Lessons for Suspicious Minds Read online

  “Helena, he’s built like a bull of Bashan.” Mr. Stewart’s voice came booming from the path down to the mews.

  “Papa!” Jonty gave his father’s hand an impassioned pumping-up-and-down shake, which was followed by Orlando doing the same, if not quite so energetically.

  “Has Barrow put the car away?” Mr. Stewart looked wistful.

  “Not yet. Still got to get all the baggage out.” Jonty patted his father’s shoulder. “We can go for a spin if you fancy.” Jonty registered that his mother’s outfit seemed to hint at motoring rather than afternoon tea. “You too, Mama.”

  “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble . . .?” Mr. Stewart seemed to be holding back the urge to leap into the automobile right now.

  “Not at all. Although might we have a cup of tea first? I’m parched, as I’m sure Orlando is.” Orlando also had his I’ve been cooped up long enough in the metal monster face on. Maybe Mr. Stewart could find him a nice book of bridge problems to get his nose into while they took a tootle out to Hampstead Heath.

  “Of course. And some apple cake too, I think,” Mrs. Stewart added, with one eye on her son’s waistline.

  “Is Lavinia coming to Fyfield too?” Jonty felt eager to get the subject away from his eating habits.

  Mr. Stewart smiled an unusually mushy smile. “I’m afraid she’s too busy with young George.”

  George had been the hit of 1909, Jonty’s third nephew and his sister’s first child. The eldest of the Stewart offspring, Sheridan, had already sealed the lineage by producing young Thomas; Clarence had provided a spare heir in case of emergencies, so the latest arrival was an extravagance. Not that the Stewarts were bothered about the title—Jonty’s father had claimed it but never used it, saying he’d never stoop so low as to attend the House of Lords.

  George was now a bouncing two-month-old who was doted upon by all concerned. Especially Orlando because the baby had, the last time they’d seen him, possessed the good sense to throw up all over Jonty’s jacket and then fall asleep, cherublike, in Orlando’s arms. If George had been able to speak, and had asked any of those present to jump in the river, they’d have done it without hesitation.

  “How is young Georgie?” Jonty beamed with avuncular pride. “Is he ready to take the entrance exam for St. Bride’s?”

  “They’re naturally proud of him.” His father nodded. “He’s a little corker.”

  Orlando snorted. “He must be, the number of times your son conjured up the excuse to wet his head. Several of them before he was actually born.”

  “We had to have a practice run so we didn’t make a mess of things when the real thing rolled up. Maybe we can wangle doing it again with the duke and the rest of the Temple family?” Jonty bounced on his toes.

  “You can wet his head again now, with tea.” Mrs. Stewart took Orlando’s arm and led him into the house.

  The tea was drunk, the cake consumed, the book of bridge problems found, Orlando’s nose got into it, the trip in the Lagonda made, all in plenty of time to change for dinner.

  Jonty barged through the interconnecting door into Orlando’s room without knocking. “I told them we know they’re up to something. And can you help me with this stud? It refuses to obey me.”

  “Turn round.” Orlando quickly slipped the offending item into its rightful place at the back of Jonty’s collar. “What did they say?”

  “Thank you.” Jonty twitched his collar straight. “Denied everything, at first, then came clean when I threatened to drop them off in the Old Brompton Road and make them walk home. There’s been a suspicious death at Fyfield. They said they’d explain more when they had your ear as well as mine. After dinner.”

  Orlando frowned. “Couldn’t we persuade them to do it now? Then we won’t spoil the beef or salmon or whatever it is by fretting.”

  “That’s an excellent point. So excellent I’d kiss you right now, but I wouldn’t want to risk spoiling that perfect bow tie of yours.” Jonty smiled. “Right. Once more into the breach . . .”

  In imitation of the direct style of his hero Henry V, Jonty had barely taken a sip of sherry before he launched his first volley. “Papa, you’ve never been the best of dissemblers and you’re losing what knack you had.” He didn’t add, with age. “So can we have all this Fyfield business out in the open now?”

  Mrs. Stewart waved her hand regally. “I did warn we’d never be able to keep anything secret once they were here, Richard. We’d better reveal all now.”

  Orlando nodded. “If there’s mystery in the offing, we’re your men.”

  “Splendid!” Mr. Stewart applied an expertly weighted slap to Orlando’s shoulder. Enough to show affection, insufficient to spill even a drop of sherry.

  Mrs. Stewart, not to be outdone, gestured for Orlando to sit beside her on the sofa. “You see, there was an unfortunate death there earlier in the year, and it’s rather thrown everyone into a bit of a turmoil.”

  Jonty turned to his father. “Was it in the papers?”

  “I doubt it, at least apart from the local press. Everything kept very quiet. Derek—he’s the present duke, Orlando—would have pulled some strings to ensure it didn’t make the national papers I expect. Eh, Helena?”

  “If he didn’t, I’ll eat my best hat.” Mrs. Stewart knocked back her sherry; this was clearly serious stuff. “You don’t feel you’ve been brought here under false pretences?”

  Jonty wagged his finger, something he’d have never done when younger for fear of having his leg slapped. “Only if you don’t give us the facts right now.”

  Mr. Stewart assumed his best storytelling voice, the one he’d be using with George. “I ran across Alexandra Temple at Easter, and we had a lot of catching up to do. I might just have been waxing lyrical about your prowess at solving mysteries, some of which no one else had been able to solve. It wasn’t boastfulness—she’d read the account of the Woodville Ward case in the Times. Extraordinary to think they get that in America, although I suppose it arrives on the late side.”

  “Did she ask you there and then to get us to help? Has this been brewing for months?” If so, then Jonty had to give them credit for keeping it hidden so long.

  “No. She wrote at the end of May, inviting us down to Fyfield. It was only as the proposal expanded to include you two, with especial consideration for when you’d be available for an extended visit, that I smelled a rat.”

  Mrs. Stewart fixed her husband with a gimlet gaze. “Richard! Must you be quite so crude around the boys? Rats, indeed.”

  Jonty came to his father’s defence. “Don’t worry, Mama. He’s using it in the investigational sense, which is acceptable. Did you flush your rat out, Papa?”

  “I did. She soon confessed she wanted to offer a commission.” The last few words were spoken with an almost evangelical light in his eye. Mr. Stewart had often said—usually when tired and emotional—that the previous occasions when he’d been allowed to play at detectives had been some of the most rewarding experiences of a long and fruitful life.

  “And how could we deny her under such circumstances? My own godmother?” Mrs. Stewart had clearly decided to try to look helpless and appealing, something that wouldn’t convince anyone, let alone her youngest child, who knew full well she was about as helpless as a battleship at full steam.

  Jonty drew himself up to his full five feet, eight and a half inches—that half inch being very important, especially when Orlando topped six foot. “Why didn’t you tell us right away this visit would involve sleuthing? You know Orlando would hardly be likely to say no.”

  “We were, um . . .” Mr. Stewart looked to his wife for support.

  “What your father means, but seems unable to say, is that after the events of last year we weren’t sure how keen Orlando would be to take on another case. I had a horrible feeling he’d be put right off detecting.” The year 1908 had seen Orlando unable to cope with the revelation of his grandmother’s expulsion from the family home as a girl, and his own father’s bastar
dy. A bastardy that had probably driven him to take his own life. Orlando had gone on a crusade to find his true roots, and the Stewarts had gone on a crusade to find him.

  Mrs. Stewart squeezed Orlando’s hand. “We wouldn’t want to do anything to upset you.” Orlando had a special place in Mrs. Stewart’s heart, not least because he’d brought Jonty a level of joy and peace he’d not had since his school days. Funny how both he and Orlando had been blighted with dark times and had eased each other into the light.

  “You never could.” Orlando returned the squeeze and looked to his partner for support.

  Jonty, smiling, came and sat on the other side of his mother, taking one of her hands in his. “You made the same mistaken assumptions that I did. You know, I did wonder why you spent Christmas so clearly avoiding all talk of murder and mayhem. We’d even come to the conclusion that it was you who didn’t want to talk about mysterious murders or the like, for some reason best known to yourselves.”

  “Really?” Mr. Stewart managed to look both puzzled and horrified. “How stupid of us all. It seems like one of those horribly contrived comedies one goes to see and can’t believe how the people involved could ever let the events happen. People talking rot and inveigling each other into doing the most ridiculous things.” He studied his shoes, a sure sign that he was about to say something highly important and highly personal. “You’re certain it will be all right, old chap? You would say if it wasn’t?”

  “Of course I would.” Orlando, in an unprecedented move, leaned over and kissed Mrs. Stewart’s cheek. “Thank you for being so concerned. But I—we—are happy to take on this case. Aren’t we, Jonty?”

  “Of course,” Jonty just about managed to get out, before the arrival of Hopkins the butler to announce that dinner was served. His immaculate timing ensured that nobody disgraced themselves with an outburst of tears.

  The journey to Fyfield was a pleasant one through the Berkshire countryside, especially when Mr. Stewart insisted on a surprise diversion to Monkey Island. Jonty loved the place, but hadn’t been there since he was just a little sprat, and Orlando had never been at all. Another place the Coppersmiths would have denied themselves the pleasure of visiting.

  As the carriage took them from Maidenhead station to Bray—their luggage having gone north the few miles to Fyfield in the capable keeping of Hopkins—Jonty bounced like an excited child. “You’ll have to assure Orlando there aren’t actually any monkeys there. He’s not fond of furry creatures.”

  “Not monkeys, so much as monks, I believe. Canonical rather than simian.” Mr. Stewart beamed. “Although I suppose in either case they might be capuchin?”

  Mrs. Stewart smiled indulgently. “Your jokes are getting worse. You see, Orlando, the island used to be owned by one of the local abbeys. Then there was something to do with the fire of London. Richard, you know the story.”

  “I do, and it’s a boring one. About ballast and rubble and building the island up. Nothing as exciting as monks or monkeys, but there’s an excellent hostelry, and the gardens are lovely. By the way,” he added, “I’ve made some subtle enquiries, and I don’t think they’ll be there today.”

  “They? Oh, them.” Jonty raised his eyebrows. “Might be a little awkward.”

  “Might somebody enlighten me as to who they are and what’s so awkward about it?” Orlando looked daggers at Jonty.

  “The royal family. Or selected members thereof.” Mr. Stewart narrowed his eyes. “You’re too sensible to want me to elaborate.”

  “Indeed.” Orlando nodded. Mr. Stewart had been acquainted with the House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha since childhood, when he’d been taken to play with the young princes as they then were. While they still remained on amicable terms, he couldn’t persuade his conscience to accept His Majesty’s “interesting” attitude to marital fidelity. Jonty’s father might have been able—after some soul-searching—to acknowledge his son’s unusual position on the matter of women, but an adulterer he couldn’t abide.

  “As is the way of these things,” Mrs. Stewart stepped in adeptly to change the subject, “Monks’ island—or maybe it was monken island, who knows—became Monkey Island. And there are monkeys there, of a sort. Painted ones on the walls. Doing amusing things.”

  Jonty, who’d seen the monkeys at the zoo doing things that would have made his mother’s eyes stand out like organ stops, stifled a snigger. He was still within leg-slapping range—both in terms of distance and age.

  “So long as they’re not pursuing me, I’m happy.” Orlando looked stern, but the twinkle in his eye gave the game away. “It’s the sort of thing your youngest son would force on me.”

  Mrs. Stewart wrinkled her nose. “Alas, you’re perfectly right. I don’t think he’ll ever improve with age, so we’ll just have to grin and bear him.”

  “I heard that. You do know that I’m not some piece of pottery you can talk about and it’s none the wiser?” Jonty yawned, stretched, and strained his head to get a better view along the road. “Are we there yet?”

  Mrs. Stewart rolled her eyes. “See? That’s just what he was like when he was a little boy.”

  If Jonty had been the butt of jokes when they were en route, then Orlando had his turn when they reached the edge of the Thames and could see the full splendour of the island. The lodge and the temple looked beautiful in the bright sunlight, and the gardens promised many a botanical delight.

  “Where’s the bridge?” Orlando asked, arms flailing around as though he were getting into practice for swimming across.

  “There isn’t one.” Jonty savoured the expression of horror on his friend’s face. “We’ll have to go by punt.”

  “Punt?” Relief lit Orlando’s face.

  “Absolutely. And given you’re such an expert in the matter of propelling one, Mama will be delighted to be in safe hands.” Jonty nodded in the direction of his parents, who were trying to attract the attention of someone on the other bank. “She doesn’t trust Papa in one of the things. Feels he’s a bit too excitable, and she’d prefer you to a stranger. Be prepared for it to take a while though—she’ll want to look her best.”

  “It’s a two-minute punt ride, not Ascot,” Orlando hissed, making a sheepish face at having uttered such treason.

  “Ah, but she can’t be sure not to run across somebody she knows. Can’t risk making a sloppy impression—Cleopatra in her barge won’t be in the same league.”

  When the punt arrived and the attendant had been bribed into letting Orlando take his place with the pole, Mrs. Stewart settled herself down elegantly and they set off from shore like the epitome of a late-Victorian boating party.

  “Orlando punts beautifully.” Mrs. Stewart almost purred in delight. “Such an elegant, um—would one call it ‘stroke,’ Jonty?”

  Jonty would have called it an elegant backside, given his current view of the situation, but he kept that to himself. “Stroke, I think, although I’m no expert. And you’re quite correct. Orlando took to punting like a duck to water and hasn’t looked back.” Same as applied to some of the other things he’d taken to with such aplomb, several of them involving Jonty’s bed.

  “We’ll be at the bank soon.” Orlando fiddled about, searching for the perfect mooring point. “Mrs. Stewart, could you please sit as still as possible until I can secure the punt?”

  “Yes, dear.” Mrs. Stewart sat regally, every inch the daughter of an earl, the punt demanding as much dignity as if it were the royal coach.

  Mr. Stewart stood up, evidently showing he wasn’t afraid of the punt wobbling and any subsequent loss of dignity. “Can we disembark?”

  “I think that would be in order. I’ll hop on shore and keep the vessel still.” Before anyone could argue, Orlando scrambled onto the grassy bank, holding out his hand for Mr. Stewart to follow.

  “I’ll be fine, thank you, my boy.” Mr. Stewart waved aside the offer of help. “Not that I don’t appreciate your kindness, but I have to prove to myself I’m still sprightly. Otherwise young G
eorge will grow up thinking I’m ready for my Bath chair.”

  “We can’t have any of the nieces and nephews thinking any the less of their grandfather’s stamina. At least one of them is convinced Papa’s actually younger than you.” Jonty grinned, leaping onto the bank and almost coming a cropper on a patch of damp grass.

  “That seems to be a variation on pride coming before a fall, dear.” Mrs. Stewart let Orlando hand her out of the punt, the pair moving with enormous decorum and elegance. “I feel quite famished after that adventure. I hope they have luncheon ready for us.”

  “What have you planned in the way of a nose bag?” Jonty felt as eager as a horse who’d spied the winning post. If his ears had been able to pin themselves back, they’d have done so.

  Mrs. Stewart stopped to admire a particularly lovely rose. “I’ve ordered just a light meal, dear, as we’ll be dining royally tonight and I’d want you to be able to do justice to Derek’s cook.”

  “Your son could eat three square meals every day and still do justice to a six-course banquet for supper.” Orlando wrinkled his nose. “I sometimes wonder if he has hollow legs.”

  “He has his father’s . . . um . . . something or other. Richard.” Mrs. Stewart tapped her husband’s arm. “What was that thing you were telling me about the other day?”

  “Metabolism.” Mr. Stewart nodded sagely, taking one of the rose’s petals and laying it in his wife’s hand. “It controls how our bodies work. I think. Mine must need the equivalent of a ton of coal a day to keep its furnaces going, and Jonty’s the same.”

  Jonty picked a rose petal as well, holding it up to the light. “Strange to think of all those chemicals whizzing about the system. Our polymathic friend Dr. Panesar did try to explain it to us one day, but my poor little brain felt like it was about to explode. I’ll stick to sonnets. Such beauty, such aroma, and all because of a particular conglomeration of nitrogen and hydrogen and who knows what.” He gave the petal to Orlando, just as Mr. Stewart had presented one to his life partner, a sort of sacrament of their devotion.