Lessons in Power (8 page)
everyone’s spirits and there were more smiles than might be expected from a party gathered in an attempt to save a man’s life.
Over an excellent meal they discussed what Stafford’s solicitor had come up with, which was very
little, given that he had no real leads to follow and no one seemed to be able to give the man the alibi he needed. Jonty and Orlando shared what they’d found out, an enormous amount of information for the small time spent on it.
Matthew was heartened, although he couldn’t help feeling, from guarded looks and carefully chosen
words, that something was being held back. He’d arranged for Mr. Collingwood to join them later for
coffee, the man having a luncheon engagement of his own, and was pleased to have something concrete to offer him.
“We have to establish whether Taylor really was speaking the truth.” Jonty laid down his fork and put on his detecting hat. “I’d lay money on his having had further words with his lordship. I can just imagine Jardine going to call on him after he took lunch at Trimbles, trying to resolve things.”
“Then wouldn’t the murder have occurred in Taylor’s house, instead of back in Dorking?” Angela
shook her head. “That just seems nonsensical.”
“You’d be surprised what sort of things turn up in murder cases. Logic doesn’t always play a great
part, does it, Dr. Coppersmith?” Jonty turned to his friend, who was deep in thought.
Charlie Cochrane
“Hm? Logic? Not necessarily the most useful thing to rely on, the assumption that a killer acted in a totally logical and consistent manner.” Orlando was distracted, considering all possibilities. “I was just wondering whether Jardine could have lured Taylor out to Dorking. Perhaps he had the intention of killing
him
and then the plan went horribly wrong.”
“His lordship was good at luring people.” Angela spoke in a hushed voice, making everyone look at
her with interest, but no more on that score was forthcoming at present.
The conversation turned to the cases which the two fellows of St. Bride’s had already solved
successfully. Matthew was convinced Miss Stafford could tell a great deal more than she was letting on, but he felt certain that his own presence was acting as an inhibitor. Jonty Stewart could charm the birds from the trees—even honey buzzards—so allowing Jonty to work his magic might prove fruitful.
Matthew seized his chance. “Angela, gentlemen, you will excuse me for a moment…” He rose from
the table and, while everyone knew where he was going, no one would have been impolite enough to
mention it.
No sooner had he disappeared through the door than Miss Stafford grasped her opportunity. “I know
that Mr. Ainslie, dear Matthew, has every faith in you and I’m terribly grateful for your efforts, but I fear that they’ll all be in vain.”
“Why?” Orlando was affronted at the lack of faith in their abilities, their proven track record.
“Because I’m quite sure Alistair is guilty. I know he went out that night, despite what he’s told
everyone. He wasn’t at home when I telephoned him. I would put money on his visiting Jardine and having things out with him.” Miss Stafford’s eyes were clear and her face determined. No one could doubt she believed her brother to blame. “I’d be immensely grateful if you could find something that would put
misgivings into the jury’s mind, although I don’t believe you’ll find another culprit.”
“Miss Stafford.” Jonty noticed that Orlando’s mind was starting to whirr and felt he should occupy
their guest so that the wheels of intellect could grind. “Might I be so bold as to ask you why your brother was so cross with Jardine?”
“Because he led me astray. I will tell you this in confidence, although if Matthew returns I must
stop—I don’t want him to know.”
“Dr. Coppersmith, will you go and delay Mr. Ainslie’s arrival?”
Orlando’s face clouded, as his mind filled with honey buzzards and men taking unnecessary liberties.
After a short pause, he agreed. “Perhaps we could go to the bar in search of a cigar, if he smokes the things.”
Once Orlando had gone, Miss Stafford continued. “Christopher Jardine paid me many an attention—
you could say he quite turned my head. I believed everything he said, which was stupid of me, but I was convinced he wanted to marry me.”
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“And he didn’t?” Jonty found it odd that this girl should be so content to pour out the intimate details of her failed romance to a comparative stranger. Miss Stafford was a pretty enough girl, one who reminded him of his sister Lavinia. Poor Lavinia, whom the astounding Stewart looks had somehow bypassed,
leaving her not unattractive, yet no paragon of beauty like her parents or siblings. For all their closeness, Lavinia had never been so forthcoming about her unsuccessful love life.
Miss Stafford sighed. For all her smart-and-modern-young-lady clothes, she suddenly looked like a
little girl, lost. “It’s the old story. We spent a weekend away together in a hotel. I know you’ll think me a complete hussy but I really hadn’t done anything like that before. My first time and it wasn’t even very nice, although I kept thinking that it would be better when we were married.”
Jonty thought of his unfortunate sister and fiddled with his fork.
“But at the end of our stay it became obvious that there wouldn’t be any marriage. Well, not between
us. I was furious, not just with Christopher but with myself for having been so very naïve. When I told all this to Alistair he went absolutely mad—he found Jardine and had it out with him as soon as he could.
Made threats.”
“And you believe he carried those threats out?”
“I do. He wanted me to sue Christopher for breach of promise, but the hound had been very careful
and left no real evidence of what he’d said.” Miss Stafford dabbed her eyes, while Jonty swallowed hard.
He knew all about Jardine’s ability to cover his tracks. “So the only alternative, if Alistair didn’t want my name dragged through the mud, was to deal with my so-called lover once and for all. Ah, here come our friends.” Miss Stafford adroitly changed the subject. “So I’d love to know if Taylor really did have an alibi for that night.”
Orlando sat down with a smile. “Don’t get Dr. Stewart started on alibis; he doesn’t really trust them.
If a man said that he was addressing a congress of forty lords spiritual and could produce them all to verify it, my colleague would merely snort and say
so what
?”
“Well of course I would. The man could have got his twin brother to do the speech for him. Strikes
me as terribly obvious.” Everyone laughed and the tension that pervaded the room was immediately
dissipated.
Miss Stafford rose. “You must excuse me, gentlemen, I need to go and call on my aunt.” She shook
hands all round. “Thank you for the meal and for being so kind. I’ll tell Alistair that everything is being done for him.”
Orlando watched the girl’s departure with such concentration he might have been timing it. The
moment they were sure she was out of earshot, he leaned forward. “I’d love to know where she was the
night of the murder. Has anyone considered the possibility that she took matters into her own hands?”
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“Then why on earth should she want to get help for her brother? Surely there would be the chance that if I employed competent people, her part in things would come to the fore?” Matthew was a straightforward man and the machinations of other people’s minds were often a puzzle to him.
“Could be a very clever double bluff if she were absolutely sure she’d covered her tracks.” Orlando
nodded, as if his view were definitive. “Or it could simply be that she expected us to be incompetent.”
“She’d have to be a good actress, though,” Jonty chipped in. “She seemed absolutely sincere in
everything that she said. There was just the part about putting ‘misgivings in the jury’s mind’ being the best that could be hoped for
which might tie in with her being guilty, but that’s about all. Now, what time will Mr. Collingwood join us, Matthew?”
“Any moment now, I hope. He can only spare us half an hour, en route from his maiden sister to a
rather more affectionate lady, by which I mean a widow living near Regent’s Park. He’s happy to delay pleasure for business, but only up to a point.”
An obliging waiter with a marvellous sense of timing opened the door to their small room and ushered
the solicitor in. Collingwood was a fine-looking chap in his fifties, with a military bearing and a sharp eye.
He shook hands all round as Matthew made the introductions.
The solicitor listened to all that Orlando and Jonty had to say, his eyes bright and keen. He pinpointed exactly where he could set his own bloodhounds on the trail and seemed surprised when Orlando made
such a point of stating that he wanted Angela’s movements accounted for, although he noted that down as well. After some discussion about proprieties, it was agreed that he should communicate directly with the Cambridge men and he was allowed to set off to see his piece of Sunday delight.
“I wonder,” Matthew began to question his friends as soon as Collingwood had left, “what Angela
Stafford can have said to produce such feelings of suspicion in your mind?” He was certain he’d been
deliberately delayed in the bar with the offer of a cigar and a discussion on the prospects for the Grand National.
Orlando started a stammering explanation, but was relieved when Jonty smiled and tapped his nose
saying, “Client confidentiality, Matthew. It’ll
all come out if it’s relevant.”
“I will tell you this.” Orlando regained his composure. “When I was young I was brought up to
believe that women were just a little lower than the angels, although I never saw a lot of evidence of it from those of my acquaintance. My eyes have been well and truly opened this last year or so—I now regard
them as being a most dangerous and vexatious breed. Mrs. Stewart, Miss Peters and our own housekeeper excepted,” he added with a grin.
“Oh, I’d figure my mother as deadly and annoying as any of them, Dr. Coppersmith, she just treats
you with a ridiculous amount of deference.”
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“I shall be meeting your mother again soon, Jonty.” Matthew had met Helena Stewart before and been
impressed. Like Orlando before him, he was also eager to encounter the formidable husband who had
tamed this Amazon. “It’s something I greatly look forward to.”
“It will be her pleasure, too. She’s mellowed considerably in her middle years and no longer thumps
anyone as regularly as she did in her youth. Just lashes them with her tongue if they step out of line.”
Orlando shuddered in remembrance of being caught playing in the snow without his hat on. “I think
I’d prefer to be walloped rather than receive another telling-off. Long may I avoid one.”
The next two weeks proved frustrating. The fact they could do nothing practical about the Stafford
case annoyed both of the fellows a great deal, and St. Bride’s English students entertained themselves with a sweepstake on how quickly people could make Dr. Stewart lose his rag. Everyone could see that he
wasn’t his usual affable self.
He’d had word from Collingwood and his agents, including confirmation that Jardine had seemed to
be contemplating flight abroad. More importantly, someone had seen the man have a visitor late on the night he was killed. There was also clear evidence that Timothy Taylor had left his house the day Jardine had died, not getting back until late enough to have been to Dorking, done the foul deed and made his way home. Angela Stafford, however, seemed to have an impeccable alibi, involving not the house of bishops but at least two archdeacons. When Orlando heard this, he merely sniffed, loudly and with emphasis.
Even if their talents couldn’t be turned to investigating, they still had plenty to occupy them, as
Orlando had been true to his word and organised a rugby match. It was a cold Wednesday afternoon and
the crowd, if four dozen people could be called a crowd, thronged the side of the field of play, basking in what little sun there was. The players warming up on the pitch were amazed at how many people had
braved the muddied acres of St. Bride’s sports field just to witness the team of mathematicians take on the veterans (both in terms of age and experience) of those who studied English.
Although whether what was going on could count as warming up was a moot point. Jonty’s team was
jogging around the pitch, yet the numerical men were just blowing into their hands and rubbing them
together. That was reckoned sufficient for anyone with a bit of spirit, if not appropriate for the effeminate dilettantes who dealt in the Bard or Marlowe. Real men did calculus. And didn’t need to stretch.
Word of Dr. Coppersmith’s rivalry with Dr. Stewart had spread like wildfire as had the rumour that if either of them came off the pitch without a broken bone it would be little short of miraculous. Jonty had carried on playing since his undergraduate days, with only a short break due to injury, and so wasn’t likely to be rusty, unlike Orlando. University gossip reckoned Jonty had been a swashbuckling scrum half in his day and what he’d lost in pace he’d made up for in guile, a cunning which was rumoured to be just the right
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side of legal at times. But then, as the man himself often said, laws were there to be stretched and explored, were they not?
Miss Peters was there, as everyone expected. She loved rugby and often stomped up and down the
pitch shouting on the Bride’s boys, much more content than if she were having to be correct and civil with the ladies at church. She understood all the rules—could have refereed the game at a pinch—and the