“Partly the latter—it’s certainly given him something to think about. More importantly, it’s given me a set of his fingerprints and if we do involve the police they might find that useful.” Orlando looked so smug he nearly got a slap.
It was the sort of expression which, Jonty surmised, he must habitually wear while teaching his
students. He wondered whether it ever provoked any of them into wanting to hit him on the head with a copy of Euclid. “It’ll give them yours, too.”
“Indeed, but I was very careful only to touch the case around the edges, and now I’ve wrapped it in a handkerchief.” The self-satisfaction had begun to smack of conceit. “Anyway,
my
fingers have never been anywhere they shouldn’t have been, have they?”
For some reason Jonty couldn’t bring himself to answer that question in such a public place. He stared out of the window, biting his lip and trying not to giggle.
48
Lessons in Power
Dorking proved more profitable. They were able to get a clear idea of the accessibility of Jardine’s
property—close to the railway station, not far from the main roads—and the chances of reaching it unseen (pretty simple, given the amount of shrubbery in the grounds).
They followed the lead Collingwood had given them, knocking at the door of the tiny lodge guarding
the end of the drive to the impressive Georgian property Jardine had occupied. They were answered by a jolly, voluble lady who might have been Mrs. Ward’s twin sister, given her build and the excellence of the tea and cakes with which she plied her two visitors.
Unfortunately Mrs. Cartwright was less forthcoming with information. It was her husband who’d seen
all the activity on the night of the murder and he was now away for a couple of weeks on business. She’d been out, nursing a sick friend, so had missed all the goings on.
She could, however, tell them that the big house had only been rented and that she’d gone up there a
few times to help out another friend who had the housekeeping of it. “Not that I want to speak ill of the dead, but I wasn’t fond of his lordship. He kept funny hours and enjoyed, well, you’d call it
undesirable
company
. There were women who were no better than they should be and men…well, the men don’t bear describing.” Mrs. Cartwright rolled her eyes.
“I believe you told Mr. Collingwood’s agent that there’d been visitors the night his lordship was
murdered?” Jonty smiled his most winning smile.
“Yes, sir. At least one. I believe he’s being held by the police. Although—” she sniffed
contemptuously, “—why Mr. Cartwright hasn’t been asked to positively identify him as the man he’d seen, I don’t know. I tried to offer information to the local bobby but he sent me off with a flea in my ear for interfering. Well, if the police want any more information now, they’ll have to come round cap in hand. It’s only right that
they
should do the enquiring, like Mr. Collingwood’s man did and
you two nice gentlemen
have done.”
The lady beamed, dispensing more tea and more Victoria sponge. She also gave them an address at
which they could write to her husband, who’d no doubt, she said, be delighted to furnish them with
anything they wanted. Especially, she assured them, if they wrote on college notepaper.
If Jonty was looking forward to a quiet Saturday night dinner with the family, his mother had a
surprise in store. It came in the form of a young man, who rapped on the door then shocked the butler as he asked, with a distinct American twang which reached to the drawing room, whether this was the Stewart residence, in which case he was
“in the right place and thank the Lord for that”
.
Rex Prefontaine was about Jonty’s age, of a similar colouring and with the same cheeky grin. Orlando
wondered whether it was this fortuitous combination of factors which had made Mrs. Stewart invite him, on the strength of a single meeting—or so she informed them as she effected the introductions—to dinner.
49
Charlie Cochrane
Perhaps it was simply her instincts as an experienced hostess which marked Rex out as a potentially
delightful guest, something he soon proved to be, witty and urbane without ever dominating the
conversation, self-confident without being brash. He was slightly halt in one leg, although none of them would have been rude enough to refer to it.
The darkening, threatening sky made the evening end early, letting Rex return to his hotel before the rain started. He’d not been gone ten minutes before the first crackles of thunder began to make themselves heard away to the south, over the Surrey side of the river.
“Jonathan, whatever is the matter?” Mrs. Stewart had entered the library to find a first edition of
Pride
and Prejudice
, which she’d promised to show Orlando. Instead, she found her youngest son standing at the window, transfixed by the lightning as it rent the sky and the thunder shook the panes of glass. “Jonty. Can you hear me?”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Stewart.” Orlando entered as silently as a panther, realising, as soon as he saw the flashes in the sky, that he’d be needed at his lover’s side. The rapidity with which the storm arrived had surprised him and the extra few minutes it had taken to reach the library from the lavatory, where he was attending to a call of nature, had proved crucial. “Don’t try to disturb him, let it pass.” Orlando reached for Jonty’s arm. “It’s me, old man, everything’s going to be fine.”
“What is it?” Mrs. Stewart whispered, her face reflecting the fear that she felt. “I’ve never seen him like this before.”
Orlando felt like he’d been punched. “Never?”
“I wouldn’t make light of this, Orlando. Not once. What is it about?”
Orlando could feel the release of tension in his lover’s body, a sign that he was coming out of
whatever state his mind put him in on these occasions. “I’ll tell you later. Can we have some tea? Nice and strong?”
Mrs. Stewart went to ring for the maid while Orlando gently guided his friend over to a deep
armchair, murmuring to him all the while. Jonty was quite himself again by the time the brew came. His mother possessed the good sense to have made herself scarce, arriving again simultaneously with the
servant who bore the tray.
Jonty pulled himself together sufficiently to give the impression that nothing could possibly have
happened, a façade which would have fooled even his dear mama had she not seen him ten minutes
previously. He took his tea, pleaded that he needed a good soak and an early night, then took his leave.
Mrs. Stewart waited long enough to ensure her son wouldn’t suddenly return in search of a book.
“Now tell me what this is all about.”
Orlando steeled himself—this wasn’t going to be at all pleasant. “It stems from that business at
school. The first time
it
happened was a thundery night. Jonty associates it in his mind with storms and seems to shut off from the world, like he’s protecting himself from his memories or something.”
50
Lessons in Power
Mrs. Stewart’s naturally rosy cheeks turned ghostly pale. “When he told me about those boys and
what they’d done I wanted to go out and strangle them with my bare hands. Or have them pilloried in
Trafalgar Square.” She began to shake, the emotions she felt written on her face and in her trembling hands.
“I call myself a devoutly Christian woman, but finding forgiveness in my heart for those two scoundrels is a real camel-and-the-eye-of-a-needle affair.” She breathed deep, trying to look more like her usual,
ebullient self. “Has it always happened?”
“As long as I’ve known him. He doesn’t suffer for it—he once used to be a bit distressed, but
since…” He stopped abruptly. How could one say to a devoted mother, even one as open-minded as Helena Stewart,
since your son and I became lovers
? Still, it had to be done in some way. “Since we became close, the distress has lessened. He just leaves us and then returns.” Orlando studied his fingers.
“Do you know, I should have realised. Whenever storms were in the offing, he took himself off to his
room. We thought he was frightened of them and didn’t want us to know, him being too proud to admit it.
Silly goose.” Mrs. Stewart sighed, no longer with the air of a strong and capable woman, just a vulnerable, troubled, loving mother. “Shall I tell him that I know? I might be able to help him if it happens again.”
“Better not. I don’t think that he would want you to know, not if he hasn’t told you already.” Orlando felt pained to speak so candidly. He adored this woman, admired her enormously, but he knew that he
couldn’t entirely share this deepest of secrets yet. “He would regard it as my betraying his trust.”
“He would, and that would be heartbreaking.” Mrs. Stewart rummaged for her hankie, dabbing at her
eyes. “He was such a lovely baby. Perfect, you know. I’m well aware that every parent thinks that of their child but he really was a little smasher and he was so adorable growing up. Fourth child, totally indulged, all he’d known was love and comfort. For him to go out into the world, and that to happen…” The tears were streaming down her face, a visage no less lovely for the wrinkles that all the smiling and laughing over the years had brought.
Orlando dabbed at her tears with his handkerchief. “It’s awful, I know. I wish I’d been at that school so I could have done something.”
“If I’d known what was going on I’d have stormed down there and thrashed them with my bare hands,
the pair of them. And the housemaster with them, because he must have had an inkling. Such a nasty man, I never liked him.” Orlando’s expressive face gave away that he knew something of that too but his “mother-in-law” didn’t choose to pursue it. “I should have known when he came home that first holiday afterwards.
The spark had gone. I thought it was just adolescence, especially when he seemed to grow out of it after a few years and seemed happy again. Why did he take so long to tell us?”
Orlando patted her hand, thinking all the time of how he’d never been this close to his own mother.
She’d never allowed him to be so close. “He’s strong, Mrs. Stewart, but he’s not superhuman. He had to find the right time and place. He’d probably been screwing his courage to the sticking place for years.”
Orlando felt the tears burning his own eyes and employed his already wet linen to clear them. “It’s all been
51
Charlie Cochrane
stirred up a bit recently. This case that we’re looking into; the man who was killed was one of
those boys
and one of the prime suspects is the other. It’s all a bit too close for comfort.”
Mrs. Stewart fixed him with her watery gaze. “Then give it up, Orlando. I won’t have him upset like
this. Tell the people involved anything you like, or let me tell them. Better still give me the name of this other suspect and I’ll go and see him.” Her hands began to shake again and Orlando clasped them. He’d never seen Mrs. Stewart so distressed, so lost for the appropriate word.
“You know I can’t do any of those things. Jonty is determined that we see this case through—he feels
that it’s essential to his recovery to pursue the affair, no matter where it leads. Please don’t mention it to him. Let him, let us, deal with things.”
“But he’s my boy. It’s a mother’s duty to look after her own.” The old fight and spirit was beginning to reassert itself and while Orlando was pleased to see it, he wasn’t keen to be in an altercation with his lover’s dear mama.
“I appreciate that, but he’s mine, too.” Their eyes met, like two stags about to vie for ownership of the hinds.
For a moment it seemed like Mrs. Stewart was about to give Orlando a piece of her mind, but she
smiled and reached across to kiss his cheek. “Of course he is and I shouldn’t interfere. I trust no one with him as well as I trust you. Just look after him, eh?”
“Have you ever known me not to?”
52
Chapter Six
“Jonty?” Orlando didn’t usually knock, making do with barging into his friend’s room unannounced,
hoping to catch him unawares. On this occasion he not only tapped at the door, but tentatively poked his head around it.
“Hello, sweetheart. Come in and stop making a draught.”
Orlando shut the door carefully behind him then wandered across to the huge brass bed, where Jonty
lay looking like a schoolboy in his striped pyjamas and with his hair all fluffed up from being washed. It was a sight which filled him with thoughts even more tender than those he’d entered the room with.
Orlando ruffled his locks. “Feeling better?”
“Much, thank you. Have you been chin-wagging with Mama?”
Orlando nodded. “A pleasant way to pass the time.” He sought refuge in bland words, hoping his
friend wouldn’t come up with any probing questions just yet.
“And would it be pleasant to pass some time in my bed?” Jonty reached out his hand to finger
Orlando’s tie. “I have a hankering to lie with my lover which won’t be easily gainsaid.”
“I think I would like that above all things.” Orlando started undressing, as brazen as he’d been the
afternoon when he’d got drunk and insisted on using Jonty’s bath. That now seemed long ago, an age of great innocence when they knew very little about each other. They knew much more now—hardly anything
was kept secret and that only because it didn’t really matter in the greater scheme of their lives.
The innocence had now long gone—Orlando couldn’t believe what he’d been just a year or so ago.
Twenty-seven and a virgin. Twenty-seven and never been kissed. Twenty-seven and likely to remain
untouched until he died a dried-up death in a chair in St. Bride’s Senior Common Room. Then Jonty