“We were once lovers, Jonty, very fond and close. We had a misunderstanding, a series of them
really, and we couldn’t come to any sort of a resolution. We separated under very unsympathetic
circumstances—there was a lot of bitterness on his part.” Ainslie’s gaze remained fixed outside. “Which is why he was keen to give information to my business rival. Spite. Or revenge.”
“It’s very magnanimous of you to be going to his aid. Was there some rapprochement over the last
few months?”
“No, it was his sister who approached me.” Ainslie remembered Angela Stafford with fondness—she
had never betrayed his friendship. “His mother and father decided to sever ties with him when they
discovered where his affections lay. Miss Stafford knew we’d been very close, knew we’d parted, but had no idea, obviously, of Alistair’s subsequent betrayal. I didn’t enlighten her.” He at last brought his gaze back into the room.
“Of course not. Yet you still agreed to help?” Stewart looked so outraged that Ainslie smiled, despite the turmoil in his mind.
“Not there and then, but I agreed to meet him and hear his side of the tale. I was sufficiently
convinced—well, to be here now.”
Stewart laid down his pencil for a moment. “I feel unworthy to be given such a responsibility. The
things we’ve been involved with in the past haven’t been that important, or rather our role within them hasn’t. The police would have solved those first two crimes anyway, irrespective of our input. Is there no one else you could ask for help? Someone more competent?”
“There may be, but there’s no one I trust half as well as I do you and Dr. Coppersmith. I can be
completely candid with you and I’m learning to be so with him. If there’s anything to be found, I’m sure that you’re the men to find it.”
The intellectual detective tried hard not to beam and poised his pencil again. “Can I take a few
details?”
“I have some notes here for you—” Ainslie produced a large envelope, “—although I can give you a
summary. A man was found dead in his house in Dorking, down in Surrey, the back of his head smashed in with a poker. Alistair was known to have argued violently with him just days before, threatening his life.”
“And the man’s name?”
“Lord Christopher Jardine.” Ainslie almost flinched, so sudden was the change in Stewart’s normally
good-humoured face. “Did you know him?”
14
Lessons in Power
“There was a boy of that name at my school.” Stewart was making his face a blank, a mask over it to
hide all feeling.
“He’d be a few years older than you.”
“Then I did know him.” Stewart fiddled with his pencil, some deep emotion welling up, threatening to
engulf him.
“I’m sorry.” Ainslie’s words were sincere but they sounded feeble.
“So am I, Matthew. Sorry I ever made his acquaintance.”
15
Chapter Two
“Got all the gist of the case, Watson?” Orlando had bearded his very own tame lion in its den, or in
this instance study. It was one of the nicest rooms in St. Bride’s, looking out on honeyed stone and a huge magnolia tree—Ariadne Peters had no doubt had a hand in finding him such a magnificent location.
Jonty managed a smile, but only a wan one. “I’ve told you before I shan’t be Watson. That would
make you Holmes and he’s an insufferable old sod. You can be Sergeant Cuff, I like him.”
“What’s wrong?” Orlando knew he wasn’t the most perceptive person when it came to other people’s
feelings, but he was getting pretty efficient at reading his lover’s emotions. There was something in the set of the man’s shoulders and the tone of his voice that spoke of unhappiness, not a common sentiment for Jonty to display.
“Nothing.” Jonty had put up the barriers. He rarely employed them on his lover—today seemed to be
a particular, unpleasant exception.
“Don’t lie to me. I know you too well by now. Something’s eating at you and I’d like to help.”
Orlando assumed his puppy-eyed expression, knowing it would likely reduce his lover to total compliance.
Jonty slouched in one of the easy chairs in front of the fire. “Pour me a sherry, the decent stuff. One for yourself would be a good idea,” he added. “I’m not sure how you’re going to react to the story I’m about to tell and a small libation of decent Oloroso usually makes matters easier.”
“Tell me all.” Orlando handed him a little handsomely cut glass full of a rich-coloured liquid. “Is it to do with what Ainslie had to say today?”
“Matthew’s case sounds like a nice juicy one, if you’ll pardon the expression. By which I mean it’s
just the sort of thing we could get our teeth into, although the logistics might prove difficult. You’d be able to go around sniffing for clues and we could ask people questions—real people, rather than dried-up pieces of vellum as you seem to prefer.” The sherry was working its wonders on Jonty’s spirits.
Orlando tried to look and feel enthusiastic. He relished solving a mystery—if that meant talking to
people and being nice to them, then that was the price one had to pay. “And the assignment is?”
“A friend of Matthew’s is being tried for murder, probably just after Easter, although the man protests that he’s innocent. Matthew believes him and wants us to see what we can do to stop the wrong man going to the gallows.”
“So far so good.” Orlando, desperate as he was to find out what had upset his lover, knew that as far as Jonty was concerned, discretion was usually the better part of valour. “I can see the logistical problems
Lessons in Power
already, with several more weeks of term and all. I guess it’s a case of wise use of weekends and the Easter vac.”
“I suspect you’re right. We’d need to get all our college work done and dusted before we go to
Mama’s, so we can spare some time in London—or wherever we’re needed—after we’ve left Sussex. It’ll
be desperately tight, so every moment will have to count.”
“This friend of Ainslie, did you find out much about him?” Inching nearer the cause of Jonty’s
obvious distress was all that he could do. Slow progress, if progress it was.
“Matthew has kindly written up a detailed résumé of the case; I’ve skimmed through it so I can give
you the gist. The friend’s called Alistair Stafford and, believe this or not—and I’m finding it hard to accept—he’s the man who was writing all those lies to Sheringham when we were on Jersey.”
“’Strewth!” Orlando rolled his eyes.
“’Strewth indeed. I’m not sure I’d have displayed the magnanimity that Matthew has, but he’s a
Christian soul and has shown true forgiveness.”
Jonty began to look so distressed that Orlando moved closer, laying his hand on his lover’s arm.
“What do the police say happened?” He had to allow his lover to come out with things at his own rate.
He’d give him all the time in the world.
“Stafford was arrested a week ago, seven days after the dead man was found. The killing took place in a house in Dorking and the victim’s head was pretty well smashed up. You’ll have already worked out that means the murder was on February the first, the day we moved in to the cottage. The police know that
Alistair had been in the dead man’s company two days before his murder and that there’d been words
between them concerning treatment of Alistair’s sister. Threats were made, specific threats to the victim’s life.”
“What was the name of this man?” The references to “the victim”, “the dead man”
—
as if Stewart were doing everything to avoid mentioning his identity—were perplexing.
Jonty sighed. “Lord Christopher Jardine.” He looked up, held Orlando’s gaze. His cornflower blue
eyes were full of sadness, a sorrow Orlando only ever saw when Jonty spoke about his time at school. A great light turned itself on in the murky mathematical depths of Orlando’s brain.
“Was he one of
those boys
?” There was no need to elaborate any further. Jonty had been badly abused at school—Orlando didn’t know all the details, just that he’d been made to endure things, sexual things, unwillingly.
“Yes, Orlando. Christopher Jardine was the first person who ever took me. It should have been you or
Richard Marsters or someone who loved me or at least liked me, but it was an evil bastard who just wanted a cheap thrill and enjoyed using a bit of force. He didn’t fancy me at all, I’m sure, although I dare say it didn’t hurt that I was a pretty boy. It was about power, I suppose.”
17
Charlie Cochrane
“I’m so sorry.” Orlando put his arms around his friend’s shoulders, held him so tight that their hearts were almost pounding one against the other. “I expect you know that already. If there was anything I could do to make that part of your life disappear, I’d do it like a shot.”
Kind words and a hug were enough to lift flagging spirits. “Orlando, I love you more than anyone I’ve ever known—even more than Mama and Papa. For all your faults, none of which I’ll elaborate on here,
you’re a constant source of strength and delight. Of course you’d do that and I’m grateful for it, but Jardine’s dead now. And isn’t it ironic that we’re being asked to establish the identity of his killer?”
Sounds of life came through the windows, ordinary St. Bride’s life—untouched, it appeared, by
cruelty or moral dilemma. Orlando wished, not for the first time, that life was as simple to solve as his beloved geometry. “That’s not strictly true. We’re trying to stop the wrong man being hung for the killing.”
“Amounts to much the same thing. People like things to be cut and dried—I don’t think a judge and
jury are going to acquit Stafford unless he has a cast-iron alibi or we can produce the real murderer. This is serious stuff.” Jonty rubbed his cheek against his soulmate’s.
“Come on, there’s more to tell.” Orlando laid his long, delicate hand on Jonty’s muscular one,
troubled to find it clammy and limp.
“Indeed there is. Stafford insists he was at home on his own the night of the killing. He had no one to give him an alibi, and as he only lives at Abinger he wouldn’t have had far to travel, not far enough for a juror to have doubts, especially as he keeps a horse and rides it all over the district. He admits to threatening Jardine—says the man was trying to seduce his sister—although he insists this was just his anger talking. He vows he had no intention of actually murdering the man.”
“So why is Ainslie so sure he’s innocent? Stafford strikes me as a nasty piece of work. We already
know he’s not above trying to ruin his ex-lover’s reputation.” Orlando was beginning to feel pangs of guilt at how intriguing he found this case. He treasured the intellectual challenge a mystery gave him, except that this time everything was a little too close to home for comfort.
“Nasty letters are a bit different to smashing in the back of a chap’s head with a poker, which is how the police say the thing was done. Stafford promises Matthew he didn’t do it, even though he was
immensely pleased that his sister’s honour was no longer at risk. We have to find out who else might have done the deed.” For all that this business touched him profoundly, there was more than a hint of ardour in Jonty’s eye, like a hound eager for the chase.
“And would you let that man take Stafford’s place in the dock? Wouldn’t you feel grateful enough to
him to attempt a little massaging of the truth, as we’ve done before?”
Jonty thought long and, judging by his intense expression, hard. “No, Orlando. Two wrongs, or many
more than two if the truth be known, can’t make a right. Jardine was a bastard to me, but he wasn’t the only one and, while I can’t say I’m unhappy that he’s dead, I wouldn’t want his killer going free just because the victim was such a toerag.” He turned his head to land a tender kiss. “Truth above all, it has to be so.”
18
Lessons in Power
“May I read the summary Ainslie gave you?” Orlando, the growing lump in his throat threatening to
betray him, wasn’t ready to open up this subject now, not until he’d had time to think.
Jonty nodded, probably—or so Orlando reckoned—reading his mind once more. “Of course, take
your time over it. I’m going to find a towel and utilise one of the students’ bathrooms. I feel horribly dirty again.” He kissed his friend’s brow. “I do love you. See you in the usual place before Hall.”
Thursday High Table, the day every fellow of St. Bride’s was obliged to attend, was a bit subdued
compared to the night before, although there was a juicy piece of gossip doing the rounds. Tittle-tattle said the college nurse had spent most of the afternoon moaning to Dr. Peters that he’d not allowed her the privilege of dining with Dr. Stewart’s handsome guest the night before and “What was to be done about it, Master?”
Jonty had smirked at the tale, muttering
sotto voce
that he’d hate to see Matthew suffocated in the bosom which ruled the sick bay behind a pinny starched like iron.
He and Orlando were desperate to get away and talk candidly. In the end they had to lie through their teeth, pleading that Jonty had a migraine brewing and needed to return home. Even then, the porter on duty insisted on accompanying them into the street to find a cab, a task he obviously felt was beneath
their
intellectual and social standing.
They reached the cottage, found the pot of coffee which Mrs. Ward had left keeping warm, then
settled down on the sofa by the fire.
“What is it about…” Orlando struggled for the right word, had to use one he disliked, “…sex that
drives some men? Pandering to the inclinations of the flesh wasn’t encouraged in my house.
Mortify your
desires
, that was our motto. I got so used to suppressing things that in the end I felt nothing. The first time I had a reawakening of feelings—
down there
, you know—was with you, that day you’d covered my floor with both newspapers and your lovely self. You made rather an attractive rug.”