Death In The Common Room (3) "I ran out of the room and straight into Professor Fotheringay. He went to call an ambulance and the police. Poor Boffin, there's nothing they can do. Oh God, his eyes were open, he looked so...tortured. Oh God. I can't get his face out of my mind." "It's all right, Spats. Take it easy." Brandy looked up at me. I stared back, helpless. Then a thought struck. "What about Margaret? Has anyone told her?" "I don't know." "Perhaps I should..." Brandy began, but before he could finish a hesitant tap came at the door. It opened; Fotheringay stood on the threshold, looking pale and shaken. Brandy motioned him to come in. Automatically I tried to slip the whisky bottle behind a cushion, but the professor noticed the movement and shook his head. "For God's sake, Watson, don't worry about that tonight." "Would you like a drink, sir?" Brandy asked, noting the scientist's dazed expression. Fotheringay nodded slowly, and while I poured the whisky he went over to Spats and shook him gently by the shoulder. "You all right, Moncrieff? Shook you up a bit?" Spats nodded speechlessly. "Yes, me too." The professor agreed. "Have the police arrived, sir?" Brandy handed over the drink. "Yes, I directed them to the common-room and then came up here to check on this young man." He nodded at Spats, who looked as though he might throw up at any moment. "I think you should see Matron." He added, addressing him directly. Spats, seemingly too shocked to manage speech, simply shot a rabbit-in-the-headlights look of fear in Brandy's soothing direction. The big man caught his arm lightly. "Come on, Spats. The professor's right, what you need is a good rest. Matron will give you something to calm you down. Come on," he repeated, and led the younger man out of the room as though he were a child. I was left alone with Fotheringay, and a sense of growing grief and confusion. "Professor," I began helplessly, "why would Boffin...I mean Peter...why would he kill himself? I just don't get it. Was it...was it to do with your argument, sir?" Had I been thinking clearly, such a question, which almost amounted to an accusation, would have horrified me and I certainly would have kept it to myself. But shock, and not knowing what to say, led me to bring forth what was uppermost in my mind. Could whatever the Professor had said after I left have driven Boffin to kill himself? It seemed so impossible. I realised the mistake I had made when Fotheringay, far from getting mad or defensive, sank wearily into a chair with what sounded alarmingly like a sob. "You can't seriously be suggesting..." he whispered. I shook my head, becoming more bewildered by the minute. "I...wasn't suggesting anything, Professor. It's just that...well, Spats - uh, Richard went downstairs almost as soon as I'd gone up. Peter wouldn't have had a great deal of time...when did you leave him, sir?" "Is this some kind of interrogation?" Fotheringay snapped. "You are impertinent, boy." I could only apologise, assure him that no offence was meant. Any questioning to be done would have to be left to the police. To my relief, I wasn't left alone with the irate Professor for long. Brandy returned, with some news of his own. He had met with a police inspector and doctor in the corridor and told what he knew, receiving in return the information that Bassington had died instantly of a broken neck, that the death was not being treated as suspicious, and that the police would want to interview us all the next day when everyone had had a chance to recover from the shock. Brandy also found out that Margaret had been awakened and informed of her fiancé's death; she was in the college sanatorium, under the care of a nurse and the college counsellor. She would not be allowed visitors as yet; Brandy had been to the San to find out. It occurred to me that no student but Brandy could have got such information from the police; I wondered just how he had wheedled it out of them. "I'd better go down and have a word with the Inspector." Fotheringay got up stiffly, but nodded to me as he left, and I knew I was forgiven for my earlier badly timed enquiry. I explained to Brandy what I had asked and the professor's reaction. Brandy shook his head. "What I don't understand is how Boffin possibly had time to...do what he did. You came upstairs at what time?" "About..." "Can't you say for certain?" I considered. "It would have been just a minute or two before twelve. The clock in the hall chimed just before I knocked on your door." "Yes, I head it. We don't know when Fotheringay left the room. Spats went straight to the common room from here, which means he must have found the body no later than ten minutes past twelve, and possibly before then. Fotheringay must have left almost immediately after you did." Another thought struck me. "As a matter of fact, he got up while I was standing at the door. That's why I left, in case he saw me eavesdropping." Brandy glanced at me sharply. Then he frowned. "In that case, we'll say that Boffin had a maximum of twelve minutes in which to...well. Could he have managed it in that time? Dragging the chair over, setting up the...the belt." I shivered. "Brandy, for God's sake let's not talk about it tonight. Think of Margaret." "I know, I know. I do think of her, Dan. And I wonder...I wonder." Chapter Five Brandy Makes A Statement The police officers who interviewed our little group, the last ones to see Bassington alive, were sympathetic and as non-threatening as possible. I was impressed by the fact that they had taken the time to learn something about each of us before the interview, despite the recency of the event. Both men - Inspector Davis and Constable Roley - conversed rather than interrogated. It was clear that suicide was a foregone conclusion; the questioning was a mere formality, an attempt to find out not what, but why. I told them, of course, about Fotheringay's argument with Boffin just prior to his death, which provoked a little eyebrow-raising from the constable and a slight twitch of interest from the more experienced inspector. After their interview with Fotheringay, however, they seemed to decide against taking any further action. The argument, it seemed, was unlikely to be considered a potential motive for suicide. Consensus seemed to be that Boffin had cracked under the pressure of his own considerable brilliance; with exams coming up and his own research becoming so important, everything had eventually been too much not for his great brain, but for his soul. We were all agreed that there could be no other cause for what was undoubtedly a case of tragic suicide. All, that is, except one. Brandy Brinkley refused point-blank to accept our reasoning. He kept quiet as we discussed the case - "us" being Spats and I; Margaret was as yet still in the college medical rooms and visitors were not welcome. The two police officers arrived in the common room as we talked. They were on their way back to the station, their work at Salisbury complete. "We wanted to check whether any of you had remembered anything else of use." Inspector Davis explained pleasantly. "It's easy to forget bits and pieces of information after a shock. Anyway, if you do recall anything else, give us a ring on the telephone." He handed us each a small card with the station's number on it. "Now, if you've nothing else to tell us..." The Inspector paused. Brandy had cleared his throat in a deliberate manner. "You've something to add, sir?" I was not surprised. Brandy had been quiet all morning, seemingly deep in thought. Whatever the fruits of his musings, it seemed likely that he would share them with us eventually - and naturally, with the police. He did not rush, though the constable's eye was on him. He met the inspector's expectant gaze steadily, and then spoke in his rich, clipped voice. "Yes, I'd like to say something, if you don't mind." Another, very brief pause to gather his thoughts, and then Brandy continued smoothly, "Point one. I find it hard to believe that Peter Bassington killed himself because of pressure. He was exceptionally intelligent. He had no reason to be concerned over exams or work, and his own experiments were (as far as we know) going well. Nothing professor Fotheringay could have said, no matter how caustic, would have affected Boffin so severely, either; they were friends, true, but I can't imagine Boffin being bothered by what anyone said. He was too...distracted." On reflection I had to agree with that. But what was the alternative? Was there something in Boffin's life - something so awful that it would drive him to suicide, but yet that we knew nothing about? It seemed impossible. Boffin wasn't secretive, except about his scientific work. How could we have failed to notice his state of mind? He had seemed entirely normal, completely himself on the evening that he died. If anyone had behaved oddly, it was Professor Fotheringay...so strange to see such angry passion in someone usually amiable and friendly. But if Boffin had no reason to commit suicide, then what... "Murder!" I glanced up, startled, as Brandy's strong voice answered my unspoken question. Inspector Davis was looking puzzled; Roley was frowning. "Say that again, sir?" "I'm quite serious, Inspector. I believe that Bassington was murdered." The constable snorted. "I five minutes? That's likely! Or are you suggesting that your friends here did it, and are lying to cover it up?" Spats half got to his feet, outraged; Brandy pushed him back easily with one hand and addressed the constable himself. "I'm suggesting nothing of the kind! But I refuse to accept that Boffin killed himself. That conclusion may fit the bare facts, but it is not psychologically sound." The constable make a second derisive noise, and cut in before his superior could speak, "Lord above, we've got Hercule Poirot here. I think we're done, aren't we, Inspector? This lad's obviously been reading too many crime novels." He wagged his finger in a condescending way at my friend. "Fancy yourself a bit of a detective, do you? I'd leave it to the professionals, my lad, and get along with your studies." Brandy listened to this speech with a calmness that astonished me; Spats, I could tell, was longing to throw a few sharp words the constable's way, and I was aghast at the notion that someone could speak to my friend in such a patronising manner. The inspector seemed vaguely amused. He glanced at Brandy, who was looking into the constable's eyes with a steady, quiet gaze. "Perhaps you mistake me for a child, constable Roley." He said softly, after a pause. "I am not a child. Nor am I a professional police officer, or a psychologist. But I did know Boffin Bassington, and he was not suicidal yesterday evening. He was not depressed or confused, nor have I ever known him to be that way. He was stable and well-adjusted. That type of person, constable, does not commit suicide. I recognise that the facts of the case are not sufficient to justify further investigation by the police. But facts, sir, are not all; they merely present a pattern, reflect a situation rather than defining it. You may mock me, but in the end you must accept that what I am saying is logical. And if the professionals will not investigate the case further, it seems entirely sensible that someone else should; who better than someone on the inside, who knew the victim - yes, victim, constable, don't shake your head in that manner - and who has access to all concerned? I don't consider myself exceptional, or unusually qualified to examine the truth of this case. But I am determined - determined that my friend's death will not remain a mystery, that he will be avenged." This entire speech had been made calmly and quietly, but with a steely ring of conviction which gave the constable pause. He frowned and muttered, snorted yet again - it seemed quite a habit with him - and opened his mouth. Before he could speak, however, the inspector cut in firmly. "Well said, young Brinkley! You may yet be right. There is, I think, perhaps more to this case than meets the eye, although I think you will find that Bassington committed suicide. I leave it to you to discover the reason for it; that is the mystery here. But murder? Not impossible, of course, but very near it. Good luck to you; and if you should find out anything in support of your conviction, let us know." Brandy nodded, fingering the card the inspector had handed to him. Davis nodded back, then shot a look at his colleague. "Good day, gentlemen. Come along, Roley." Constable Roley followed, but not after a lethal glare in Brandy's direction. "You'll have your come-uppance, young man!" that look seemed to say. Brandy replied to it with a snort, and the door closed. "Well!" Spats ejaculated when Brandy had settled himself once more in his chair beside the fire, "I'd have bally well laid him out, speaking to you like that! And you're the son of a Lord!" "That doesn't make me God Almighty, Spats." Brandy responded gently. "But I meant what I said. Boffin was murdered, and I'm determined to find out why - and, more importantly, who." A chill air seemed to wash through the room. I shivered, and when I spoke, my voice seemed to tremble as much as I tried to control it. "You were serious, then? You're going to investigate this case yourself?" "Of course he is!" Spats answered before Brandy could get a word in. "And we're going to help him. Right, old thing?" Brandy smiled peacefully. "That would be greatly appreciated." Spats turned to me, his eyes wide with an excitement I found rather morbid, but at the same time peculiarly infectious. "You, Danny? Are you with us?" I shook my head. This was all too much. And then I noticed Brandy's quiet grey eyes upon me, and the hopeful expression in them. "Yes," I said, with as much conviction as I could muster under the circumstances. "Yes, I'm with you." Chapter Six Brandy makes a promise That afternoon, we spoke with Margaret for the first time since Boffin's death. She was sitting in her room shortly after being released from the medical bay, and when we found her, staring at a small picture of Bassington and herself. She was not crying, but clearly had been very recently. Spats and I, after greeting her quietly and offering timid condolences, hovered uncomfortably in the doorway while Brandy offered more ostensible comfort. "Thank you for coming to see me." She whispered, her throat raw from weeping. Brandy stroked her arm soothingly. "We're your friends, Margaret. We're all here for you, whenever you need to talk." "Right!" Spats agreed vigorously from the doorway, and I added a shy nod. She smiled radiantly at all of us, and somehow the tears she had shed made her seem more beautiful, and delicate as a lily. I felt fiercely protective of her in that moment, never having seen her so fragile, so feminine as then. I could see that Brandy felt the same. As I said, we all loved Margaret in our way. There was little that any of us could say or do to make things easier for her. During the two hours that we spent with her she cried a little, but not much, having, I thought, exhausted the reserves of tears within her. She was too proud to give total vent to her feelings in front of even her closest friends. We talked about Peter, laughed at the memories. Margaret laughed through her tears. Eventually we came around to the vital question - why had such a man killed himself? Margaret confessed that this thought had been troubling her. She was inclined to blame herself for failing to notice his state of mind. Brandy, after some hesitation, explained his theory to her. "Margie, there's something you should know. I'm not an expert, but I don't believe that Peter's death is quite so straightforward as it seems." He proceeded to reiterate his doubts about the case, and Margaret listened, wide-eyed but without apparent anger. When he had finished she nodded slowly. "That Peter might have been murdered is a horrible thought - but it is better than that he should have committed suicide. That's the worst death I can possibly think of. And you're right, it was impossible that Peter should want to kill himself, or have the means. What do the police think?" "That there was no foul play, but perhaps some mysterious reason why he should have killed himself." Margaret shook her head. "There was nothing that I knew of. But why, on the other hand, would anyone want to kill him? He was so gentle, so harmless..." tears filled her eyes again, and Brandy held her. Spats and I glanced at each other, embarrassed and uncertain. When Margie had recovered a little, I spoke up, and explained the argument between Boffin and Fotheringay. "But that's impossible!" She exclaimed. "Surely you can't think that the professor is capable of something so awful!" "Everyone is capable of murder, Margaret." Brandy told her quietly. "Which makes everyone a suspect." She flashed him a sharp look, then her gaze softened as she became thoughtful. "I suppose the professor is a little odd. But he's always so nice. I simply can't believe he could be...well, passionate enough to kill anyone." "We didn't think he had it in him to argue like that, either." I pointed out. "In those moments he really seemed to despise poor Boffin. And you know how important that scientific work is." "Important enough to kill?" Spats mused. The question was directed at Brandy. Our friend was gazing at Margaret's photograph, a thoughtful expression in his clear grey eyes. He looked up. "That's what we need to find out. But first we should examine the common room." "The crime scene!" Spats exclaimed, his eyes bright. Then he checked himself and shot a quick, apologetic look at Margaret. She was staring at Brandy, heedless of the gangly youth's misdemeanour. "I'd rather not join you." She said softly, her eyes on the floor. "It's...it's too much. But you will keep me informed, won't you?" That voice, so gentle, so warm. So soft and trusting. In that moment she placed her faith in Brandy, and I have never forgotten how seriously he took the promise he made to her in response. "Of course I will, Margie. Whatever we discover, you will learn also. Never forget that I'm on your side - we all are. I'll take care of you, Margaret." There was something in those last words, words that seemed so natural in such a situation, that meant more than their simple content implied. Margaret seemed to recognise this; she lowered her eyes, and when she raised them, they were full of tears. "Thank you." She said simply. Brandy took her hand, held it for a moment between his. Then we stepped out into the corridor, and she closed the door behind us. "Well, then," Spats' voice was less strident than unusual. Even he had been affected by the encounter. "We'd better get going, what? Before the visigoths descend on the crime scene and obliterate the evidence." Brandy seemed amused. "What were expecting, Spats? Footprints, fingerprints, something the police didn't find? No, my friend, what we are looking for is something the police didn't notice; something so natural and ordinary that it escaped the attention of everyone in the room." Spats waggled his eyebrows, baffled. Imagination, drama, performance - those were his fortes. He would have made a brilliant crime writer - but I knew from the start that he would be an appalling detective. Brandy, on the other hand...he was different. His mind was sharp, but not narrow. He had an uncanny perceptiveness, an ability to understand the psychology of a situation, which would stand him in good stead. He had an observant eye and a talent for deduction. In fact, his way of summing up people after only a few minutes with them was so uncanny as to be disturbing, and I had never known him to be incorrect in his judgements. I had great faith in my new friend's ability to get to the bottom of the case, to explain and avenge poor Peter Bassington's untimely death, and to do it with a depth of understanding and familiarity impossible to even the most astute of the police force, or even Scotland Yard. After all, they had never known Boffin - or his murderer, for if murder it had been, the perpetrator must surely be among us, in our midst.
Copyright © 2000 Hildebrande K Reynolds |