Lessons in Solving the Wrong Problem - Charlie Cochrane Page 0,56
sombre tones. “Have you ever had any doubts about whether your father’s death was merely accidental?”
Henry clearly had enough confidence in his wife not to glance at her before answering. “How extraordinary for you to ask that. Yes, I wondered at the time whether there was more to it than a slip from the saddle. He was an excellent horseman, storm or no.”
“Do you still harbour those concerns?” Jonty asked.
“At times. Of course, it’s far too late now to be able to settle the matter one way or the other, even for the men who solved the mystery of the Woodville Ward.” Henry fondly shook his head. “Gentlemen, what do you have to tell me?”
Orlando, emboldened by the mention of one of their greatest cases—both in terms of finding the solution and consolidating their relationship through a tricky time—spoke with renewed confidence. “At least one other person bore a similar suspicion, although they had very good reason not to mention it to the authorities. They had little proof, for one thing. It was, however, their firm belief that Herron had it some way contributed to Lord Michael’s death.”
“Herron?” Henry looked at his wife on this occasion, the pair evidently shocked at the name given. Clearly, whoever they’d believed Lord Michael had referred to as the man he was cursing, it hadn’t been the archaeologist.
“I’m afraid so. There had been bad blood between them, concerning matters you’re probably not aware of and which, I’m afraid, must remain confidential. There was also a single piece of evidence linking him to the site of the accident, although that doesn’t necessarily link him to being there at the relevant time.” Orlando spread his hands, appealing to his hostess in particular. Beatrice had shown every sign of supporting them, whatever they had to tell. “We know it must be as frustrating for you to have such scant details concerning what we have to say, as it is for us to have no evidence we are allowed to present. A promise is a promise and we are bound to keep it, in the same way as the gentleman who helped us was similarly bound.”
If Jonty was bothered at Orlando mentioning the sex of the person to whom they were beholden, then he’d have to wait for the logical explanation, which he’d explain later. It centred on not letting Henry suspect that a vow had been made to his wife, too.
Henry nodded. “I appreciate the situation you find yourself in. If you tell me that you have good reason to believe that Herron was somehow involved in my father’s death, I have to accept the fact. It would certainly explain some aspects of his behaviour at the time.”
“We should leave you in peace, now,” Jonty said, shifting in his seat preparatory to leaving it. “There’s much you’ll have to mull over and discuss. Good and bad.”
“No, Dr Stewart, for once you are wrong. Please believe me, you’ve told us nothing bad,” Beatrice assured them. “The truth—no matter what it contains—is always preferable to speculation and unknowing. Like the dark lady and the handsome man of the sonnets. If only Shakespeare had given us their names and not left us to wonder.”
“We never did get to discuss the sonnets, did we?” Jonty produced a devastatingly charming smile. “Perhaps you’d both come as our guests to St Bride’s one day, so we can correct that. We could also introduce you to the amazing Dr Panesar, he of the aerial photography.”
“That sounds wonderful.” Their hostess broke into a beaming grin as they rose to make their farewells, beginning with another outbreak of gratitude at a job well done, even if, as Henry put it, the job had expanded in the execution.
As they reached the main door of the house hands were shaken all round, which was as Orlando expected: what he didn’t anticipate was Beatrice placing her hands on his shoulders, reaching up on tiptoe and kissing him soundly on the cheek. Orlando didn’t need to turn and look at Jonty: the man’s grin was almost audible. While the situation was somewhat eased by her then giving Jonty a similar kiss, although in what appeared to be a less enthusiastic manner, Orlando knew he’d be getting teased about the episode.
They were barely fifty yards along the drive when the ordeal began.
“I told you she fancied you,” Jonty said gleefully. “I’ll wager she’s been waiting for the right opportunity to get her hands on you.”
“She has good taste.” Orlando kept his gaze fixed on the lodge, up ahead. “Although perhaps I should be unavoidably delayed somewhere when they visit St Bride’s. Better still, I’ll find a convenient meeting to attend. Preferably in London or Edinburgh.”
“That’s cowardice.” Jonty slowed the car as they drew up to the road, carefully checking before pulling out. “Perhaps you could entertain Henry with your calculations about hypocausts, while I carefully pick my words about beautiful men. That’s if she hasn’t fallen for Dr Panesar, who is even darker in aspect than you and, many might say, equally handsome. He’s rather partial to ladies of distinction.”
“Is he?”
“Orlando Coppersmith, for an amateur detective you can be remarkably unobservant at times. On the rare occasions we have one of our benefactresses, or a similar lady of quality, to lunch at St Bride’s, he can get all of a lather. Had he chosen a profession in which it was de rigeur to woo the female of the species he’d be a remarkable success.”
“I must keep an eye on him. And given that he’s clearly involved in all sorts of things of which we know very little—I refer you not just to the aeroplane but to what we’ve discovered about the man in the course of recent investigations—it wouldn’t surprise me at all to discover he was already involved in such matters.” Orlando shuddered, in recollection of when he’d had to pretend to be a professional dancing partner. “I’m so relieved our cases have only the once involved me acting a part.”
“You were a very fetching gigolo,” Jonty said, predictably.
Orlando didn’t bother to counter with his usual, “I was not a gigolo,” because it would only lead Jonty to further flights of fancy. “Well be that as it may, I have no intention of doing so again.”
“Not even for me? You wouldn’t fancy a nice game of gigolo—you—and rich client—me—tonight? To salve your conscience, I could fall madly in love with you as a result of our encounter and foreswear all other men, to be thine alone.”
“No. I’d prefer a nice game of applied mathematician and his one true, if a touch annoying, expert on the sonnets.”
Jonty gave a deep, contented sigh. “That’s enough to satisfy any man.”
About the author:
Because Charlie Cochrane couldn't be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice—like managing a rugby team—she writes. Her mystery novels include the Edwardian era Cambridge Fellows series, and the contemporary Lindenshaw Mysteries. Multi-published, she has titles with Carina, Riptide, Lume and Bold Strokes, among others.
A member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, Mystery People and International Thriller Writers Inc, Charlie regularly appears at literary festivals and at reader and author conferences.
Where to find her:
Website: https://charliecochrane.wordpress.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/charlie.cochrane.18
Twitter: https://twitter.com/charliecochrane
Also by the author:
Novels:
Best Corpse for the Job
Jury of One
Two Feet Under
Old Sins
A Carriage of Misjustice
Lessons in Love
Lessons in Desire
Lessons in Discovery
Lessons in Power
Lessons in Temptation
Lessons in Seduction
Lessons in Trust
All Lessons Learned
Lessons for Survivors
Lessons for Idle Tongues
Lessons for Sleeping Dogs
Broke Deep
Count the Shells
Novellas:
Lessons in Loving thy Murderous Neighbour
Lessons in Chasing the Wild Goose
Lessons in Cracking the Deadly Code
Lessons in Playing a Murderous Tune
Collected novellas:
An Act of Detection
Pack Up Your Troubles
Love in Every Season
In the Spotlight
Standalone novellas and short stories:
Second Helpings
Awfully Glad
Don’t Kiss the Vicar
Promises Made Under Fire
Anthologies (contributing author)
A Call to Arms
Pride of Poppies
Capital Crimes
Lashings of Sauce
Tea and Crumpet
British Flash
Summer’s Day