Lessons in Discovery (3 page)

of clothes. If he was to begin wooing all over again then he might as well show himself to the best advantage, so he added a little flower to his buttonhole before he set off for Nurse Hatfield’s den.

He was greeted by a pinny starched to almost ramrod

straightness that seemed to enter the hallway hours before its

owner, pushed forward by a bosom of such magnificence that, if

he hadn’t been immune to feminine charms, would have made

him breathless. There was many a poor undergraduate who had

been treated unnecessarily for laboured breathing when all he had visited Nurse Hatfield for was to have his ears syringed. She was 18

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Lessons in Discovery

a widow, with much speculation among the students about the

reason for her husband’s demise, suffocation being the favourite.

Jonty was rather crestfallen when Nurse H informed him the

doctor had insisted Dr. Coppersmith have no visitors for the next few days. “Now, I don’t count you as a ‘visitor’ really, more like one of the family. You can see him as often as you like if you

promise not to tire him.”

She ushered him into the little private room where his friend

had been ensconced, although not without first checking that he

wasn’t bringing in anything unsuitable that might be detrimental to her patient’s condition. Jonty was puzzled at this, as he wasn’t sure what she could have been looking for. A bottle of whisky? A catapult? He was pleased that he’d hidden a packet of sweets

away in his inside pocket, being certain that she would have

disapproved had she found them, whisking them off with much

shaking of both head and bosom. He was hopeful that they would

remain secure in their little sanctuary, unless she were to insist on a body search.

Orlando was sitting up, surrounded by plump pillows,

browsing through the day’s newspaper, no doubt trying to come to terms with what had happened to 1906. He looked up as Jonty

entered, producing something like a smile of recognition, if not yet one of love.

At least
, Jonty reflected,
I’ve been remembered since
yesterday
.

Orlando looked pale in the meagre light which was trying to

penetrate the small leaded window, but he didn’t appear to be on the brink of pegging out. His eyes seemed bright and there was no dullness in his speech or other worrying sign.

“Dr. Stewart, good morning.”

“And to you, Dr. Coppersmith.” Jonty perched on the chair

by the bed, relieved to find Orlando much perkier today. “Nurse

Hatfield, may we have a cup of tea, please?”

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Charlie Cochrane

The nurse beamed at them. She loved well-behaved and

well-mannered little boys, which is exactly how she regarded

these two. “Of course, and I’ll rustle up a biscuit or three. You both look like you need nourishment.”

Once she had gone, Jonty couldn’t resist a laugh. “What is it

about ladies of a certain age? How does their eyesight change that they can look at a muscular frame and see only the sort of stick men that children draw? You may need building up after your

mishap but no one could accuse me of being thin.” Jonty patted

his muscular stomach and Orlando smiled wanly. “And before the

sergeant major gets back I thought you could hide these

somewhere.” He produced a packet of bull’s-eyes from his jacket.

“Put them where she won’t find them or else we’ll both be in

trouble.”

“My favourites! How did you—sorry.” Orlando stopped

short. “You would have known, wouldn’t you? If we were friends.

If we
are
friends, I mean.”

Jonty tried to provide reassurance. “That’s perfectly all right.

It’s going to take a bit of time to get the old status quo back, while we wait for that brain of yours to get itself organised.” He thought about the surprises that would be in store for his friend—his

lover—and felt a sudden qualm.

“I feel at such a disadvantage, Dr. Stewart. You must know

so much about me, yet I know nothing of you.” Orlando managed

another constrained smile.

Indeed, the location of every mole on your body, the taste of
your hair, the words you use in darkest despair or deepest

ecstasy.
Jonty shook himself, trying to set aside such thoughts.

“Well, I’ll bore you to death about all of that if you wish me to.

There’s a fair amount to catch up on, I guess.”

The arrival through the doorway of tea and a plate of

biscuits, followed shortly after by a pinafore and lastly by Nurse Hatfield herself, gave them a chance to gather their thoughts.

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Although it was, on the surface, a lighthearted conversation

between two old friends, this was starting to feel rather strained.

When they were left alone again, Orlando continued. “I’d

very much like to be brought up to date with events over the last year. The college, the university, the world at large. Anything of significance.”

So Jonty began. He didn’t present a very orderly account,

switching from place to place, now talking about summer, then

referring back to the previous winter, as thoughts occurred to him.

Orlando would chip in with the odd question but it soon became

obvious that he was finding the process tiring and Jonty decided that they would need to take their time over this. Bull’s-eyes

would be fine, but no bulls in the china shop.

The discussion ended up stretching over the next few days,

Jonty visiting for a short while each morning and afternoon as his commitments allowed, gradually helping Orlando to build up a

picture of a twelve months full of events. Jonty was pleased to

find that, although the mental store of proceedings had

disappeared, the last year hadn’t been totally lost and the benefit it had on Orlando was still in evidence. The man chatted with more

ease than he had a twelvemonth ago and there was little sign of

the barrier that he’d put between himself and the world. He could even be positively forthright with Nurse Hatfield when the

occasion required.

Jonty was still reluctant to divulge all that had gone on in

1906. He skirted around the matter of the St. Bride’s murders, just saying there had been a series of killings in the college during the late winter, that the whole affair
had been rather sordid
and that he didn’t think it was wise to discuss this sort of thing until Dr.

Coppersmith was feeling a bit stronger. While he was perfectly

honest about their having taken a holiday together—
you were a
great one for swimming in the sea, Dr. Coppersmith—
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Charlie Cochrane

mentioned that there had been another murder,
at our very hotel
, he hadn’t explained the exact sleeping arrangements nor

Orlando’s encounter with Matthew Ainslie and his honey

buzzards.

Any hint of intimacy, of something other than a simple

friendship, he passed over. He hadn’t even explained about their adjacent chairs in the Senior Common Room—it would be too

painful. While his companion still showed every sign of wanting

to carry on the acquaintance, Jonty had no guarantee that they

would ever achieve their previous state of intimacy. To mention it now, at this delicate stage, would probably scupper all chances of it happening. He was keeping Orlando on an even keel and at

present that was all that mattered.

After three days of rest, Orlando was showing signs of

frustration with his prison. The fourth brought both Dr. Stewart, to sit on the other bed as usual to amuse him with stories, and a

diversion just outside the door. Two female voices, already raised, were becoming louder. Orlando and his guest were intrigued and

frustrated, only being able to make out fifty percent of what was being said.

“The doctor…no college work until further…complete rest.”

Nurse Hatfield’s high-pitched tone was vying for supremacy with

a deeper yet equally feminine voice.

“Nonsense! Dr. Copp…mad with boredom. All very well to

rest the body…brainwork needed. Otherwise…recovery.”

Orlando was particularly exasperated to have missed most of

that sentence.

“I can’t be…consequences.”

“I bet she can’t,” muttered Stewart, “whatever it was.” The

men both giggled a little, but not too much for fear of being

caught.

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Lessons in Discovery

“Tell…brother.”

“She would as well,” hissed Orlando, “and then the fat

would be in the fire
.
” They laughed again, with an ease which Orlando found staggering. He’d never been a great one for

humour before, although with Dr. Stewart it seemed that jokes

were always the order of the day.

The bit about the brother seemed to be the last part of the

conversation, as the door was flung open and a middle-aged lady

trooped in carrying a pile of old papers. “Hello, lads!”

“Hello, Miss Peters.” The pair of voices spoke in unison,

which made all three of them laugh.

If the Master’s sister’s tones contrasted with the college

nurse’s, then her appearance did even more so. Dark haired where Nurse Hatfield was blonde, a boyish figure to differ from the

buxom one that ruled the sick bay, Miss Peters could have passed for a lass in her twenties from behind, although the wrinkles and grey streaks in her hair made her likely age—late forties, most

folk speculated—obvious from the front. She had never been

pretty, not even in her prime if photographs were to be believed, although what she lacked in looks she made up for in confidence.

She was the only lady who didn’t frighten Orlando and had

been absent from the college on a fossil-hunting trip during the last part of 1905 that he still had clear memories of. Jonty, in his briefings, had informed him of her return but not of the role she had played in cleaning up a gore-splattered room only days

afterwards.

“Now, Dr. Coppersmith, I hear that you have been excused

all duties for a while and I’m sorely concerned that you’ll be lying here bored stiff. I know what these medical people can be like, far too fussy. What you need is a little mental stimulation.” Miss

Peters tapped the sheaf of papers, producing a cloud of dust. “A mystery, an old, notorious and unsolved one. Well, not solved to either Lemuel’s or my satisfaction.”

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Charlie Cochrane

Jonty stifled a little snigger at the unexpected use of the

Master’s Christian name. Like the process of procreation, it was known about in college but
never
referred to. He hastily covered this up by asking, “Not the Woodville Ward, surely?”

“The very same, Dr. Stewart.” Miss Peters perched herself

daringly on the edge of the bed and laid the papers on Orlando’s lap. “These are copies of all the documents kept at the Master’s lodge concerning the case. Nothing novel here, but—” her eyes

glinted, “—there are some developments. Various new papers and

letters have turned up which seem to have a bearing on the matter.

Some of them appear to be encoded, and these Lemuel is having

copied as we speak. I’ll produce them for you as soon as I can.

We thought—” Orlando caught the “we” and realised it was not

just Miss Peters’ scheme, “—that you might like to set your mind to it while you recover. Doubt you’ll get back to work before term ends and it’s only a few weeks now. At least you could look at

breaking the codes if not solving the mystery itself.”

The Woodville Ward, everyone at Bride’s knew about him.

He was a protégé of their foundress, Elizabeth of York, who had

put as much as she could of her and her mother’s money into

setting up the college, primarily to keep it out of her husband’s grasping Tudor mitts. Her children and grandchildren had made

sure that the foundation was supported, and Queen Elizabeth Hall, as it had been called originally, had thrived. The rowing club still toasted their patroness in a way that reflected her uniqueness.

“Daughter of a king, niece of a king, sister of a king,” they would proclaim, taking a swig between each title, “wife of a king,

mother of a king, grandmother of a king.” Woe betide anyone

whose glass had even a drop in it at the end.

Elizabeth had established her ward—Charles Shaa, a distant

relative of the erstwhile Lord Mayor of London—in the college,

but the lad had mysteriously disappeared. It must have reminded

his patroness horribly of her own two brothers, although foul play 24

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wasn’t suspected at first. Charles had often expressed his wish not to be at the Hall but on a ship sailing westward towards the New World, so it was generally held that he’d run away and secured his ambition, being too ashamed to then return.

This view prevailed for the next two hundred years, until

some renovation work uncovered an old well that had long been

boarded over. The workmen found the body of a young man and

there was enough evidence from the jewellery he was wearing to

hazard that he was Charles. It was never made clear how he’d

died, three separate reports at the time coming to contrasting

conclusions, so the matter had rumbled on and on in St. Bride’s

over the years. There were numerous treatises on the subject

lodged in the college library, most of them not worth the paper or parchment they were written on, which successive Masters had