Lessons in Power (23 page)
Kermode looked puzzled. “I haven’t seen Sebastian Rhodes since I left school, but Jardine was much
changed, you’re right. He was less arrogant, less sure of himself, less angry, I suppose you might say.”
“Perhaps that was because of his remorse.” Orlando tried hard to seem like he was just woolgathering.
“He wasn’t unwell, perchance? Intimations of his own mortality making him want to confess all?”
Kermode snorted. “No, he was as hale and hearty as any of us. He hadn’t started to show signs of the
sins of the flesh, like his partner in crime.”
“Dr. Stewart was certainly surprised at the deterioration in Taylor’s condition—we speculated long
and hard as to its cause. What do you think? TB or something more sinister?”
“It looked like the pox of some sort to me, Dr. Coppersmith.” Kermode began to laugh. “Served the
bastard right.”
“I suspect that cough might have made it hard for the man to survive another winter, not a healthy
sound at all.” A tiny smile graced Orlando’s face. “Mr. Kermode, I’d say it wasn’t a healthy sound. Don’t you agree?”
“You bastard. You absolute swine.” Kermode rose, aimed a futile blow at Orlando, but the man was
too quick for him. He was used to avoiding Jonty’s swipes. “You tricked me. Lulled me into saying things I shouldn’t have done.”
“That’s enough of that.” Wilson grasped Kermode’s arm firmly as Orlando carried on, undaunted.
“You said you hadn’t seen Taylor since school days. The only way you could know how he’d
changed would be the evidence of your own eyes and ears.”
Kermode reached for one of the books on his desk, as if he might launch it at his interrogators.
Instead, he caressed the leather binding, regaining his composure. “Have you considered that I might have heard about the change in Taylor’s condition from someone else? Perhaps your
friend
Dr. Stewart?”
“I know that you didn’t hear it from him, so who could have told you? Jardine, I suppose? At least we could verify that fact, as Rhodes seems to have overheard your entire conversation the night he was killed.”
Orlando was next to Kermode now, his chair edged so close that they almost touched. “Don’t lie to me. I wonder if you wore gloves when you went to see Taylor? Mr. Wilson’s colleagues have an array of
fingerprints from his home and they’ll be very interested to see if any of yours match. Nice corroborative evidence, once we take into account the statement of the man who impersonated you at church.” It was a 112
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lie, a huge lie, but Orlando was beyond caring. He wanted the truth, for Jonty’s sake, the absolute and awful truth.
Kermode could hardly speak. “How did you know? How did you find him?” He sat down, head in
hands.
Orlando noted the dark look Wilson gave him, no doubt surprised at the tactics employed. Was the
inspector sympathetic? Had he ever bent the truth himself and would he know how effective it could be as a strategy? It seemed to have worked now. “Are you now admitting that you weren’t at mass?”
“Of course. There’s no point lying if you have Robin Gray’s word for things. He did a good job, but I should have guessed our luck couldn’t hold.” Kermode sat up straight, suddenly businesslike. “I went to see Taylor and I ended up killing him, making it look similar to the way Jardine had died. I never thought I’d say that I found a newspaper useful, but that particular report stuck in my mind. I didn’t set out to kill him, you must believe me—it was when I heard him refusing to take responsibility for what he did at school, and making fun of Jardine because the man had a change of heart, I could bear it no longer. I punched him, he fell down and I finished him off with the poker.” He might have been doing nothing more than
discussing an old manuscript.
“Why set up an alibi if you didn’t go with murder in mind?” Wilson spoke before Orlando could. He
felt the need to take control of the interview back into official hands, before a third murder got committed.
“Because I didn’t want to be caught up with these men at all. There had been one killing and I knew I might be considered a suspect for it, having been there on the night. I had to cover my tracks this time, Mama was insistent.” Kermode drew out a handkerchief, passed it over his face. “I would have spared
Taylor, you know, if he’d shown the slightest bit of remorse. If he’d used the simple word
sorry
he would still be alive.”
There was silence. The smell of the books seemed musty and unpleasant now, not evocative of well-
kept libraries but of houses gone to ruin. The reflections from the little badge, still in Wilson’s hand, seemed sharp and cruel, fixing the eye and holding it. The case was over, leaving a bitter taste for everyone.
Guilt and innocence, repentance and forgiveness, they twisted, tangled and made little sense.
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Chapter Thirteen
From
The Times
of April 30th, 1907:
Today at the Old Bailey: Mr. Sebastian Henry Rhodes of Old Oaks, Epsom, Surrey, pleaded guilty to
the murder of Lord Christopher Jardine. This appalling crime took place on 1st February, 1907; the
accused had been said to hold a personal grudge against the deceased. Sentencing has been delayed while
the judge listens to medical reports.
It seemed for a while that Rhodes was going to evade the noose, his solicitor pleading that no sane
man could make a false confession to a murder just because he believed in ghosts. The testimony of a
leading psychiatrist and the evidence of conversations where the accused was very clearly endeavouring to
hide his guilt—making rational and complex mental leaps—swung the balance in the judge’s mind, making
a capital sentence inevitable.
Jonty insisted that he and Orlando spend the day either side of the execution at his parents’ home.
They didn’t celebrate, all of them recognised that would have been wrong, but they shared the sense of relief that an unpleasant episode could be put behind them. Mrs. Stewart cried again, Orlando offered his handkerchief, she kissed his cheek fondly and called him son, so even in the most difficult of times, a ray of hope shone.
From a letter dated May 4th, the same year:
I would like to thank you, again, for the efforts you showed on my behalf. I believe Mr. Collingwood
would have sorted things in the end, although your endeavours no doubt brought things to an earlier
conclusion. My sister says that you were diligent in your hard work and also very charming to her. I’ll take
her word for it. I apologise again that I haven’t been to offer my thanks personally, but I have been very
busy trying to pick up the reins of my life once more. There has been a lot of talk of “no smoke without
fire” and I fear that I’ll have to resort to moving abroad to free myself of people’s prejudices. I have even
found this coldness among those I would call my friends
.
The letter droned on with more of the same, Alistair Stafford bearing more than one chip on his
shoulder and aiming several of his barbs at Matthew Ainslie. Orlando thought the whole thing
ungentlemanly, lacking in proper gratitude to the people who’d risked so much to help him.
Lessons in Power
Jonty simply wondered what Matthew had ever seen in the man and, with a snort, suggested that
perhaps the continent was the best place for him. Hopefully he’d meet up with Robbie Ross or, better still, Alfred Douglas, and they could all be miserable together.
From
The Times
of May 12th:
Today at the Old Bailey, the trial began of Simon Kermode for the murder of Timothy Taylor on 10th
March last. Mr. D Ballantine defending. The prosecution allege that Kermode committed the crime in
revenge for gross acts which had been committed by the deceased when they were boys at school. They said
that the crown would produce witnesses who had seen the accused in the area of the victim’s house at the
time concerned and others who would swear that the alibi he had given police was a false one.
Kermode was found guilty, weighed down by circumstantial evidence, not least from the man who’d
been persuaded to impersonate him at mass to secure his alibi. The wholly damning fingerprint found at the scene, and later identified as Kermode’s, had whitewashed over the tears and pleas from his mother
.
Jonty had been impassive about it all, showing sympathy for the accused yet still not wanting to
defend him. After all, he’d suffered similarly and not once taken the law into his hands, no matter how great the temptation had been.
From a letter dated May 17th, from Mrs. Stewart to her youngest child:
Jonty, your father and I would be delighted to accept your invitation to spend some time at Forsythia
Cottage as long as it won’t impose on Mrs. Ward. It must be bad enough having you two to look after, the
poor woman surely has her work cut out all the time. Richard will be delighted to see the May bumps
again. I’ll warrant we’ll have to tie him to a convenient lamppost to stop him trying to find a boat that
would have him. You know he would love to have the chance to win an oar.
We are so pleased that all this business has now come to an end with that poor lad Kermode being
found guilty. You were both magnificent in the witness box; we were most proud of you. I did confer with
Richard at the time about whether it wouldn’t have been better to let Rhodes take the blame for both cases,
but your father always knows best. “The truth must be served, Helena, whether it leads to pain or gain.” It
seems such a shame that a poor benighted lad, who had suffered as you did and was only taking the sort of
revenge that any of us might have, ended up with being hung. Sometimes I think that the system of English
justice is all wrong.
I hope that you’re both wearing your vests on the chillier nights as I don’t want you catching cold. I
suppose that you have each other to keep you warm but that is not the point
.
“Dearest Mama,” Jonty remarked, blowing his nose to cover up his emotion.
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Charlie Cochrane
Orlando smiled and squeezed his lover’s hand.
Jonty acted peculiarly in the run-up to his parents’ arrival, making strange noises along the lines of
“don’t think we should share a bed while the old folk are here” despite the fact they’d done so while being the Stewarts’ guests. Orlando understood and they slept apart all the time, much to the unspoken
amusement of the other people in the house.
The bumps were magnificent, the Bride’s boat finishing them as Head of the River and everyone bar
Mrs. Stewart ending up tired, emotional and needing a long pre-prandial nap.
Extract of a letter dated June 1st, from Mrs. Ward to her son:
I find it hard to believe that I’ve been here nearly half a year. My academical men, as you call them,
are proving very easy to look after; all one has to provide are endless quantities of cake and they’re happy,
just like you when you were seven. I sometimes think of them as being nothing but boys, all muddy trousers
and scuffed boots, then I see them reading one of their books and I remember that they’re very clever men,
highly respected not just within the University but, so I hear, across the country.
Dr. Stewart had his parents here to stay. His father has a title, you know, yet doesn’t choose to use it,
which astonished me, but when I met him I wasn’t at all surprised—not an air or grace between them. Mrs.
Stewart would help me with the chores whenever I condescended to let her. I rather think she’s annoyed
that she missed out on being the sort of mother who’s allowed to cook, mend and clean up after her brood.
Isn’t that strange, when you consider how many hardworking mothers would gladly swap places with her?
They live in a castle and I’m to visit them in the summer when my gentlemen travel there. Imagine that,
your mother living in a castle. (Although I do hope it’s below stairs, I couldn’t take the embarrassment of
being a guest of the family).
To answer your question, yes, my gentlemen are the ones who do the detecting, like Mr. Holmes. And
very successful they are—the police seem to always be here consulting them. I was even allowed to help a
little in their last case, so you will be astounded to know that your mother was material in catching a
murderer.
I hope that you are wearing your thickest clothes…
July 2nd, a quiet private beach on the coast of Massachusetts.
Two men lying on the white sands, tired from swimming out to the rocks, surfeited with salad and
champagne. Rex Prefontaine resting on his elbow, taking handfuls of fine sand, letting it drizzle through his fist and pile up on Matthew Ainslie’s strong chest. They’d swum, sported on the rocks, come to rest on the soft clean sands and were drinking in the pleasures of the strand with great delight. It had amazed Matthew 116
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that Rex’s artificial limb made not a scrap of difference to either his mobility or his zest for life—they’d run and climbed like two small lads.
The time had come now to put away childish things—they were both too strongly aware of each
other’s masculinity to delay the inevitable much longer. From almost the first time they’d met, in that train carriage full of surprises, the exchange of looks, gestures, banter had sent out clear signals of mutual attraction.
In deference to their hostess they’d banned not just talk of business but of anything else, yet it had been alluded to. The intensity of their attraction, the sheer exhilaration pictured on their faces, made their outward appearance even more striking than it already was. If there had been parasols in the area they would have been twirled provocatively, hankies would have been dropped, sighs would have been made