his arms and beckoning his friend to lounge on him. Jonty didn’t need
to be asked twice.
“Now we need a plan. To enable us to solve this crime in a short time and at such a distance.” Jonty
could open his heart no further and, truth to tell, there was little more to come out, sparing the gruesome details. He was already taking refuge in practicalities, as he’d so often taken it in the process of tea making.
“Where do we start? How can we get an idea of what was going on with Jardine?”
Jonty patted his lover’s chest. “I’ll ring my brother Clarence, he’s a member of the same club as
milord and he might have an idea. In any case, we’ll go down to London for the weekend and get sniffing like a pair of bloodhounds. It’ll have to be a hotel as Mama’s away—she wouldn’t trust us not to lead Papa astray.”
“Seems as good a start as any.” Orlando rubbed his chin on Jonty’s head, a gesture they always found
stupidly endearing. “And the rest of today?”
“That’s easy. Evensong—I heard you snort, but you’ll have to grin and bear it—cheese on toast, and
then an early night in bed.”
“Early night or
early night
?”
“Depends on how sensible you are in chapel.”
“I’ll complete the responses like an angel.”
“I’ll believe that when I hear it…”
Once they’d consumed the last piece of toasted cheese, Jonty had to admit that he did believe it.
Orlando had been a saint during evensong, not once frowning or rolling his eyes, even during the sermon, which had in all fairness been one of Lumley’s most interesting ones, perhaps because the subject matter—
the location and nature of the real Sodom and Gomorrah—had been rather near the knuckle.
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Charlie Cochrane
They climbed the stairs, in no great hurry, found the fire stoked up in their bedroom, changed into
nightshirts against the cold, cleaned their teeth, then slipped into bed, just like a middle-aged married couple.
It was funny, Orlando reflected, how his attitude towards sleeping together had changed so much in a
matter of weeks. When they’d first shared a double bed, it had seemed daring in the extreme and the sheer delight of being next to his lover in a state of undress had been enough to make him overexcited. Now that they shared every night, there was no longer the sense of audacity or novelty, although the outcome of any of their romantic encounters remained dazzling.
In fact, Orlando was prepared to swear
that
side of things only got better and better.
This night they lay and read their novels, lighthearted Grossmith for the lover of Shakespeare’s
sonnets, Doyle with his clinical logic for the mathematically inclined. At a time they seemed to agree on without speaking, they turned out the lights and snuggled into the covers.
Frost was predicted and already the fire was fighting a losing battle against the cold that seeped in through the window. Orlando wound his arms around his lover’s body, placing his hand over Jonty’s heart, enjoying the feel of its strong and steady beat. His fingers slowly wormed themselves into the gaps between the buttons and twiddled with the scant hairs gracing his lover’s muscular chest.
Jonty sighed, wriggling his back into Orlando’s stomach. “Sweetheart, would you mind if we didn’t
go the whole hog tonight? If we just—sort of—played a bit, kissed and cuddled, and the like. As we used to when we were first in love?”
Orlando could only guess at why this unprecedented request had been made, and none of his guesses
made him comfortable. When time and opportunity presented, Jonty had never been one to spurn the
chance of adventure. “Whatever you want, sweetheart. Your wish, my command and all that.”
Jonty giggled. “You do make me feel like I’m a character in some adventure of old. You know the
sort of thing, days when knights were bold and maidens were simpering.”
“If that’s how you want it to be then I’ll be your valiant knight. Your Lancelot.”
“He rather had a thing for Guinevere, so I’m not sure he’s at all a suitable model. Just be yourself, Orlando. It’s the thing I love best in all the world.”
“Soppy pants. Turn round and let me kiss you.”
“Shan’t. If you want to be my Sir Orlando you’ll have to earn the right to these lips.”
Orlando could feel his lover’s body shake as he tried to control his laughter. It was one of the most striking things about Jonty and lovemaking—the way he was prone to mirth at the most intimate moments.
“And how shall I go about earning it?”
“Be audacious. Be creative.”
Orlando needed no second invitation. Creativity no doubt demanded that he couldn’t take the easy
option of going for the piece of flesh above Jonty’s collarbone which, when kissed, sent the man all of a 26
Lessons in Power
divvy doo-dah, so he would have to find a more novel approach. Unbuttoning Jonty’s nightshirt and
unpeeling it like the skin of a succulent orange seemed to be a good start—although Orlando reflected that he’d got his fruit analogy wrong. Jonty’s skin was more like a firm but ripe peach, soft and covered with a golden fuzz with, in places, just a trace remaining of the tan he’d acquired back in their little cove last summer.
As Orlando made his way down his lover’s back, he was struck by the thought that there was one part
of Jonty he had never kissed, so he began an immediate assault on it, not just touching it with his lips but licking and tasting, enjoying the unusual feel of the skin.
“You win, you win.” Jonty turned over, still laughing. “You’ve got the right to my lips. And I must
say that’s the first time anyone has ever made love to my elbow. Really quite an unusual sensation, yet not one I wish to repeat tonight.” He kissed his lover with a fire belying what he’d said before. “I do love you, noodle head.”
“And I you, fancy pants.” Orlando, emboldened by the fierceness of the kisses, began to caress the
small of his lover’s back, inching his fingers lower until a firm but polite hand removed them.
“Sorry.” Jonty’s voice sounded small, uncertain, lost. “I just can’t be fussed, not tonight.”
“I understand.” Orlando didn’t understand, of course, as much as he tried. The fire dimmed, and the
comfort they usually found in each other’s arms was for once as paltry as the warmth the hearth gave out.
Jonty put the phone down then barged through the door. “The game’s afoot.”
“What did Clarence have to say? Wasn’t he curious about why you were asking?” Orlando laid down
his coffee cup and drew his little notebook from a back pocket.
“You underestimate my acting ability, Orlando. I was a picture of innocent remembrance. I’d been at
school with Jardine—even my big brother was aware of that. He wasn’t in the least surprised that I should be shocked at the murder and want to know what the chaps in town were saying about it. Turns out it was a very fruitful telephone call.”
“And? Tell Uncle Orlando all.”
Jonty poured himself a cup of coffee then eased himself into a comfy chair. “Jardine was at Platt’s—
that was his club—staying there for several days, about a week before his death. Nothing unusual about that, but one of Clarence’s pals says that milord had one hell of a row the last evening and went home the next day in high dudgeon.”
“Did he argue with one of the other members?”
“No. It seems he brought along a guest—they ended up at it hammer and tongs. There may be nothing
in it, although it’s somewhere to start.”
27
Charlie Cochrane
“Can you get someone to take us to the club so we can get the information straight from the horse’s
mouth?”
“Nothing easier. One of my old colleagues from University College is a member there, too. He’d be
more than happy to help to solve the riddle of a fellow clubman’s death.” Jonty laughed, but his voice was bitter. “He didn’t know what Jardine was like, of course. Anyway we can take the train to London on
Saturday morning and come back Sunday. I’ll ring this chap Troughton and he can take me round to Platt’s for lunch the day we arrive.”
“Take
you
round? What about me?” Orlando slammed his notepad on the table in a marked manner.
“Got a little commission for you, Orlando, another one of Clarence’s gems. According to the official
reports, Jardine never left the immediate vicinity of Dorking for the three days leading up to his death, but my brother is prepared to swear that he saw him coming out of Waite’s the tailor, on Savile Row, the
morning of the day he was murdered. Thought you could start there.”
“A Savile Row tailor?”
Jonty wondered whether Orlando would only have been a bit more bothered if he’d suggested a
Bermondsey brothel. “The very best. You need to have a title just to look in the window.” He grinned at the look of horror which his lover was fighting—a losing battle—to keep from his face.
“Then they won’t let me through the door.”
“Ah, but they will. Papa is one of their best customers. He can take you there on Saturday morning
and get you a new suit on the Stewart account.” Jonty revelled in his lover’s discomfort. “And
you
can stump up for some new socks. Mrs. Ward says she’s embarrassed to put the existing ones out on the line.”
“Mr. Stewart, always a pleasure to see you.” The man’s voice and posture carried just the right
mixture of deference and familiarity, without being too unctuous. The Stewarts possessed a title of great reputation and antiquity although the present holder refused to use it. No one at Waite’s would have been ill-mannered enough to embarrass him by using it.
Richard Stewart gestured magnanimously, taking in the wooden cabinets and glass-fronted displays
which exhibited the best that the tailor’s had to offer. The place was steeped in fiercely upheld tradition and undoubted quality. “Young Mr. Waite, it is my privilege to bring my custom here.”
Orlando was surprised at the
young
part, as the man Mr. Stewart addressed must have been sixty-five at least. Whatever his age, he was glowing with satisfaction at being able to serve such a distinguished customer. “Are we seeking a new jacket for the horse trials? Always prudent to plan ahead.”
“Not for me today, Mr. Waite. This is Dr. Coppersmith, from my old college, you know.”
Stewart made a sweeping gesture of introduction and Orlando felt like he was expected to curtsey. If
he hadn’t got such a stalwart companion to hand, he’d have been tempted to bolt, but Mr. Stewart was there 28
Lessons in Power
to guide and guard him through the harrowing experience. It was almost as reassuring as having Jonty
there, the similarity in appearance adding to the sense of support. Richard Stewart was a hand’s breadth taller than his son, but of the same sturdy build, and while his hair was more silver than gold, he remained a handsome man. Plenty of female heads had turned as they’d strolled along Piccadilly and not all of them were directed at Orlando.
Waite’s gaze appraised him quickly and efficiently. His practiced eye soon noticed that Dr.
Coppersmith wore a decent suit, if a little old, although not one of the highest quality. “And what would you require, sir?”
“A new suit. Single breasted. With waistcoat.” Orlando spoke with determination, as if he feared
being gainsaid. Jonty had warned him how overwhelming an experience a visit to Waite’s could be.
We all
went there for our first pairs of long trousers
.
Papa says that Clarence and Sheridan acted like they were in
the Headmaster’s study, although I found it great fun. Papa had to tell me to be quiet, as I was apparently
distracting the man who had the pins and the great big swatches of cloth.
Orlando assumed that Jonty must have had a lot more confidence at thirteen than
he
possessed at twenty-eight.
“And socks.” Stewart senior brought his guest’s mind back to the matter in hand. “His housekeeper
will be most perturbed if we forget those.”
Orlando didn’t like being measured up; it felt like he was being fitted for a coffin. His unease soon dissipated as Jonty’s father decided to open the batting.
“Terrible news about Christopher Jardine.”
“Indeed, sir.” Young Mr. Waite nodded. “Do you know, his lordship was in here the very morning of
the day when he was so brutally attacked? Shocking, quite shocking.”
Orlando had a suspicion that part of the blow to Mr. Waite was due to the fact that Jardine’s death