Kitabı oku: «A Fatal Mistake», sayfa 3
‘Forget about the mechanics and facts of it for a moment, Trudy,’ Clement advised quietly, leaning back in his chair, and feeling his right leg tremble slightly.
With a scowl, he surreptitiously rubbed it under cover of his desk, quickly checking to make sure she hadn’t noticed this sign of weakness, and sighed. ‘Just run the testimony of the students over in your mind. What strikes you most about it?’
Trudy again went up a notch in his estimation when she didn’t answer straight away, but instead gave the question some thought. ‘Well… it does strike me as rather odd that the deceased had been invited to the party at all. I mean, from what I can tell, most of the partygoers were there at the invitation of this Lord Jeremy Littlejohn,’ she went on, checking the relevant pages. ‘The younger son of a duke, isn’t he?’
Clement snorted. ‘Indeed he is.’
Trudy shot him a quick look. ‘You didn’t like him?’
‘Irrelevant,’ the coroner said briskly. ‘Carry on with what you were saying.’
‘Well…’ Trudy frowned, trying to find a comfortable way of talking about social class with this professional man, while not letting her own, strictly working-class, origins get in the way. ‘It seems to me that his sort… I mean, most of his friends were wealthy and, well, upper class. But Derek Chadworth, according to his tutors and parents, was a scholarship boy. His father was merely a country solicitor. And he didn’t seem to do anything out of the ordinary to put himself on the map, so to speak, did he? He wasn’t a rowing blue, or a rugby star or anything, was he?’
‘So?’ Clement encouraged.
‘Well… he hardly seems a likely candidate to have belonged to their set,’ she concluded nervously, and immediately felt relieved when the coroner nodded approvingly.
‘No, he doesn’t. You’re quite right. And yet, when it came time to give his evidence—’ Clement nodded at the folder resting on her knees ‘—Lord Jeremy clearly stated, in an offhand manner, that he might have issued the invitation to Derek Chadworth. But that he couldn’t be sure whether or not he’d taken him up on it.’
Trudy nodded, rereading His Lordship’s evidence. ‘Yes. He says… Yes, here it is. “I knew Derek from around – I’d had a few ciders with him at the Eagle and Child and that sort of thing. I told him we were having a bash at Port Meadow and, if he wanted to come, he needed to be at the bridge and on a punt by half nine.” Hmm, he goes on to say that, on the day in question, after a couple of glasses of something called… er… Buck’s Fizz… at breakfast, he was feeling a bit tight and wasn’t sure whether or not he’d seen him among the crowd piling into the punts.’
‘Buck’s Fizz is a mixture of freshly squeezed orange juice and champagne,’ Dr Ryder informed her dryly. ‘A popular choice for indolent young pups and arrogant lordlings who like to hold breakfast parties in their rooms for their minions.’
Trudy nodded and mentally made a note. Dr Ryder really didn’t like Lord Littlejohn. He must have done something to ruffle the coroner’s feathers. But from what she’d read of his evidence, she couldn’t quite see what it might be. True, he had been annoyingly vague about the dead boy – but so had all the other students.
‘Anything else strike you as odd?’ Clement asked mildly. But his eyes, when he looked at her, were as sharp as flint.
Trudy frowned. There was something nagging at her, something that didn’t exactly feel as if it fitted together. But no matter how hard she tried to track down the cause for her unease, she wasn’t able to. Eventually she shrugged. ‘I’m not sure.’
Clement nodded with a soft sigh. Well, perhaps that was only to be expected. It wasn’t as if the young WPC had attended as many coroner’s sittings as he had!
‘OK – try this. Put yourself in the shoes of one of them,’ Clement said with a slight grimace. ‘Not that you’d want to, mind. But you’ve just finished sitting your exams. You have a job in the City, or a job in Daddy’s firm or some such, just waiting for you to step into, and your whole life is stretching ahead of you in a golden haze of wealth and comfort. Now, just how much would you want to “come down” from Oxford with your name mixed up in some death-by-drowning scandal?’
Trudy shuddered. ‘I wouldn’t! Mummy and Daddy wouldn’t like it for a start. People like that need their reputations to be spotless, don’t they, and… oh!’ Suddenly, as light dawned, Trudy began to quickly reread the transcripts again.
‘Exactly!’ Dr Ryder said sharply, seeing she’d spotted the discrepancy now. ‘So why didn’t they all simply deny the dead boy had been part of their party? There is nothing, after all, in the physical evidence to say he had to have met his death while attending that celebration. He could have got into the river by some other means, at some other time. The time of death itself was given as between 8 a.m. and 2 p.m., after all. Granted, that supposition stretches coincidence quite a bit,’ he added with a frown.
Trudy, busily reading over the evidence of the Italian girl again, knitted her brows, only half-listening to him. ‘Well, perhaps they couldn’t deny it. I mean, if he was there… and there were so many witnesses… they couldn’t run the risk of being found out to be lying. Isn’t that committing perjury? Unless they all got together and agreed to say the same thing – and that’s almost impossible, isn’t it? I mean, that many people… a conspiracy on that scale… surely it’s not feasible.’ She broke off her reading to look at him intently.
The coroner sighed and shrugged. ‘I’m not so sure about that, Trudy. People en masse can act very differently from people as individuals. Just look at riots, and mass hysteria and mobs. These students were all of an age, and all friends, and all had their own necks and best interests to look after. So they definitely had good reason to tell the same story. And don’t forget that all of them – mark my words – were under the thumb to some degree or other of our Lord Jeremy Littlejohn. A proper little Machiavelli, if ever I saw one! I thought as much the moment the man opened his mouth to give evidence in my court. Then there’s such a thing as peer pressure, you know. Nobody likes to be thought of as a snitch. And who among them could have afforded to become an outcast by going against the consensus of opinion? Don’t forget, Lord Littlejohn and his family wield a lot of influence in the world these people inhabit,’ Ryder warned her. ‘One word in a banker’s ear, and somebody doesn’t get that job in the City he was looking forward to. Or one whisper from the Countess to some society matron or other, and some young girl can find her marriage prospects withering. Oh, yes. I can quite see how they could all be coerced or bribed or bullied into towing the line.’
Trudy went back to reading the files again. And wondered. Was she allowing Dr Ryder’s comments to colour her view of things? Or did the testimonies now all seem to have a certain ‘sameness’ about them?
‘So you think they were coached in what to say? By Lord Littlejohn?’ she asked uncertainly. ‘They all lied to keep him sweet?’
The coroner caught the scepticism in her voice and shook his head with dissatisfaction. ‘Not necessarily. I’m just saying there’s something that doesn’t ring true about the evidence they gave,’ Clement said grimly. ‘Time and time again, they say the same vague thing. “Derek might have been there, but I didn’t see him.” Or, “I was so drunk, I couldn’t say for sure that he was there. But then I can’t say that he wasn’t either.” Why, if you’re going to distance yourself from such a tragic event, and you all get together and agree to put on a united front, don’t you just go the whole hog and say, “Derek wasn’t there. Nobody saw him.” That way, the police would have to take your word for it. Even if they didn’t believe it, how could they prove otherwise?’
Trudy shook her head. Put like that… ‘But maybe they were telling the truth. Maybe they were just all so drunk they didn’t remember.’
‘Perhaps,’ Dr Ryder said, clearly not believing it for a minute and blowing out his breath in an annoyed whoosh. ‘But just take it from me, young Trudy,’ he said firmly, sitting up straighter in his chair. ‘Somebody—’ and here he nodded at the folder in her hands ‘—was trying to pull a fast one at that hearing. And in my court too! And I’m not having it. Something, as the Bard said, is rotten in the state of Denmark, and I intend to find out what it is. Of course,’ he added, feeling compelled to be honest with her, ‘when we do find out what it is, it might be nothing earth-shattering. It might not even be relevant to Mr Chadworth’s death. It might just turn out to be some silly stunt or secret the students are keeping to themselves for some reason. But until we find out what it is, we can’t know, can we?’
‘Do you think it’s possible they all collaborated to kill him?’ she suddenly asked breathlessly, her eyes glittering, her cheeks flushing in excitement.
And at this outburst of youthful exuberance, Clement grinned widely. ‘Whoa! Nobody said anything about that!’ He reined her back kindly.
‘But is it possible somebody at that party deliberately killed him?’ she persisted.
‘Well, let’s think about it for a minute,’ he said, thoroughly enjoying himself now. ‘There were more than twenty kids splashing about in the water. How likely is it, do you think, that someone could have grabbed hold of him and held him under without anyone noticing? Given that drowning men tend to splash about a fair bit.’
Her face fell. Then lightened again. ‘But if, say, three people did see it, and were for some reason keeping quiet about it…? That might explain why you think their evidence was suspect.’
‘Perhaps. But if you were going to kill someone, would you risk doing it in front of so many potential witnesses? And don’t forget, even if you were willing to take a chance on being able to bribe or threaten your fellow students in some way, that doesn’t negate the possibility that someone outside your control – an independent witness on the riverbank, for instance – would see you and spill the beans.’
Trudy sighed heavily, but, not willing to give up just yet, said tentatively, ‘Well, perhaps he wasn’t drowned at the party. Perhaps someone knew there was going to be a party and took advantage of it.’ With growing enthusiasm she sat up straighter. ‘The killer lures Derek to the river and drowns him there, knowing the punting party will be blamed.’
‘In which case, how did he know there’d be an accident? Unless he had an accomplice on one of the punts?’
Trudy sighed. ‘That does seem to be rather overcomplicated. But it’s not unheard of, is it? Two people conspiring to commit murder. But perhaps the accident was just a coincidence?’ she mused brightly. ‘The killer didn’t know there was going to be a collision, but at a picnic party, on a hot summer’s day by the river, he or she could count on there being a fair amount of swimming and bathing taking place. Perhaps the killer just relied on the fact that a drowned student, found in the river on a day when there’d been so many students mucking about in the water, would naturally be presumed to be one of their number, who had come to grief at the party?’
‘Perhaps. But have you considered the difficulty in that scenario?’ Clement cautioned her. ‘The killer would have to lure Derek to the river. How? On what pretext? He or she would then have had to drown a very fit and able lad, in a large stretch of water. The medical evidence made it clear he hadn’t received a blow to the head or been incapacitated by any obvious drug. Even if he was still a bit tipsy and hungover from a night’s drinking, you can be sure Derek would have put up a fight. And the chances of him being able to wriggle away are quite high, you know. It’s not as easy to drown someone as you might think. For a start, the killer would be certain to get drenched too.’
‘But it’s still possible,’ Trudy persisted stubbornly.
‘Perhaps. But again, the medical evidence puts time of death at around eight in the morning at the earliest. So where on the river could the killer feel safe from prying eyes? At that time, a lot of people are out and about, going to work, walking their dogs, fishing and what have you. If you were a killer, would you risk it? How could you be sure of going unseen and unnoticed?’
Trudy reluctantly acknowledged all these problems, and her woebegone expression made the coroner smile.
‘I’m not saying anything you’ve hypothesised didn’t happen. Just that we don’t know! Which means we need to do a lot more digging. So… are you ready to start?’
At this, probationary WPC Loveday grinned widely. Was she ready?
Of course she was ready!
‘Do we start at the scene of the accident?’ she asked brightly.
‘Whatever for?’ Clement asked, sounding surprised, but with a small smile playing on his lips. ‘I doubt there’d be anything to see after all this time, and the police went over the ground pretty thoroughly anyway. Any clues they might possibly have missed will long since have been trampled over by cattle or washed away in the river. Or do you think we might find a cigarette butt, containing tobacco made only in a small Malay village, and only sold in this country to three Emeritus Fellows and a recluse? Thus leading us straight to our prime suspect?’
Trudy laughed. ‘All right, point made! That sort of thing only happens in Sherlock Holmes novels. So, where do we start?’
Chapter 4
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?’
