Swing, Swing Together (20 page)

“It would be kindest not to tell her of our arrangement,” Fernandez suggested. “I should not like her to think that we discovered our mutual interest in geography as an indirect consequence of her husband's death.”

“I shall not mention the matter to a soul,” said Harriet, and meant it. Her cultivation of Fernandez was her own business. She was uniquely placed to find out why somebody had meant to murder him.

CHAPTER

30

A tutorial for Sergeant Cribb—Jacks, piscatorial and homicidal—Uncle in the Steel

T
WENTY
MINUTES
AFTER
H
ARRIET
had left, Fernandez had a second caller: Sergeant Cribb.

Harriet, back in Bonner-Hill's rooms packing shirts into the trunk, did not look up as the sergeant made his way round the Fellows' Quad. If she had, she might have wondered what he was doing in Merton. That he was there to follow up her theory that Bonner-Hill had been murdered in error would not have occurred to her. At the police station, her contribution had been totally eclipsed by Constable Hardy's.

She did not understand that Cribb was a strict observer of priorities. First, he had done what was of paramount importance, released Humberstone, Lucifer and Gold, at the same time assuring them that no charges were to be preferred on
any
of the matters which had come to his attention. Then he had taken a solitary, ruminative lunch. Over the roast beef he had assessed the consequences of the collapse of his case against the three men. He was left with no suspects and, worse, no logical explanation for the murders. Over the apple pie with cream he had begun to think about what Harriet had said.

A strong black coffee, and he was on his way to Merton College.

Fernandez whisked open the door with such a winning smile that Cribb took half a step backwards.

Order was swiftly restored. “I supposed you were somebody else,” Fernandez explained, frowning.

To make things absolutely clear, Cribb reminded him of their last meeting. “I'd like a few words more with you, if that's possible, sir,” he went on. “You know how it is-things come to you afterwards that you should have asked about before. Might I come in, sir? I wouldn't care to be overheard.”

In the sitting room, Fernandez took a stance at the fireplace and motioned Cribb towards a chaise longue. The wall behind it fairly bristled with actresses and angels.

“I'll take the window seat, if it's all the same to you, sir. I was wanting to talk to you about the late Mr. Bonner-Hill.”

Fernandez shrugged. “I hardly expected you were here to discuss the weather.”

“I was hoping you might know what led him to go out on the river yesterday morning.”

“Nothing
led
him there,” said Fernandez. “He went of his own volition.”

“It was the first time he'd ever been out like that, fishing on a Saturday morning quite alone.”

“True, but he was becoming interested in the sport.”

“How long had he been going out with you on your fishing expeditions, sir?”

“I told you that before,” Fernandez said, as if he were addressing an undergraduate. “Two months. No more.”

“So you did, sir. But you've been doing this for two years yourself. Every Saturday.”

“Not every Saturday. Kindly do not put words into my mouth, Sergeant. In court, it is called leading a witness, I believe. On a number of Saturdays in the last two years I have been away from Oxford. I have other obligations to attend to, besides my College duties.”

“The Royal Geographical Society. I remember, sir. But it would be true to say, would it not—I'm trying not to lead you—that you've established a routine of going out on Saturdays—most Saturdays—to look for that thirty-pound pike you mentioned?”

Fernandez nodded warily.

“And do you always fish from the same spot, sir?”

“Not always,” Fernandez answered. “We move about the backwaters. Those are the favourite haunts of the pike. They like it comparatively still, and thick with rushes and water plants. I've caught half a dozen or more this year along Potts Stream and Hinksey, but they were jacks, all but one, and I returned them. The big one still eludes me. I've seen him more than once, actually.”

“Jacks, you said, sir?”

“Young pike, Sergeant. It's not sport to take them before they're full-grown.”

“It's much the same in my line of work, sir. We like to hook the big ones if we can. Funnily enough, the biggest of them all is known as Jack. When we land him, we won't be tossing him back.”

“The Ripper?”

Cribb nodded. “But let's return to Mr. Bonner-Hill. I'm a stubborn man, sir, and I would like to know what prompted him to go out on Saturday. He talked to you about it, I expect. He must have, when you said you wouldn't be going out yourself. When was that—on Friday evening?”

“Friday evening. Yes.” Fernandez paused, evidently calculating whether it was necessary to add to his answer. Cribb waited expressionlessly, letting the silence work for him, and it did. Fernandez continued, “I looked in on him after dinner, about nine, I suppose. I could scarcely utter a word, my throat was so bad, so I went in to call it off. He said at once that he would go alone. He was adamant. I remember he remarked that it might be the very morning when the big one came by.” He gave a nervous laugh. “If it had, I don't think he would have taken it, poor fellow. He was hopeless with a rod, but I was reluctant to discourage him. Pity I didn't, as it turned out.”

Cribb was not there to speculate. “Another question, Mr. Fernandez. When you talked to Mr. Bonner-Hill, did you discuss the place where he would do his fishing?”

“We talked about it, yes. We decided that the backwater leading to North Hinksey—the one that links with Seacourt Stream—was a promising stretch of water. That's where the punt was found, I understand.”

“Yes, sir. Did any other person suggest that you might go to that particular spot on Saturday?”

Fernandez said cautiously, “Why do you ask?”

“I'll tell you in a moment, sir.”

“Nobody suggested it, in fact. The choice was ours alone.” Cribb got up from the window seat. “That's odd, sir. That's caught me by surprise.”

“I fail to understand why,” said Fernandez.

“This murder was arranged more than a week ago, sir, and probably before that. I thought at one stage that Bonner-Hill was done to death by some homicidal ruffians who didn't like the look of his face. Now I'm sure that there was planning in this. Last Tuesday night a tramp by the name of Walters was taken on the river at Hurley and murdered in just the same way as Bonner-Hill. We think the murderers—there were three of them—were trying out the method. It's a clever way to kill a man. Simple, but the cleverest ways usually are. You take him aboard a boat and render him insensible—with alcohol in the case of the tramp—and then you roll him over the side and hold his head and shoulders under till his lungs fill with water. Looks like drowning, of course. I think they might have used chloroform on Bonner-Hill. The post-mortem tomorrow may tell us. Could be traces in the lungs still. But you see my point, Mr. Fernandez. The thing was planned. The killers knew where to find their victim. Bonner-Hill was murdered because he went to the backwater leading to North Hinksey on the day and at the time the murderers expected a man to be there.”

Fernandez folded his arms in a way that proclaimed how unimpressed he was. “Pure chance. It must have been. But for my laryngitis we should both have been there. They could hardly have murdered two of us.”

“I don't suggest it, sir. They didn't plan for two. They expected one, and one came.”

Fernandez frowned. “I trust you are not suggesting that I conspired with these desperados to cause Bonner-Hill's death.”

“Not at all, sir,” answered Cribb. “If you want it straight, I think they might have planned to murder you.”

“Me?” Fernandez tossed back his head and laughed. “Murder me? Why should anybody want to murder me?”

Cribb had turned to face the quadrangle. “I don't know, sir. I thought you might have some ideas about that.”

Fernandez crossed the room and caught him by the shoulder. “Turn and look me in the face, Sergeant. You must have meant what you just said in jest. This is too ridiculous for words.”

Solemnly, Cribb said, “I meant it, Mr. Fernandez. I'm not one for jokes. I don't know why they should want to kill you, but I believe they tried. They expected to find you there yesterday morning. You've been going out on Saturdays looking for that pike for two years, you said. It's common knowledge—must be, by now. They devised a means of killing a man from a boat and making it look like a drowning. They came to Oxford expecting to meet you in the backwater, but they met Bonner-Hill instead. Superficially Bonner-Hill bore some resemblance to you. He was about the same age, his height was similar and he had a moustache like yours. They're all the rage, I know. Point is, that on a misty morning in September, the mistake was not impossible, particularly when he was dressed from head to foot in waterproofs. Did they belong to you, by any chance?”

“Certainly not. Bonner-Hill wasn't the sort to borrow other people's clothes. He wouldn't be seen—”

“Dead in them, sir? Of course, he was careful about his clothes. I should have remembered.”

“But really, the notion that he was somehow mistaken for me is pure speculation.”

“Perhaps you'll hear me out, sir,” Cribb quietly said. “I believe the murderers didn't know that Bonner-Hill had taken to fishing with you. This only started in the last six weeks, you said. Until you told me otherwise, I thought they must have known exactly where you planned to do your fishing yesterday. That's the part that baffles me. You stand by what you said, do you, sir—that the plan to go there was yours alone?”

Fernandez made a sound of impatience. “For Heaven's sake! If you think an experienced angler would go to anybody else for advice on where to pitch his line, you betray a lamentable ignorance of the sport.”

“I'll admit to that, sir. What troubles me, you see, is that there are no end of backwaters around Oxford. The Thames alone—”

“The Isis,” said Fernandez in a pained voice. “In Oxford, the river is known as the Isis.”

“Call it what you like, sir. It's still got Potts Stream, Seacourt Stream and Hinksey Stream branching from it. That's getting on for ten miles of backwaters, without adding the Cherwell. I cannot understand how the murderers knew where to find Bonner-Hill without prior knowledge. Unless, of course”—Cribb traced a finger thoughtfully round the line of his jaw—“unless they followed him from the boatyard. Where would he have hired the punt from?”

“The boathouse at Folly Bridge. But I hardly think your three assassins would risk being seen at Folly Bridge. The place is very well-frequented, even early on a Saturday morning.”

“Pity,” said Cribb. “It brings me back to my problem. Putting myself in the murderers' place—and it sometimes helps to try, sir—if I wanted to make sure you took your boat to one particular backwater, I'd try to tempt you there, let you know that there was good fishing to be had in that locality.”

“I think you would do better to confine yourself to facts, not flights of your imagination,” Fernandez commented.

“I might send a message through a third party,” Cribb doggedly went on, “or a letter, anonymous of course. Might even offer to take you to the spot, or meet you there. A dedicated angler like yourself would find it difficult to resist an offer like that.”

Fernandez inhaled sharply and audibly, and said, “This is entirely hypothetical and I object to your implication that I am withholding information from you. If you have any other questions to address to me, my man, kindly state them now, in a decent, straightforward fashion, before I altogether lose my temper.”

Cribb looked contrite. “I'm sorry, sir. Went beyond myself.” In his experience it was almost a law of interrogation that a straight apology evinced a magnanimous response.

“I must admit I'm not quite myself either,” said Fernandez. “It's a shock to be told that you were meant to be murdered, even if you don't altogether believe it.”

“Nasty shock,” Cribb agreed. “You won't feel very comfortable in your boat for a while after this. Be looking over your shoulder half the time. Mind, I don't think Bonner-Hill was murdered in the punt. He was taken aboard another boat. Went freely, too, I think. There were no signs of a struggle on the punt. Makes me think of two possibilities—either he knew the murderers, or he was meeting them by arrangement.”

Fernandez brought his hands together with a muted clap. “If he knew them, they must have known him, and they couldn't have mistaken him for me.”

“That's why I favour the second possibility,” said Cribb. “The hired assassin baiting his hook, if I might borrow the expression, but catching Bonner-Hill instead of you. Can you think of anyone who bears a grudge against you? I think you might be in need of protection, you see. I can probably arrange for a constable to keep watch here, if you like.”

“In Merton? Good Heavens, Sergeant, this is in the realm of fantasy. No, I can't think of anyone who would like to kill me, and no, I don't want a policeman in the passage, thank you.”

Cribb rubbed the back of his neck. “This is very awkward, sir. You must forgive me if I press the question further. You haven't any enemies, in Oxford, or anywhere else?”

“How does one know one's enemies? I shall begin to think I have, if you persist.”

“You're a single man, sir.” Cribb smiled. “A ladies' man, they tell me, though.” He winked. “No jealous husbands lurking in the shadows, I would hope?”

“Certainly not,” said Fernandez, without smiling.