Death In The Common Room (4) Perhaps even one of us. Chapter Seven In the common room Everything was wrong. In the room, I mean. It smelt wrong, for a start, in a way I couldn't really explain, but you probably understand anyway. It smelt like an old house that no one has lived in for a while; not musty or damp, but empty, cold, unfeeling. Unlived in. The second thing I noticed was the state of the room, which hadn't been tidied since the initial visit of the police. Technically it was still out of bounds, and I could see fingerprinting dust and chalk marks here and there. The police were planning to return to give the room a more thorough going over after the autopsy; the college had requested that nothing was done until they had found some explicit reason for thinking there had been foul play. Which no one did - except Brandy, Spats and me. I was coming around to Brandy's point of view. I don't think Spats really had one of his own; he saw the opportunity to be involved in a drama and took it, regardless of the truth.. At the time it worried me that thinking such things about my friend was disloyal and unfair, but now of course I realise that that was exactly what Spats had in mind - an adventure. Sure he had liked Bassington and certainly was sorry he was dead; but Spats, the consummate English student and theatre-goer, never seemed to live in the real world. He existed in a kind of British Tinseltown inside his head, seeing everything as though it were a play or a movie or a novel. Boffin wasn't really dead because he was never real; none of us were, with the exception of Spats himself, and perhaps Brandy. In retrospect I'd say Brandy was the only other person Moncrieff ever cared about in any deep way - apart from his wife, who would be commonly known only as "Mrs. Spats" to his old friends, but that was a long way in the future. But back to relevancy, and current events. The common room was something of a shambles, something Spats had not really mentioned in his panicked narrative of events. I noticed Brandy seemed especially interested in the light fittings, which had been damaged; the chandelier lay in a wreckage of glass and brass on the floor, ripped clean from the ceiling, presumably when poor Boffin had fallen. Brandy sniffed and pointed to it. "Notice something strange about that, Dan?" I shook my head. "Seems obvious to me - Boffin weighed too much for the lights and the whole fixture just crashed to the floor." "After holding him for just long enough to snap his neck?" My friend replied, a faint smile on his handsome face. I gave a startled snort of half-laughter. Of course! How stupid I had been not to notice. If Bassington had hung himself from those lights, they'd have collapsed immediately, flimsy things that they were. I felt ashamed of my lack of observation. Spats, on the other hand, looked alarmed, and I watched him curiously as he began to splutter. "But Brandy old thing, he must have used the lights, I mean how else could he have hung himself..." "I thought we were agreed he hadn't, Spats." "Oh. Oh, yes! Well then, I'll tell you that this whole thing looks very suspicious." "And how come the police didn't notice it?" I asked, puzzled. Surely professionals could not have missed so obvious a clue to foul play. Brandy shook his head, grey river eyes gleaming faintly, sunlight playing on the ripples. "Oh, they did notice, Danny. But they explained it away, I think, in such a manner which suggested nothing untoward had happened." He pointed to the high ceiling again, this time a few feet from the gaping hole of the light fittings. I followed his finger, and drew my breath. "The attic cord! Of course!" Perhaps here I should explain the layout of the room. The college was a small one, and had been converted from a huge derelict house; the common room in which we stood was on the third floor. Stairs had been built which led up to the study bedrooms above - a dormitory block which had been converted from the huge attic, which ran the length of the house! But the original entrance to the attic, via a kind of trapdoor, was located in the common room. You simply pulled down the door using a strong, thick cord; it slid down, pulling a stepladder with it. No one used the door now of course, and it had been boarded up to prevent accidents. But the frame of the door could still be made out, and the cord, usually coiled up, had not been removed. Boffin could have easily stood on a chair, reached down the cord, and fastened it about his neck... "If he used the chord, though," I remarked, staring at it, "why are the light fittings down?" Then I answered my own question, "oh, I see...he tried the lights, they collapsed, and he went for the cord instead - oh God, how awful." I turned away from the instrument of my poor friend's death, horrified and sickened. How could anyone, young, healthy, with so much promise - how could they die? I had written of the tragedy to my parents, but laying everything down on paper just made things seem more cruel, and more confusing. Despite Brandy's assurances, however, I was becoming more and more convinced that Boffin had committed suicide, for whatever reason. It seemed unlikely that he should want to die...but was murder really any more likely? And the cord - if someone had wanted to kill Boffin why hang him afterward? Making murder look like suicide, or an accident, could be achieved in some many easier ways. This seemed unnecessary, bizarre, even theatrical, doubtless the work of a lunatic, or someone so crazed with emotion they knew not what they were doing. As I stood in a sort of daze, contemplating whether to share my thoughts with Brandy (I still felt a little intimidated by him, even then), Spats suddenly leapt forward, poking frantically at something with a long, slim finger. "There! Look at that, won't you! Now there's a clue if I ever saw one, what? Look!" We looked. Spats was pointing at a few flakes of white paint, a sort of off white colour, lying on the floor underneath the dangling cord. I shrugged. What was so telling about paint? But Brandy seemed interested in the discovery; he knelt and took a small packet from his inside pocket. A transparent envelope, the same type that the police use to collect evidence. He picked up a few flakes, rubbed them thoughtfully between his fingers, looked up once, and popped them into the envelope. "Why do you need those?" I asked, puzzled. "Yes, why, old crumpet?" Spats agreed. I turned to him in surprise, and pointed out that he had first drawn attention to the paint. He shrugged neutrally. "Only because it looked something, old thing. You know in these whodunits little funny things like that always turn out to be vital - is my little find vital, Brandy?" Our friend was still gazing thoughtfully at the flakes. When he looked up at us, there was a faint smile on his face. "Possibly, Spats. Possibly. Then again, it may be totally irrelevant. Time will tell." He rose and headed for the door. We followed him, but as I passed the threshold, I shot a glance back at the plastered ceiling. What was Brandy thinking? Chapter Eight Questions The police had questioned everyone relevant about the tragedy - with the exception of Margaret, who had been too upset to be interrogated. They reckoned that she would be unable to help much anyway, since she had gone to bed long before Peter had met his untimely death. Brandy determined, in the best detective style, to question everyone, including Margie. After speaking with her we determined that she was willing to go along with us. "I'll do anything to help explain Peter's death," she insisted, "but I think you're wrong, Brandy. I can't imagine anyone who would want to kill him." During her "interview", as which I was present taking notes (no-one else was allowed to sit in, even Spats, who went off grumbling), she told us that Peter had seemed depressed of late. "I know you probably didn't notice anything, Brandy, but I did. He seemed quieter, even more introverted than usual. It is obvious to me now that he was contemplating suicide." Tears were now standing in her beautiful, expressive eyes. "If only I had taken him seriously!" "Taken him seriously?" Brandy gestured in a subtle way that I should make a note of this. "What exactly do you mean, Margie? What did he say that you didn't take seriously?" She looked up at him, and sniffled a little. I immediately fumbled awkwardly for a handkerchief, but Brandy had already given her his. She wiped her eyes with it before continuing. "This is going to sound important, something I should have told the police. But honestly, at the time I thought he was joking, and when they told me that...that he was...he was dead, I just couldn't think..." My friend placed a gentle hand on her arm. "Just tell us in your own words what happened, Margie." She sat up, made an obvious effort to pull herself together. "Peter and I were having lunch alone together," she began. "It was when you two went to the pictures, and we didn't want to go with you, so we stayed at the boarding house. At about twelve o' clock we went for lunch. We were chatting afterwards during coffee...oh, about this and that," she added in response to Brandy's swift question. "Anyway, I asked Peter about his work, his scientific work. Trying to show an interest, get him to talk to me. He went very quiet and said he was worried." Brandy shot me a quick glance then; our eyes met for only an instant but I knew what it meant. Peter had never been worried, he was the most laid back individual I had ever met. For him to express his feelings like that was most unusual - but then, how did we know how he and his fiancée behaved alone together? Margie missed the look; she continued speaking, her eyes on the table top. "I questioned him further, thinking that something had gone wrong with the experiments, but he said it wasn't that. You know how he was always afraid of someone stealing his ideas?" We nodded. "Well, that was his main worry. He thought that someone - no, I don't have a name, I'm sorry - that someone had been copying his papers secretly. Apparently he had found some in the wrong places, and missed a whole file only to have it turn up, where he had originally left it, a few hours later. I dismissed it really - you know how absent-minded he is...I mean, was. Oh!" It was the first time she had corrected herself in this way when talking about Peter, and it struck a chord with all of us. I saw Brandy close his eyes briefly, a reminder that, despite his attempts to be objective and analytical he was only human, with very human feelings of grief about poor Peter, whom he had known for some time. Brandy was a sensitive man; it was one of the things I valued most in him. His quietness, his sensitivity, were elements of his character that seemed to conflict with his great height and stature, but not with his eyes, which were inevitably gentle and warm. I had not yet seem them flash with anger, or heard his voice raised above the soft, even rumble with which he spoke. That would happen...but not yet, and even then, not for long. He watched Margaret now with a sympathetic air, but solicitous - he wanted to know everything, because, an avid reader of Agatha Christie, he couldn't help but think that even the slightest, most unimportant clue could be vital in this case. "Perhaps Peter was right," Margie was saying quietly, "and perhaps he wasn't. Either way he was most upset by the whole thing. If it was true, I can't help thinking that...well, it might have been a factor in his...his death. If it wasn't true and he was imagining the whole thing, then perhaps it was a symptom of some other problem." "You think he might have been psychologically unstable? Even ill?" Although Brandy kept his tone tactfully neutral, I could detect a hint of scepticism. As a student of psychology and a natural perceptive person he knew a thing of two about such matters. I could understand his feelings. Boffin had seemed perfectly stable, if a little odd sometimes; certainly there seemed no indication that he might have been mentally ill, or even neurotic. If anyone was a contender for the loony bin it was Spats, not Boffin, I thought, but, emulating Brandy's tact, I kept it to myself. Although she remained with us for ten minutes more, Margie didn't really provide any more helpful information. When gently asked by Brandy to report her movements immediately following her exit from the common room on the fateful evening, she concisely and clearly told us that she had gone straight upstairs to her room, undressed and, after the usual night time ablutions, gone immediately to bed. She had been to sleepy to read as she normally did. The next thing she remembered was the police waking her with a knock on the door, and telling her the terrible news. They had taken her directly to the nurse (Miss Handley) who had given her something to calm her down, then put her to bed. In the brief period of time between my leaving the room and Spats discovering Boffin's dead body, Margie would have been in bed and probably asleep. After Margaret left us, Brandy looked quickly over the notes I had made of the interview, and ticked off a few points he considered most important. "We'll draw up a proper list later," he told me. "One must always be methodical, after all, as Hercule Poirot would say." I couldn't help smiling. "What with you and your Poirot, and Spats and his Bertie Wooster, we've got quite a little fan club going on here!" Brandy grinned, and was about to reply when the door was flung open and Spats made his usual dramatic entrance. His sweeping arrivals always reminded me of a stage actor of the old days, melodramatically throwing himself onto the stage, arms spread wide as if to embrace his breathtaken audience. The audience today, however - Brandy, myself and the college cat that had come creeping into the room as Margie left it - was rather less than awed. I was poring over my notes, and merely grunted at his bray of "What ho!". Brandy simply smiled in a faraway sort of fashion, obviously thinking over Margaret's statements. The cat shot one look at Spats and began to clean itself. Moncrieff, ever desirous of adoration and applause, looked disgusted, and dropped rather less gracefully into the nearest chair. "Well then?" He demanded. "Well?" Brandy asked, raising his eyebrows in return. "Aren't you going to tell me what Margie said?" Spats snapped, fretful at being kept out of the loop. Brandy shook his head slowly. "Sorry, Spats. I wanted to keep the interviews confidential, just for now. Until we've talked to everyone." Glancing up briefly from my notes, I was startled to see a flush of pure rage spread over Moncrieff's long, pale face. "What!" He exploded. "You let him in!" He pointed a long finger at me. I stared blankly, not knowing how to react. Brandy didn't look surprised. He shook his head sagely, and spoke in a soothing voice. "Spats, someone had to take notes. I couldn't do it while I was talking - give me some credit for being subtle! This isn't an interrogation, you know. No-one is under any obligation to talk to me." Far from calming the irate Moncrieff down, however, this reasonable statement seemed to incense him further. He actually stood up and leaned over the desk, as though trying to intimidate Brandy. Since Brandy sitting down was almost as tall as me standing up, and therefore Spats' body language could hardly be classified as a successful loom, Brandy leaned back respectfully, yet another example of that fine tactfulness he invariably displayed. Spats was not placated, however, and he continued to seethe. "I could have taken notes! You've known me longer than him," he glared at me, quite without justification, I felt. But I was too shocked and - I'll admit it - alarmed to say anything in mine or Brandy's defence. I simply sat and stared, aghast, as Spats' tirade continued. Brandy still appeared calm, but I noted that he had tensed. "Spats, you're being ridiculous. Of course I'll share anything I find out with you, but not until the interviews are over." "Until I'm no longer under suspicion, you mean! Yes, I know," he went on as Brandy began to protest, "you think I'm a suspect! I suppose your beloved new friend is above suspicion, is he? How do we know he didn't kill Boffin? He might be insane." Slowly I became aware through my amazement that something had been said, something that I should have taken note of. I focussed on Spats. "Hey," I began weakly, "are you talking about me?" "Of course about you, you thickheaded yank!" Spats almost shrieked. It was then that Brandy stood up. Not in any threatening way, but to assert his presence. Spats looked far less frightening with Brandy towering over him, and I was encouraged enough to say sharply, "I think that's enough!" Unsurprisingly, Spats ignored me. Brandy however did not. "Dan is right." He said firmly. "Stop it, Spats, I've no argument with you. We're friends, this is silly." "Oh, silly now am I!? I can be sillier still! I'm not going to answer any questions, how's that? I won't lift a finger to help if you're going to treat me like a common criminal!" "No one has suggested anything of the sort." Brandy replied, in a bewildered tone. "Spats," I put in, still dazed, "what on earth's the matter with you?" "What's the matter? I'll tell you what the matter is! For five months Brandy and I have been best friends. We do everything together. Then you arrive and within a week you're as thick as bally thieves and I'm left on my own!" "Oh, for God's sake!" Brandy's final eruption of anger, civilised and steady as it was, terrified me more than Spats' violent spitfiring. To hear that calm, controlled voice raised and sharpened was not a pleasant experience, especially since I could also hear the hurt in it. Brandy was fond of Spats, for all his faults, and it was painful to be yelled at like that by someone claiming to be his friend. But Spats had gone too far, and now Brandy was irritated as well as upset. "Listen to me." He continued, almost in a growl. "What I'm concerned about at this moment is finding out what happened to Peter Bassington. Whatever it is you're drivelling about, Spats, it can wait. In fact, I don't want to hear it at all. You're talking nonsense and you know it! Don't even try," he went on as Spats opened his mouth again, "because I won't listen. I'm not going to risk destroying our friendship because you have decided to have a hissy fit over nothing." It was the first time I had heard Brandy speak that way, and reasonable as the words were they chilled me. What chilled me more, however, was the look of pure hatred that was seeping slowly over Moncrieff's face, as though he had tasted poison. I prepared myself for the worst. Spats was mad and he wasn't afraid to show it. "What friendship?" He sneered. "Do you really think I want your friendship? I don't need your charity!" "If you don't want my friendship then what's all the fuss about?" Brandy demanded. "And what do you mean by charity, anyway?" The expression on Spats' face worried me. It was the look of a chess player who has suddenly seen as opening for their final move - checkmate. "You honestly don't know, do you? You have no idea! I'll tell you exactly what I mean, Brinkley. Why do you think I ever went around with you at all? Because you've got money. You've got a title. That's the only reason I ever accepted your pathetic friendship, and the same goes for everyone else in this whole damn college! So much for your arrogance, thinking that we all adored you! If you ever thought that I actually liked you, then you're the fool and not me!" I was absolutely horrified. How could anyone, anyone, say such hideously cruel things to someone they were supposed to be friends with? How could anyone say such things to Brandy, the most humble, gentle, warm-hearted person I had ever met? I turned to him, wanting to say that Spats was talking nonsense, wanting to comfort him somehow - but the words died on my lips as Spats thrust his face close to Brandy's and hissed viciously, "You think I liked you? The truth is, I despise you!" And with that parting blow, he turned on his heel and stalked from the room, leaving the two of us staring after him in astonishment. Slowly, I sank into my chair, looking up at Brandy. "What...what the Hell was that all about?" There was no reply. "Brandy? You okay?" Silence for a long moment, and then, very quietly, "Yes, Dan. I'll be fine." He sounded crushed. I searched desperately for something to say, something to erase the pain I saw in his eyes. "He didn't mean it. He was just mad." But Brandy merely shook his head sadly. "Yes, Dan, he did. He meant every word." Helplessly I got to my feet. "I'm going after him..." "No. Don't, let it go." I hovered near the door, uncertain. "But...Brandy, what he said to you, you can't just let him get away with it!" My friend sighed deeply, and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, the momentary weakness had gone, replaced by a kind of weary resolution. "It's pointless to argue with him, Dan. Spats is...volatile. It's his nature. Going after him now would just result in more unpleasantness." He sighed again, then, as an afterthought, "It's lunch time, anyway. You'd better go." "Aren't you coming?" He shook his head. "Not now, Dan. I want to be alone for a while. There's lots to think about." I was loathe to leave him, but he was firm. I headed for the door. The last sight I had of Brandy, as I turned the corner, was of him sitting behind the desk, holding the cat in his arms, stroking her absently. He looked thoughtful, weary - and incredibly alone.
Copyright © 2000 Hildebrande K Reynolds |