A warm welcome to author charlie Cochrane joining us today on her “Lessons for Idle Tongues ” Blog Tour

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Welcome Charlie 🙂

Blurb:

Cambridge, 1910

Amateur detectives Jonty Stewart and Orlando Coppersmith seem to have nothing more taxing on their plate than locating a missing wooden cat and solving the dilemma of seating thirteen for dinner. But one of the guests brings a conundrum: a young woman has been found dead, and her boyfriend is convinced she was murdered. The trouble is, nobody else agrees.

Investigation reveals that several young people in the local area have died in strange circumstances, and rumours abound of poisonings at the hands of Lord Toothill, a local mysterious recluse. Toothill’s angry, gun-toting gamekeeper isn’t doing anything to quell suspicions, either.

But even with a gun to his head, Jonty can tell there’s more going on in this surprisingly treacherous village than meets the eye. And even Orlando’s vaunted logic is stymied by the baffling inconsistencies they uncover. Together, the Cambridge Fellows must pick their way through gossip and misdirection to discover the truth.

The Adventures of Johnny Stewart Part 3

 

Johnny Stewart is the great nephew of Jonty Stewart. His four part story is being related by Mrs Cochrane, official biographer to the Stewart family, over the course of this year’s Cambridge Fellows series blog tours.

 

Johnny gave the taxi driver the name of a road, one Roger had never heard of, although the driver nodded his recognition and set off.

“And do you have your questioning strategy ready?” Roger asked, as he watched out of the cab window.

“Oh, no. We’ll wing it.”

“I’ll remember that when we’re banged up in a police cell for causing trouble. I sometimes wish we’d never met, because my life would have been a lot more simple, then.” Less heartache, certainly. Fewer times he’d have had to hold his tongue and sit on his hands.

Johnny grabbed his arm, forcing Roger to face him. “Must you always put such a dampener on things? If I have one regret about Cambridge it’s encountering you for the first time.”

“Cambridge wasn’t the first time we met, you know. We were at school together.” Roger immediately regretted pointing that out. Better to have pretended he hadn’t noticed the blighter.

“Were we? I’m not sure I remember…” Jonny wrinkled his nose in thought, an expression which was decidedly unsettling, especially when they were confined so closely together.

“You wouldn’t, would you? Not likely to take any notice of somebody from such an unfashionable house as Telfer’s.” Typical of Johnny to be so oblivious of anybody else. He’d been the same at Cambridge, that fatal day when they’d collided on the stairs. The reasonable part of Roger’s brain told him that if the man hadn’t remembered him then he couldn’t have deliberately ignored him on that staircase, but he wasn’t ready to listen to any reasonable voice.

“Telfer’s?  Oh. Oh! No. Never. You can’t have been the spotty oik who used to hang around with Rendell minor?”

“I was never spotty. That was you. Face like a blotting pad. What’s so funny?”

“You, of course.” Johnny grinned, then spun his head round as the taxi pulled into the kerb. “And here we are.”

Roger couldn’t help but follow him out of the door and onto the pavement. The desire to lay Johnny out with one punch vied with the desire to drag him up the nearest alley and snog him stupid, the conflicting desires Roger always felt in the presence of this annoying, alluring man. “Where now?”

“There.” Johnny pointed at an unprepossessing door at the top of a flight of stairs up which he leaped. He rapped on the knocker, then whispered something through a small flap which opened at his thump. Whatever he’d said seemed to work the oracle, because the door opened and Roger found himself being dragged up the last stair and inside.

He’d expected something more louche, but the hallway resembled that of a gentleman’s club, discreet furnishings and immaculately polished wood on all sides. The evening clothes he and Johnny wore were entirely in keeping with the attire of the other habitués, so they could ease themselves into the company without comment, finding their bearings. An entirely stag affair, this, not a woman to be seen, even ones selling cigarettes or pouring drinks.

“This way.” Johnny led them into a large room, where the gentle clicking of a roulette wheel vied with the murmur from the baccarat tables. They purchased some chips, circulated, played on red and won, circulated some more, played on black and lost. Nobody seemed to take any notice of them, above the odd smile or nod, although Roger couldn’t help but be amused when he was blanked by a man he was fairly certain used to be the bishop of the diocese in which his mother lived and who had confirmed him a dozen years previously.

Of Ivor Gregg there was no sign, but that was to be expected. Even if it begged the question of what they were doing in the place.

“Are you intending to just swan around the whole evening?” he asked Johnny, when all their chips had gone following a valiant bet on number 36.

“I’m about to leap into action. Just watch.” He moved them in the direction of one of the croupiers, who had just stood down from duty. “Excuse me. Has Mr. Gregg been in today?”

“Not that I’m aware of, sir.” The croupier smiled, then backed away, face giving away nothing.

“Well, that was a great success.” Roger sneered.

“Just warming up.” Johnny took his arm and threaded them through the group of men watching the blackjack players and into a smaller room where everyone was engaged at vingt-et-un. He sidled up to one of the observers. “Hello, Geoffrey. Fancy seeing you here.”

“Johnny! Not one of your usual haunts.”

“No. Spreading my wings a bit, tonight.” Johnny lowered his voice. “You won’t tell mother, will you? She wouldn’t approve.”

“Of course.” Geoffrey murmured, with an inclination of the head.

“Don’t tell Roger’s mother, either. She’d approve less. Roger, this is Geoffrey.”

They shook hands, passed a few pleasantries, made a few deprecating remarks about mothers and their tendency to regard their sons as still being only seven years old.

“Is Ivor here, by any chance?” Johnny emquired, when all the small talk was done with.

“Ivor?” Geoffrey glanced warily at Roger who felt he’d kept mum long enough.

“Yes, Ivor Gregg.”

“I’d have thought he’d be on stage at present.” The cautious edge in Geoffrey’s voice matched his expression.

He’s never where you’re supposed to find him.”

Geoffrey grinned. “Oh, yes, that’s Ivor. Sorry, one can’t be too careful. You never know who’s coming in and asking questions, even if they’re a pal of Johnny’s.”

Johnny nodded. “You’re quite right. And it’s not just the police. You both know that my great uncle was always poking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted. Always with the best of motives, of course, but it’s a wonder he didn’t get said nose punched on a regular basis.”

Roger resisted offering to perform the same function on Johnny’s nose.

“Why are you looking for him?” Geoffrey asked. “Does he owe you money?”

“Not us. We’re too sensible to fall for that.” Johnny clearly knew a lot more about Ivor’s personality than Roger did. “Just asking for a friend.”

“I wish I could help. Ivor’s not been here for a week or so. Gone to ground.” Geoffrey lowered his voice. “Not because of the tables, though. Women trouble.”

“Would women trouble be enough for him to miss a performance?”

Geoffrey whistled. “Blow me down. That doesn’t sound like him at all. Nothing gets in the way of the career.”

“That’s what we thought.” Roger felt himself warming to this investigating lark. “Any idea where he could have got to?”

Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed, as he weighed up his questioners and seemed to find them not found wanting in the balance. “Let’s find somewhere we can’t be overheard.”

He led them out onto a small balcony, offered them a cigarette, lit one for himself, then asked in a low voice, “Are the police after him?”

“Not on behalf of an irate husband or a creditor. Only because Ivor’s missing and the theatre management are concerned. He did today’s matinee and then,” Johnny made an expressive gesture with his hands, “vanished.”

Roger held his tongue. It had struck him from the first that the police had been called in a touch too quickly, and at a surprisingly senior level.

“And why are you looking for him?” Geoffrey casually flicked some ash over the railing.

“We’re concerned, too. He’s an old family friend.”

“Is anybody not an old family friend of the Stewarts?” Geoffrey raised his eyebrows. “That connection would make sense, though. Ivor did something frightfully hush-hush during the war and it wouldn’t surprise me if your great Uncle hadn’t got his finger in similar pies.”

Roger nodded. This was starting to make some sort of sense. “Do you think it possible that Ivor’s disappearance could be connected to his war service? You clearly believe it’s serious.”

“I think it’s possible. Ivor is an entirely reliable man, in my experience. No,” Geoffrey wagged a finger, “I should clarify that. I wouldn’t trust his judgement on whether to place your chips on pair or impair, nor would I be inclined to let my daughter go to dinner with him, but in matters of real importance, he’s solid.”

“So where should we look for him?” Johnny glanced from Roger to Geoffrey, frowning.

“How should I know? Although I can think of somebody who might. Have you spoken to your great uncle?”

Roger groaned. He’d met Jonty Stewart and the man was perfectly good company—if burdened by a grumpy old codger of a housemate—but this was their investigation, not his.

“I haven’t,” Johnny averred, “but I’ll give him a call. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Geoffrey inclined his head, graciously.

Johnny rubbed his hands together. “We’d better get back to the hotel and use the telephone in your mother’s suite.”

“If I might…you’d possibly be best advised to ring from here, and as soon as is convenient.” Geoffrey’s voice made it plain this was less advice than an order. “I can arrange for you to use a private line in one of the offices.”

“Thank you again” Johnny made a “Well, what’s all this about?” face at Roger and the pair of them followed Geoffrey once more. Whatever he said and whoever he was saying it to—it wasn’t easy to tell staff from clientele—worked the oracle and they were soon ensconced in private, with Johnny having the call put through.

“I just hope the old codger’s still…Oh, hello, Aged Uncle.”

Roger, perching on the edge of the desk, waited patiently as the introductory pleasantries were got through, frustrated, inevitably, at only hearing one half of what was being said and trying to guess the rest.

“Can I pick your brains about Ivor Gregg? He seems to have gone missing…Yes, that’s the one. Geoffrey Rutter said I should ask you…Yes, alone. Well, Roger Henley’s here…Yes, that Roger. We can trust him.” Johnny gave him a sidelong glance, and a grin.

Roger made a face then studied the desk while Johnny briefed his illustrious relative on what had happened. Best not to look, in case he grinned again; that smile always went straight to Roger’s trousers.

“So that’s where we are. Anything you can say to enlighten us?” There was a long pause as Jonty Stewart must have been divulging some pretty serious stuff, given how sombre his great-nephew’s expression had become. Johnny did little more than nod and say “Hmm” for a while, before finishing with, “Thanks for that. We’ll get on it straight away…Yes, I’ve got a moment…Sorry?”

There was another pause as Johnny listened. Whatever his great uncle was saying, it was having a profound effect, as Johnny had gone bright red from forehead to neck. “Yes,” he said, meekly, “yes, alright. I will. I promise. No. Fine. Thank you.”

When the call eventually finished, Roger, itching to know what had been said, asked, “What was that last bit all about? Looked like you were in the headmaster’s study getting a wigging about not doing your homework.”

“Something like that. Family business.” Johnny took a deep breath. “As for Ivor Gregg, apparently he received death threats after the war. The aged uncle wasn’t sure if they were related to whatever he did in the war, deep in the countryside, but he was sufficiently concerned to give me a name and address and an introduction, which he’ll be effecting over the phone as we speak. We’d better find another taxi as there’s somebody we’ve got to see.”

“Who? Where?”

“You’ll soon find out.” Johnny had his hand on the door handle, but Roger wasn’t moving.

“How do I know this isn’t all some wild goose chase you’re leading me? Wouldn’t we be better telling Matthew Firestone if this is about death threats and the like?” It would be just like Johnny to chance his arm too far. Roger was no coward, but he didn’t want to end up with threats coming in his direction.

“Uncle Jonty asked us not to. Gregg didn’t tell them about the threats because he didn’t trust the police. These are murky waters, Roger. I’d understand if you didn’t want to jump into them.” The usual cocky expression on Johnny’s face had gone, replaced by one of deadly gravity.

“I’m not backing out now, if this is as serious as you make out.”

“It certainly appears to be. I always feel a bit miffed that I was too young to serve, and that other blokes got all the glory.”

“I’m sure some of the poor buggers at Dunkirk would have swopped places with you,” Roger responded, hackles rising again.

“I know that, and it isn’t what I mean. It’s just that this could be a chance to do something that really matters.”

“Do you really think we’ve a cat in hell’s chance of finding Ivor Gregg? Or is this just imitating your great uncle and grabbing some of his glory? War hero, world expert on the sonnets oh and, yes, solves murder mysteries which nobody else can. Superman himself.”

“Oh leave off. You never met him. You have no idea.” Something in Johnny’s tone suggested more than just familial loyalty.

“I did meet him, actually. At Fenners.” Roger didn’t add that he’d been impressed with how a man in his seventies could still look so handsome. “We talked about the cricket. The risks of a pull shot on a turning wicket. The batsman would have benefitted from his advice.”

Johnny stared, dumbstruck; when he eventually spoke his voice contained none of his usual edge of banter. “You have no idea how much you infuriate me. You were pain enough at Cambridge—must you continue being such a prick now that you’re a grown man?”

“I infuriate you? You’re lucky I haven’t punched your nose before now.” Roger had to control his fists. Such contrasting emotions, between punching Johnny or grabbing the bastard, pinning him down and rogering him senseless “You were the worst of all the know-it-alls. Still are. Only you’re not the sort of know-it-all who actually does. Know everything, I mean.”

Johnny stared, mouth working up and down, then lunged forward. Roger shut his eyes, raising his arms to fend off the inevitable blow. Instead, he felt two strong hands take hold of his face, and a mouth get applied to his. He opened his eyes as Johnny pulled away and headed for the door.

“What—” There was no point in finishing the question, because Johnny had gone, leaving only the feel of his fingers on Roger’s cheeks and the taste of his lips.

 

As Charlie Cochrane couldn’t be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice—like managing a rugby team—she writes, with titles published by Carina, Samhain, Bold Strokes, MLR and Cheyenne.

Charlie’s Cambridge Fellows Series of Edwardian romantic mysteries was instrumental in her being named Author of the Year 2009 by the review site Speak Its Name. She’s a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, Mystery People, International Thriller Writers Inc and is on the organising team for UK Meet for readers/writers of GLBT fiction. She regularly appears with The Deadly Dames.

Connect with Charlie:

Website:charliecochrane.co.uk/

Blog: charliecochrane.livejournal.com/

Twitter: @charliecochrane

Facebook profile page: facebook.com/charlie.cochrane.18

Goodreads: goodreads.com/goodreadscomcharlie_cochrane

Every comment on this blog tour enters you in a drawing for a title from Charlie Cochrane’s backlist (excluding Lessons for Idle Tongues.) Entries close at midnight, Eastern time, on July 4. Contest is NOT restricted to U.S. entries. Don’t forget to add your email so we can contact you if you win!

 

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