Peter Lovesey - Swing, Swing Together

“Morgan and Morgan, Islington,” Bustard replied for Hackett. “Before that he worked in my father-in-law’s business. That’s how we met.”

“Business?” said the constable. “From the look of his hands, I’d say Mr. Hackett was a labouring man.”

“That’s right!” said Bustard. “Every inch of him is muscle.”

“That’s convenient,” said the constable. “I shall want some help to carry the body back to the ambulance. And what’s your name, sir?”

“Bustard with a ‘u.’ Tallyman, of Notting Hill Gate, taking my vacation on the river with Mr. Hackett. We hired a rowing boat from the man at Folly Bridge this morning, thinking of exploring the City from the river, and Jim noticed this. He’s eagle-eyed, is Jim.”

“I shall require you both to accompany me to the station to make a statement. The rest of you,” the constable added, raising his voice, “had better move along quick unless you’ve got something useful to impart. Pull the man’s waterproof over his face, would you, mate, and that’ll put a stop to the peepshow.”

Thackeray was about to drape the ends of the coat over the head and shoulders when a voice to his right said, “Stop a moment! I know the face.” A thin, silver-haired man, shabby in appearance, came forward, looping spectacles over his ears. He crouched by the body and peered with earnest concentration at the features. “I’m sure of it. This is Mr. Bonner-Hill, a Fellow of Merton College. Whatever made him do such a thing?”

“A don?” The constable scrutinized his informant, plainly doubtful whether a person with frayed cuffs and no collar was any authority on members of the University. “Are you quite sure of that?”

“Sure? Of course I’m sure. I scouted for him for six months before I lost my job last April, didn’t I? Henry Bonner-Hill, Tonbridge School and Merton. He’s a terrible loss. A very sharp dresser, he was, always wanting a clean shirt and a fresh crease in his trousers. Strewth! Look at them shoes! What a state! He wouldn’t like that, being seen dead with his shoes in a state like that. I’ll give ’em a polish for him.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.

“No you won’t!” the constable said. “That mud is evidence. Leave him just as he is. I’m not taking a rap from the coroner just because Mr. Bonner-what’s-his-name wouldn’t like to be seen in the mortuary with muddy shoes.”

“This is exceedingly distressing,” the Warden of Merton told Sergeant Cribb. “A grievous loss. Bonner-Hill was one of the youngest of our Fellows, not much above thirty years of age. I remember him perfectly as an undergraduate. Even then he was a discriminating dresser. Handmade shirts, you know, and a different cravat at every meal. He was better turned out than most members of the Senior Common Room. Yes, he made his mark in the College when we were at a low ebb sartorially. So many academics neglect their dress lamentably, Sergeant. I recall remarking to the Estates Bursar that it was only a matter of time before Bonner-Hill took his place at High Table, and I was right. He was a little longer earning a respectable degree than I expected, but he got there, he got there. If he was not the most inspiring tutor in medieval history in the University, he was indubitably the best-dressed.”

“Under his waterproof he was in a Norfolk jacket with matching trousers,” Cribb confirmed. “It seems he was fishing.”

“He always dressed to fit the occasion,” reflected the Warden, pausing to look at Cribb’s blazer. “His angling had become quite a passion of late. There was a time when we had nothing but theatrical gossip from him at table. In recent weeks it was all hooks and worms. Not so conducive to the digestion. Fernandez, one of the other Fellows, must take the blame for introducing him to the pastime. They used to get up early on Saturday mornings to look for a pike, of all things. I presume he went alone this morning. Fernandez has not been out of College.”

“The time of death was estimated as between half-past nine and ten o’clock, sir.”

“On a Saturday? Ungodly!”

“A punt was found later, moored in Bulstake Stream, the backwater just beyond the second railway bridge. His fishing tackle was in it, and an umbrella inscribed with his name.”

“A sensible precaution,” said the Warden. “One is dreadfully exposed to the elements in a punt.”

“Did Mr. Bonner-Hill have any other fishing companions, sir?”

“Not to my knowledge. Not from Merton. Two anglers in the College is more than enough, I assure you.”

“Only one now,” Cribb pointed out. “He was a bachelor, I take it, as he was living in College.”

“Not so, Sergeant, I am afraid. He leaves a widow, although one ought to add that they have been estranged of late. That is why he moved back into rooms in Merton a year ago. Someone must break the news to Mrs. Bonner-Hill, although where she lives now I, er … The matrimonial home was a villa in North Oxford-one of those ghastly mock-Gothic structures in red brick, I was told. There was quite a stampede in that direction after the celibacy rule for Fellows was lifted in seventy-seven. Things are settling down again now, as I predicted they would at the time. It was a very outmoded rule-a relic of popery, I suspect-and got the younger dons into some embarrassing extra-mural entanglements, not to go into the intra-mural consequences. Bonner-Hill joined us a year or two after the rule was lifted and he was married and moved out within a year. Mrs. Bonner-Hill was one of the prettiest women in Oxford, but she wasn’t right for him. An actress-and I don’t imply anything to her discredit in that-she is moderately well known in the dramatic world-but her experiences on the boards had ill-prepared her for marriage to a medieval historian.”

“Are there children?” Cribb asked.

“No. That may have contributed to their estrangement. She was isolated in North Oxford-told me so herself at the Vice-Chancellor’s garden party-and missed the theatre dreadfully. She tried to persuade him to let her continue with her acting after marriage, but it was out of the question.”

“Why was that, sir?”

“It would have made his life insufferable in the Senior Common Room. People fasten onto such things. They did, as a matter of fact, shortly after he moved back into rooms here last Michaelmas and she went back on the stage. Some precocious undergraduate recognized her in Forget Me Not at a repertory theatre in Henley. She was using another name, but he was fairly sure of her identity and a few sharp questions at the stage door confirmed it. Next time Bonner-Hill appeared for a lecture he found a bunch of forget-me-nots stuffed into the water glass. Every undergraduate in the front row was wearing one in his buttonhole. You may imagine his difficulty after that in introducing a lecture on feudalism.”

“Even so,” said Cribb, “I would have thought a man could live a thing like that down.”

“Admittedly, but Bonner-Hill’s temperament was not well-suited to living things down. He took himself seriously, cultivated refinement in conduct and appearance and hated to be ridiculed. The episode upset him profoundly, the more so, I think, because it was rumoured about the same time that the lady had formed an alliance with an actor. No reference was made to it in Merton-not in his presence, anyway-but he seemed to sense that we all knew about it-and of course we did, for news travels fast in Oxford-and for a week or more he declined to join in any conversation at table.”

“Was he unpopular among the Fellows?”

“He was on tolerably good terms with everyone. Fernandez was his closest confidant, but even he found himself cold-shouldered at the time. More recently, however, they were on close terms again.”