Lessons in Power (11 page)
Stewart came on the scene and all that had changed. Thank heaven he had.
Orlando wandered through the bathroom which connected their two bedrooms, found his pyjamas,
slipped them on, then returned to find Jonty snuggled down, book and reading glasses discarded. Orlando slid between the soft linen sheets, drawing Jonty to him. “I’d hoped it was all over, you know.”
“Hmm?”
“This business with the thunder. I always hoped that somehow I could overcome it with my affection
for you. ‘Perfect love casteth out fear’ and all that.”
Charlie Cochrane
“Well it should do, Orlando, but somehow it’s not as easy as it seems. We do have perfect love for
each other and I’d regard myself as blessed above all men ‘were it not that I have bad dreams’.” Jonty shuddered, as if he were shaking off memories as easily as he could shake off his jacket.
“Do you? Nightmares?”
“No, clown.” Jonty pinched his lover’s backside. “I was quoting your pal Hamlet. It isn’t the land of nod, wherever I go when the storms come. I don’t feel distressed or see visions, I just visit somewhere else.
Very odd.”
“I think you go there to protect yourself, in case you remember anything.” Orlando smoothed his
lover’s hair, admiring the golden tones, the hints of auburn the firelight threw up.
“You could well be right. I don’t want to remember the gruesome details, thank you.” Jonty snuggled
onto his lover’s chest. “Want to make new memories with you. I think we should somehow wangle it one
night, you know, make love while a storm is at its height. That might just get rid of all the trouble. If I could keep
here
for long enough to take an active part.”
Orlando held him tighter, kissed his brow. “I suppose I could pinch you or something. Shame there’s
not been a storm since we got the house—being there would make it easier.”
“There’ll be plenty in the spring. We just need to plan things. You’ll like that, working out your
military strategy.” Jonty giggled and launched an assault on his lover’s collarbone.
“Seems you’ve got a strategy worked out.” Orlando responded by caressing Stewart’s back, little,
tender movements which always brought contentment to them both.
“Sort of. It’s been a long time since we shared the last favours, my love. I’ve been skittish for too long.”
The business with Jardine had become an ever-present menace, as if those who’d committed such
outrages on Jonty had somehow found access to his bedroom and were standing gloating, spoiling even the most innocent of pleasures.
Orlando had been frustrated yet endeavoured to understand—he had to be patient, the worst thing to
do would be rushing or forcing things. None of this logical reasoning had helped. Now the lowering clouds of unease seemed to have lifted and the sunshine of affection warmed him beyond measure. “If you’re sure, I’m ready.”
“You always are, Dr. Coppersmith. Since you discovered the delights of the flesh you’ve become
quite a hedonist. Just imagine if I’d taken up that post in Ireland, you’d never have known any of this.”
Orlando swallowed hard, hating to be reminded of how close he’d been to not having Jonty by him.
“Don’t remind me of that. Small turning points, that’s what life consists of. One little decision and the whole world changes.”
“It does. As it did for us.” Jonty reached up to kiss him. “Come on, I want you to lie with me. Been
far too long.”
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Orlando didn’t reply. Lips and hands could talk for him, kisses saying
yes
as loudly as tender touches did. Jonty’s skin was warmer than expected beneath his boyish pyjamas, and wafts of something lovely, which might have been lavender soap, assailed Orlando’s senses as he undid any buttons which had
survived his first assault. To feel Jonty’s chest against his own, downy skin on smooth, was a necessary part of their lovemaking for him, a sign that they were indeed one, and not meant to be split asunder.
He still wasn’t sure how far Jonty wanted to pursue this. There was hesitancy in his touch, some slight tentativeness which didn’t usually grace their bed. He gently caressed the small of his lover’s back and was pleased to find that, at least for the moment, his hands were allowed to carry on.
Jonty twisted in his lover’s arms, using his powerful muscles to turn Orlando, give himself the
dominance. He stretched over his lover, a protective canopy against the cold, the world, anything which might disturb them this night. Orlando burrowed into the security, enjoying the unusual sensation of being looked after. He preferred to be the protective one, guarding his most treasured possession, but Ariadne Peters’s words had stuck with him. He knew he shouldn’t always be the protector.
Tender kisses on the side of his neck made him tingle, firm strokes on his lower back made the
sensation spread. However far Jonty wanted to go, he was ready, more than ready. He inched his fingers from the smooth skin of Jonty’s lower back down towards their target, a movement which normally
brought delighted acquiescence, manoeuvring of body and legs to allow access. Not this time.
“What’s wrong?” Orlando spoke into his lover’s hair. Jonty had tensed—he was trying to hide it, but
Orlando knew.
“I can’t. I’m sorry.” Jonty pulled away, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling.
“Is it this wretched thunder?” Orlando laid a tentative hand on his lover’s arm. A protective,
comforting gesture, with no hint of desire.
“No. Yes. It’s everything.” Jonty crossed his arms over his face, shaking off Orlando’s hand in the
process. “I’m back there, in my mind. A boy of thirteen in a cold room praying for a fire alarm to sound, or anything that would make
it
stop.”
“Dear God.” Orlando knew this had happened before, but never with him—all he could do was wait
for Jonty to come out of the slough of despond.
“Put off the light and go to sleep, sweetheart. I don’t think I’ll be able to get off for a while.”
“Should I stay here? I’ll do whatever you think best.”
“Please, if you could bear it. I’ll be fine, soon. Just tonight…I couldn’t do it tonight.” Jonty turned, pulling the covers over his head.
“Of course.” Orlando didn’t attempt to touch his friend. For the moment they were beyond words or
contact. There was a chance, more than a chance, that it would be a long time before
doing it
became a viable option again.
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Sunday morning meant church and Jonty having to drag a reluctant Orlando there—on such small
decisions the world really did depend. At the time, all he could take satisfaction in was there being several members of the royal family present, to whom he was introduced by a smiling and laughing Richard
Stewart as the bells rang at the end of the service.
He and Jonty returned to Cambridge before lunch—there were essays to mark and a lecture on
Othello
to revise. Orlando wondered if the inspiration had been recent events.
Very recent events, of an
unsuccessful carnal nature
. He desperately hoped that the dunderheads were sufficiently true to their soubriquet not to realise what had supplied Jonty with his new ideas.
On Monday evening a loud rapping on the door of their cottage was followed by a puzzled and
perturbed-looking Mrs. Ward poking her head into the lounge to announce that there were two gentlemen to see them, who might just be the police. The initial shock was dispersed when two familiar faces
appeared.
“Mr. Wilson, Mr. Cohen!” Jonty and Orlando spoke in unison, delighted to see their old friends.
Hands were shaken all round and Mrs. Ward sent off to find something small, sweet, and deliciously
nourishing, while Orlando played host and poured the sherry.
“To what do we owe this pleasure? If it is going to be a pleasure,” Jonty added, his growing sense of unease creating a small knot in his stomach.
“We wondered—” Wilson sipped the excellent amontillado, “—why you had been to see Timothy
Taylor.” He asked the question innocently enough, although the shrewd light in his eyes showed the police inspector wasn’t making small talk.
“Because we’ve been asked to investigate what a friend believes is a case of wrongful arrest.”
Orlando knew, they both knew, that there was no point in lying to the constabulary. Although economy
with the truth would be judicious.
“And this case is?”
Jonty swallowed, his throat painfully dry, despite the sherry’s lubricating effect. “The murder of Lord Christopher Jardine.”
There was an interval before Wilson asked his next question. The ticking of the clock sounded louder
than it ever had—Jonty was sure the pounding of his heart must have rivalled it. “And your investigations brought you to Taylor?”
“They did indeed, very quickly.” Jonty was determined they wouldn’t dissemble. Any query would be
answered honestly, wherever that led them. The game wasn’t just afoot, it was speeding towards the line and he couldn’t fail at taking any ball passed to him. “Why do you ask?”
“Because, gentlemen, Timothy Taylor was found murdered yesterday morning and we were told that
you’d been to see him on two occasions, the last of which was only Saturday.”
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If Wilson had been hoping to catch these two men out, to somehow make them show some element of
guilt at his revelation, then he wasn’t successful. The honest surprise and shock on Jonty and Orlando’s faces couldn’t have been feigned, not if either of them had been Herbert Beerbohm Tree himself.
“When did he die?” Orlando recovered his composure first.
Jonty hardly heard his question, being brought up with a round turn, as his grandmother would have
put it. So Taylor was dead, another one of the triumvirate of bullies struck down by a hand unknown and, by the way in which Sergeant Cohen seemed to be looking at anything in the room except the inhabitants, the police must be wondering if the hand unknown lived in this cottage.
“On Sunday morning at about ten. He’d been fine at breakfast, then had insisted he be left alone until luncheon, which was due at one o’clock. He told the butler that the household were to go to church as they habitually did and that he would see to the door himself should anyone call.” Inspector Wilson spoke with his usual note of authority—investigator, judge and jury in one. Not the man to balk at delivering a friend up for justice.
“So he was expecting company?” Orlando had taken out his notepad, was making entries in it—
shaky, uncertain entries, or so it appeared to his lover, who could just make out the scrawl.
“He didn’t specify that to his staff, but that was their understanding. When the butler came to tell him that his meal was served, he found Taylor with the back of his head staved in.”
“Like Jardine.” Jonty was astonished at how very small and tremulous his own voice sounded, every
word having to be forced out. “He died in the same way.”
“Like his lordship, yes. Although I hasten to reassure you that we don’t think you have any
involvement with his killing.” Wilson spoke just a little too hurriedly. Both Jonty and Orlando noticed the discomfort that Cohen was experiencing, his pained expression giving the lie to his superior officer’s words. “For one thing you have a superb alibi for the time of the death, although perhaps Dr. Stewart would say that only a guilty man would arrange to be very visibly hobnobbing at church with various members of the royal family when a murder was committed. Please sit down, Dr. Coppersmith, I’m not trying to pick a fight.”
Jonty signalled for his friend to be seated, both with a wave of his hand and a particular look in his eye. Getting into fisticuffs with a policeman would hardly further the cause of protesting their innocence. “I find the fact interesting, even though you say we are above suspicion, that you—or I would more properly assume one of your colleagues in London—checked exactly where we were on Sunday morning. Or is it
the case that we only lost the cloud of doubt once you’d established that we couldn’t have been there to do the deed?”
Jonty knew he was illogical to feel so angry, because the police were going through the same thought
processes which he and Orlando would have employed if the roles had been reversed
. Yet it’s not the fact
that we’ve been checked on that riles me. It’s knowing Orlando nearly didn’t attend service the previous
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Charlie Cochrane
morning.
If the silly sod had stayed at home, he’d have been under the gravest suspicion now.
A quick glance at his lover confirmed Jonty’s suspicions that Orlando was mulling over the very same thing.
“We were wondering…” it was the first time Cohen had spoken after his initial greeting and “thank
you” for the refreshments, although he still couldn’t quite look his hosts in the eye, “…why you seem to find yourselves so close to violent death so often?”
Orlando wouldn’t be silenced on this occasion. “We didn’t ask to be involved with that first case. I
seem to remember that you requested our assistance and it was the same this time. We were asked because of our previous successes, as you might term them, to take an interest. The affair on Jersey rather gave people the impression that we could help out where matters weren’t clear.”
Orlando clearly enjoyed being able to say this. The case of Ainslie’s father’s death had been one in
which he and Jonty were constantly one step ahead of the police, Wilson included.
The inspector tipped his head in acknowledgement. “That’s a fair point.”
“One might ask—” Orlando was in a particularly bullish mood now, “—why
you’re
here and not the Metropolitan police.”
