“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
Twenty minutes after Harriet 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.”