Читать книгу A Fatal Mistake - Faith Martin - Страница 12

Their first port of call was Webster Hall, the college where Lionel Gulliver had been studying theology for the past three years. He was due to ‘go down’ within the next two weeks, and the coroner was grimly aware they needed to act fast, since most of the witnesses to what had happened to Derek Chadworth would likewise also soon disperse.

The college was quiet, and when they enquired at the porter’s lodge after Lionel Gulliver, the guardian of the gate recognised Dr Ryder at once. Trudy knew (mostly from the grumbling comments of her Inspector) that Dr Ryder had many high-ranking friends in the town, and porters of colleges were notorious for knowing – and cultivating – anyone who was anyone. So she wasn’t particularly surprised when the bowler-hatted individual greeted the coroner by name.

‘Ah, Dr Ryder, sir, pleased to see you again. I take it our Dr Fairweather hasn’t managed to beat you at chess yet, sir?’

Clement gave a grunt of laughter. ‘No, he hasn’t, nor will he. But since he serves the best port in Oxford, I’m happy to let him keep on trying. Can you tell us what house and room number Lionel Gulliver is currently occupying?’

‘Of course, sir,’ the porter said smoothly, consulting a list and promptly coming up with the goods. He added softly, ‘I take it you’re here about that poor boy from St Bede’s? Tragic event that, sir, if I may say so.’

‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ Clement said, his face and voice becoming very bland indeed. Trudy, who’d expected him to be anxious to get on with things, suddenly realised he was in no hurry after all, as he leaned nonchalantly against the doorframe and sighed. ‘A young life, cut off in its prime… It was a sad day for the university, Barstock. Did you, er, know young Mr Chadworth particularly?’ he added casually, making Trudy prick up her ears.

Like nearly all college porters, Barstock seemed to know all and could be persuaded to expound a little if the mood took him.

‘Not very well, Dr Ryder, sir. No, I wouldn’t say that,’ the porter responded carefully. ‘But I’d seen him around. He and, er, certain other young gentlemen belonged to one of the clubs that sometimes met here.’

‘Ah,’ Dr Ryder said with a smile. ‘Say no more. Boys do like to set up their clubs, don’t they?’ He allowed his tone to become indulgent. ‘In my day, I belonged to a pudding club. Once a month we met and tried to eat a pudding in every restaurant in Oxford. Couldn’t do it nowadays,’ he added ruefully, patting his rounding stomach. ‘Indigestion for one thing!’

The porter duly laughed. And Trudy, who’d begun to feel impatient with all this chit-chat, suddenly (and rather belatedly) cottoned on to the fact that the coroner was actually working his way up to something specific.

‘Of course, nowadays, undergrads have far more, er, esoteric things to form clubs about, I daresay,’ Clement mused idly.

‘Oh, yes, sir. Take young Mr Gulliver, sir, the young man you’re enquiring about,’ the porter went on smoothly. ‘A nice chap – his uncle was once Bishop of Durham. Hoping to emulate him one day, I daresay. Now, he’s a member of several clubs.’

‘All harmless, I’m sure.’ The coroner played along. ‘Being a theology student and all that.’

‘Yes, sir. Harmless, mostly. One’s a birdwatching outfit, and one is a folklorist society. And, of course, since his uncle on his mother’s side is a baron, he’s also a member of Lord Littlejohn’s club,’ the porter tossed in, very casually.

At this, Trudy stiffened like a pointer spotting a falling pheasant. She was very careful now to keep absolutely quiet and still, in case she should attract attention to herself, and her uniform should stop the porter’s tongue.

‘Ah, yes… Lord Littlejohn,’ Ryder said, his voice as bland as milk. ‘He had to give evidence at the inquest. An… interesting sort.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the porter agreed flatly.

‘Rather taken with himself and his social ranking, I thought,’ Ryder swept on, having accurately guessed that the porter’s opinion of His Lordship exactly matched his own. ‘In fact, I got the impression that he thought he deserved to be next in line to the throne, as opposed to being the mere son of a duke – and the second son at that.’

But this was a step a little too far for the porter, who made an indistinct murmuring sound, and the coroner quickly backed off.

‘Still, I daresay the club he formed is harmless enough. Does it have an official name?’ he enquired casually.

‘Yes, sir – they call themselves the Marquis Club. I think the title is a reference to their aristocratic credentials.’

Trudy looked nonplussed at this but Ryder caught the reference at once. ‘Oh, of course. The fighting men! So Lord Littlejohn regards himself as a man with backbone, does he? Funny. I saw no sign of it in my court.’

The porter’s lips didn’t actually smile, but managed a twitch. And having decided he’d done his civic duty in a manner that in no way brought his college into disrepute, he brought the conversation smoothly to an end by informing the coroner that he was sure he would find Mr Gulliver in. Clement, accepting he’d got all he was going to, thanked him and moved gracefully away.

As they walked through the grounds to the staircase indicated by the porter, Trudy looked about her with interest. It wasn’t often that she had cause to set foot inside one of the city’s famous colleges. All was pretty much as she’d expected (golden stone buildings, velvet grass lawns, neatly tended flowerbeds), and she quickly turned her thoughts to the matter in hand.

She refused to show her ignorance by asking Dr Ryder about the origin of the club’s name. Besides, she didn’t need to – clearly the original Marquis, whoever they were, had been fighters of some kind. And from the porter’s comments about Lionel Gulliver having a relative who was a baron, it seemed as though you had to be some sort of ‘gentry’ in order to become a member.

Instead, she zeroed in on the porter’s behaviour.

‘He clearly didn’t think much of Lord Littlejohn, did he? Or his chosen name for their club.’

‘No, and I don’t blame him,’ Clement said shortly with a little huff. ‘A more indolent, lazy and self-indulgent specimen I have yet to meet.’

Trudy was about to say something when, at the bottom of the stone staircase, she saw the coroner stumble slightly as he lifted his foot to mount the first stair. As she automatically reached out to help him, however, the coroner clutched at the wooden rail lining the inner wall and, without a word, began to climb vigorously.

Wisely, she said nothing. She knew that, sometimes, older folk weren’t quite as robust as they once had been. And if her old granny was any indication, they didn’t like to be reminded of it!

For his part, Dr Ryder mounted the steps with tight lips – he knew the stumble had had nothing whatsoever to do with incipient old age.

A few years ago, he’d noticed a slight tremor in his left hand – and, as a surgeon, it had instantly raised alarm bells. Under an alias, he’d undergone a set of tests, and had been diagnosed with what his medical colleagues were beginning to call Parkinson’s disease. The condition had been known about for centuries, of course, and under a variety of different names – the Shaking Palsy in Europe, and under the ancient Indian medical system of Ayurveda as Kampavata.

But whatever name you gave it, it had meant the end of his time wielding a scalpel, and hence his change of career. He’d been very successful, so far, in keeping his condition a secret from both his friends and work colleagues, knowing that, if they found out about it, it would end his working life.

But as the condition slowly progressed and worsened, and his various symptoms became more and more obvious, he reluctantly acknowledged that it could only be a matter of time before he was found out.

Still, he was determined to keep going for as long as possible before that happened. And, so far, he was sure nobody even suspected. He could only hope his young protégé hadn’t noticed his uneven gait or had put it down to a simple misstep.

At the top of the staircase they found room eight. With a brisk rap of the iron ring knocker against the centuries-old wooden door, he announced their presence.

The door was opened quickly enough by a small, lean youth, whose face fell the moment he recognised his visitor. He had a short cap of dark-brown hair with a propensity to curl (which was probably the bane of his life), a rather nobbly chin and large hazel eyes. The expression in them, when they slid from that of the coroner and took in Trudy’s uniform, became almost panic-stricken.

‘Mr Gulliver? You remember me? Dr Clement Ryder, city coroner.’

‘Oh, er, yes, of course.’

‘I have just one or two more questions concerning the death of Mr Derek Chadworth.’

The young theology student gulped. ‘Oh. Really? I, er, rather thought that was all over and done with.’

‘No, sir. Not with an open verdict. We’re still investigating,’ he said with quiet satisfaction. ‘May we come in?’ he demanded, his tone indicating he didn’t know what the youth of today were coming to, keeping their elders and betters standing about on doorsteps.

The young man instantly flushed and hastily stepped to one side. ‘Oh, of course. Sorry. Do come in. Excuse the mess. I’m in the process of packing up to “go down”.’

Trudy, glancing around the room thoughtfully, didn’t think much of the ‘mess’. The room looked neat and tidy, if perhaps a little bare.

‘We’ll try not to keep you long,’ Clement assured him mildly. ‘There were just a few things that struck me in the evidence you gave in my court that I’d like to have clarified.’

‘Oh, er, right. Please, sit down. Can I nab a scout and see if I can lay on some tea or something?’ he offered, indicating chairs and glancing half-heartedly out of the window.

For a moment, Trudy was stymied by his use of the word ‘scout’, then vaguely recalled that college servants were called that, for some arcane reason or other.

‘Oh, no, thanks. We’re fine,’ Clement said.

Trudy took the chair furthest from the student’s eyeline and tried to make like she was invisible. Nevertheless, as she slipped her notebook out of her satchel, she noticed his eyes swivel in her direction and then move quickly away again.

He looked unhappily at the coroner as he sat down and rubbed his hands nervously across his trousers at the knees. ‘My evidence? I don’t know that I was much use, sir. I really didn’t know anything, unfortunately.’

‘Yes, that was very apparent,’ Clement said, so dryly that the younger man actually blushed. ‘Let’s see if we can’t get a little more specific, shall we?’

The young man swallowed hard and made a stab at a smile. ‘I’m not sure it’ll be much use, sir. I don’t really know why I was called at all, if I’m honest.’

The older man waved that sally away as if swatting a fly. ‘You say you never actually saw Derek Chadworth on the punt you were on?’ Dr Ryder began, gently but firmly.

‘No, that’s right. That’s what I said. But, of course, he might have been on the other punt.’

‘Hmm.’ The coroner made no attempt to hide his reaction to this bit of flummery. Instead, he went off on a different tack. ‘Did you know Derek well?’ he shot out crisply.

‘Oh, no.’

‘But wasn’t he a member of the Marquis Club?’ Clement slipped the knife in smoothly.

Trudy was interested to see the young man actually start in his chair and then go very pale. ‘What?’ For a moment, his face seemed to fight for some sort of expression. Horror? Surprise? Dismay? Confusion, certainly. Eventually, he swallowed uncomfortably and gave a rather sickly smile. ‘No. No, I’m sure he wasn’t.’

‘Ah. I thought that might have been why Lord Littlejohn invited him,’ Clement said, careful to keep his voice conversational.

Lionel Gulliver, perhaps taking heart from this, seemed to gather his wits together with a bit of an effort, and manage a second, more convincing smile. ‘Oh, no, I don’t think that could have been the case. Er, I mean, you’d have to ask Jeremy that, wouldn’t you?’ he added, glancing longingly out of the window.

Trudy, her shorthand competently filling her notebook, thought Lionel looked as if he wished he might jump out, so uncomfortable did he seem.

‘Yes, we’ll be sure to do that when we see him,’ Clement said non-committally. ‘So, let’s have this straight once and for all. Is it your opinion that Derek Chadworth was not at the party the day he drowned?’

Again, Lionel seemed to start in his chair. He really was a nervous sort, Trudy thought, beginning to feel, perhaps for the first time with any confidence, that the coroner really was on the track of something with this case.

‘Well, as a matter of fact, no, I don’t think I am saying that,’ Lionel said, a shade confusingly. ‘I’m beginning to think that perhaps Derek was on one of the punts after all.’

Trudy felt her mouth fall open at this unexpected about-face. She shot a quick, perplexed look at the coroner, who was regarding the theology student with his head cocked a little to one side, rather like a robin regarding an interesting worm.

‘So, are you saying you did see him that day? At the party?’ Clement said slowly.

‘No! I mean… I think I might have. But I can’t swear to it.’

The coroner regarded the young man steadily for a moment or so and noticed that the unfortunate youth was actually beginning to sweat – not to mention fidget about nervously on his chair.

He also noticed that Gulliver’s rather weak mouth had now begun to set in a thin, stubborn line, and that his chin had come up. Clearly, he’d reached the point where he was willing to be stubborn about things. Which meant pushing him further would be pointless.

Thus, Clement sighed and rose to his feet, catching Trudy completely unawares. ‘Well, thank you for your time, Mr Gulliver,’ he said abruptly. ‘I understand you’re going to train for the priesthood?’

‘The Church of England, yes,’ the young man said, getting to his feet with alacrity, a look of utter relief passing across his unremarkable features.

‘Hmm. In which case, you’ll know what the Bible has to say about bearing false witness?’

Lionel Gulliver gulped audibly. ‘Yes, sir, I know that,’ he muttered wretchedly.

The coroner nodded, smiled briefly, and then clapped the young man on the back so hard he had to actually take a step forward to prevent himself from falling flat on his face.

‘Well, good luck, Mr Gulliver,’ he said jovially, and Trudy, hastily shoving her accoutrements back into her satchel, trotted out after him, very aware of one pale-faced theology student staring miserably after them.

Once again in the sunshine outside, she stood blinking in the bright light for a moment, and then sighed heavily. ‘Well, that was a waste of time,’ she muttered.

‘Do you think so?’ Clement asked, and something in his tone had her shooting him a quick, suspicious look.

What had he seen or heard or deduced that she had missed?

‘You know, I’d be willing to bet… yes, I’d be willing to bet half a crown that that young man has been “got at”,’ Clement mused out loud. ‘Someone has persuaded him to keep his mouth shut.’

Trudy didn’t know if she was willing to go that far, but wisely kept silent, accurately guessing that he wasn’t going to elucidate any further.

They set off up the path bordering the quad, and called out a farewell to the porter as they passed through the gates and headed towards the coroner’s car. This was a smart-looking Rover 75-1110 P4, which he’d parked (illegally, Trudy noticed with a guilty flush) on some double-yellow lines in a side alley.

Like the gentleman he undoubtedly was, he unlocked and held open the passenger door for her and then shut it once she was safely inside. After getting behind the wheel, however, instead of turning the key in the ignition, he settled in his seat and stared blindly out at the city going about its business outside.

‘You know, Trudy, I think it might be time you learned how to work undercover,’ he astonished – and thrilled – her by saying.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked eagerly.

‘Well, you’re of an age to be a student. Out of uniform, you could easily pass for a college gal. I want you, starting tomorrow, to dress in civvies and start hanging out at the regular student haunts – there’s that bookshop café in St Ebbes for a start. And the pub by the river – you know the one. Use your initiative. Start making friends. Chat about Derek and the Marquis Club. Find out what your average student not in Lord Littlejohn’s intimate little circle is saying and thinking about it all. But don’t be too obvious about it. Think you can do that?’

Trudy, who was feeling a mixture of alarm and excitement at the thought of working while not shackled to her uniform, forced herself to look calm and serious.

‘Of course I can, Dr Ryder,’ she said calmly. But, inside, her heart was beating like that of a bird caught in a trap. To work like a proper detective, and without having her uniform instantly identify and restrict her, was freedom indeed! Rising to the ranks of the CID was her ultimate (and secret) ambition. She’d be the first woman to…

But then, as reality came back in a dampening rush, she felt her heart fall. ‘I’m not sure DI Jennings will agree to it, Dr Ryder,’ she said despondently. In fact, if she knew her superior officer (and, alas, she did, only too well), he would worry she’d get in far too much trouble working undercover. He’d be terrified she’d bring the force into disrepute and earn him the ire of his immediate superiors.

‘Don’t you worry about him. He’ll toe the line,’ Clement predicted confidently.

Trudy, slightly awed by his easy belief in his own power, blinked. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said. But she wasn’t any too sanguine that even the crusty old coroner would be able to make her DI do something he thought might rebound badly on him.

Seeing that it was getting on, Dr Ryder drove her to the station so she could finish her shift, and then drove back to his office to work on his other cases.

Trudy wasted little time in tapping on her superior officer’s door in order to give her report of her day’s activities. Jennings surprised her considerably, after listening to her quietly, by agreeing somewhat tersely that she could indeed dispense – temporarily – with her uniform whenever she needed to pose as a student for Dr Ryder.

As she left his office, a little glow of delight warming her insides, she could only conclude that he didn’t believe his WPC talking to a bunch of students about a mare’s nest of the coroner’s own making could get either of them into any trouble.

Which, as things turned out, just went to show how little DI Jennings knew!