Chapter Fifteen #2
“That is the question,” the Rook said. “Robert Crowne is not a household name, but people who knew him at Oxford or in the army probably followed the story. Tolliver was already a librarian when Crowne was a student. Neville would have been both a classmate and his officer.”
“Which was why he requested him as his orderly?” Gin asked. “Because he knew him?”
“They were also both members of the Damocles Club. Those ties can run very deep. Neville might have thought he could help Crowne better his position in life after the expulsion.”
“I see.” Gin examined the picture of Robert Crowne again.
He seemed so at ease leaning against the car, his smile bashful as though the person taking the photo had made him laugh.
But to go from expulsion over a student’s death to treason against your fellow soldiers was a dark trajectory.
It was a chilling reminder of how hard it was to really know a person sometimes.
She shivered and turned to the other photo.
It was a group of officers in uniform, one she recognized from the table of pictures at Leland’s party. The professor’s face was centered in the group, nearly unchanged despite the passage of time. Gin squinted at the photo more closely. “Is that Dr. Neville beside Leland?”
“Yes,” the Rook said. “That’s a picture of the officers inside Vosburg who were also Damocles alumni.”
Whereas Leland had retained his luscious hair and strong jaw, she’d identified Neville only by the thick, horn-rimmed glasses.
His hair, though still combed meekly to one side, was thick and shiny, and his dimpled smile was merry.
The slope-shouldered don with whom Gin played chess was a shadow of this man, so strikingly different as though Neville had absorbed the war’s travails for both him and Leland.
“They’re very proud of their club membership, aren’t they?” Gin studied the men’s faces again. “I don’t see Crowne in this one, though.”
“It’s officers,” Sidney said. “Ex-Damocles or not, Crowne was just an orderly. Rank is everything.”
It was a lesson Gin had learned only too well during her debutante season, and she hummed softly in understanding. She set the pictures on her lap. “So where does that leave us?”
“It leaves us searching for Robert Crowne’s connection to this case,” the Rook said.
“The only living relation on record is an elderly aunt, Patricia Crowne, but I doubt a Shropshire octogenarian is likely involved. But for whatever reason, Robert was foremost in Mr. Tolliver’s mind when he died. It’s your job to figure out why.”
“Besides Dr. Neville, are there other connections between our suspects and Crowne?” Sidney asked.
“None have yet appeared. Dr. Watkins did not attend Oxford until after Crowne’s expulsion, and Mr. Hughes has lived most of his life in New York until coming to Oxford two years ago to begin postgraduate studies.”
“He did walk directly from Olenev’s to Tolliver’s cottage, though,” Sidney said. “That’s damned peculiar.”
The Rook shrugged. “But not a crime. He could simply be a curious American wandering the streets.”
The set of Sidney’s jaw said he did not agree, but he shrugged and settled back against the pew.
“And Marion is presumably interested in this story because of her dislike of the Damocles Club,” Gin continued.
The Rook nodded. “Precisely. Dr. Neville is the only obvious, close connection, and Mr. Braithwaite informed me of his Russian correspondence. Do you have it with you?”
Ginevra pulled the letter and her translation-in-progress from her satchel. “Some, but it’s all very boring. The parts that aren’t redacted seem to be a record of how the author’s garden is coming along.”
The Rook removed a camera from his briefcase and snapped the pages. “I’ll have my people look at it. Well done. I hope to hear more from you two soon.”
He closed his briefcase, tipped his hat at them, and exited swiftly, reminding Ginevra more of a wraith than a man: a wraith with very particular standards for whom it would haunt.
Only when the chapel door shut, leaving the pair alone on the pew, the vestiges of their horrid start loomed larger in the Rook’s absence.
Something had truly shifted between them; Ginevra felt it as keenly as a wrenched garment eased back to its proper fit.
But apologies in the twilight could also prove baubles, easily shattered when next the two clashed.
Sidney stretched forward, fingers drumming against the pew back. “We need a plan to get at Neville then. Any thoughts?”
Gin’s hopes for a real partnership swelled again. “He didn’t attend chess club last week. Judging by how dreadfully ill he seemed at the book reception, I doubt he’ll return soon.”
“And he lives on Hertford’s grounds, so getting into his rooms will be more difficult.” Sidney’s fingers went still, and he closed his eyes. “We could bribe a scout to let us in, though there’s always the risk they tell him.”
Ginevra was about to offer her lock picking services when a brilliant plan came to her, clear as the chapel’s sun-stained glass. “I know how we can snoop on Dr. Neville,” she breathed. “No need for bribes just yet.”
Sidney cracked one eye open. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”
Ginevra was quite sure there would be some protest to her plan, but the sarcastic edge to Sidney’s tone was gentled by the wry twist of his lips that said he was willing to hear her out. It emboldened Ginevra to lean closer and bestow a radiant smile.
“How do you feel about Shakespeare?”