An Oxford Murder Read online

  An Oxford Murder: A Golden Age Mystery

  Copyright ©2019 by G.G. Vandagriff

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Cover Design by Melissa Williams Design

  Interior Formatting by Melissa Williams Design

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Orson Whitney Press

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Other Books by G.G. Vandagriff

  About the Author

  For my daughter

  Elizabeth Faith Vandagriff Bailey

  Who shares my love of Golden Age Mysteries

  Chapter One

  Summer, 1934

  Until Catherine saw the lifeless hand flung out from beneath the pew, she had thought she was on a fool’s errand. After all, who expects to find a dead body in the new chapel after an Oxford sherry party?

  For half a minute, she simply stared as though she were observing a bizarre photograph: Short, thick hand. A bit of a rash—eczema? Unvarnished, clipped fingernails. Dead still. Yes. It might be Professor Agatha Chenowith’s hand.

  Biting her lip, she bent over and shone her torch under the bench. Bulging, sightless eyes stared out at her. Catherine dropped the torch and emitted a high, thin scream that sounded like nothing on earth as it echoed through the chapel. She couldn’t seem to stop.

  Tears were streaming down her face when Dr. Harry reached her side. His eyes followed Catherine’s pointing finger, and he recoiled.

  “That’s torn it,” he said. “Steady on. You’re going to be all right. It’s not every day someone discovers something so gruesome.”

  * * *

  As Catherine sat in the Somerville College porter’s lodge downing endless cups of tea, she looked back and wondered how an innocent invitation to Dr. Sarah Sargent’s retirement party could have heralded a murder.

  She and Dot had thought it would be a bit of fun to motor up to Oxford for a high summer weekend—a chance to see Anne and Margery and perhaps go for a punt on the Cherwell. And, of course, they would attend the summer choral service at Christ Church Cathedral.

  Instead, she was in the thick of a murder investigation with the arrogant Dr. Harry Bascombe, her bête noire. And Rafe was due home from Africa in a few days. But then, these things were only trivial concerns. Poor Dr. Chenowith was dead.

  Two Weeks Earlier

  When her maid brought her the post, Catherine was seated at the desk in the sitting room of her Mayfair flat trying to coax forth a new poem. Her muse was no cooperating, and she had spent the last few minutes staring at her photo of Rafe—the high cheek boned face with the full, sensuous mouth and heavy-lidded eyes.

  Now she turned it face down hiding her hapless composition underneath it. Her maid was a little too interested in her poetic efforts and inclined to offer suggestions.

  “The usual, miss, but there are two I thought might be interesting. I put them on top.”

  “Thank you, Cherry,” she said, taking the envelopes from the salver.

  The two items were of interest—a white square that looked to be an invitation and a letter from her publishers. Heart thumping, Catherine opened the letter first.

  Dear Miss Tregowyn:

  We are happy to inform you that we will be pleased to publish your latest book of poems entitled Harvesting the Light . . .

  Reading through the rest of the letter only cursorily, Catherine tried to still her shaking hands. So, the first book had not been a fluke! She was, in actual fact, a real poet, not a passing phenomenon. A thing so rare, she still marveled at it.

  She leaped to her feet and performed an impromptu dance step in front of the hearth. What news! She must ring Dot.

  First, she forced herself to investigate the other item—an invitation to a farewell dinner for Dr. Sarah Sargent, her former tutor and academic advisor at Somerville College, Oxford.

  She came back down to earth. Oxford meant Dr. Harry Bascombe—the fly in her personal ointment. He would surely be at the dinner for his colleague as they were close associates. He taught modern British poetry at Christ Church.

  Catherine was greatly indebted to her former tutor and would be happy to celebrate this event with her, but Dr. Harry with his Douglas Fairbanks mustache and piratical aura was another matter. His weighty review of her work could be summed up in one damaging, haunting word—derivative. The criticism had cut deeply.

  But what had she expected from him? She knew how he scorned her.

  She checked her datebook, hoping for a conflicting engagement, but she was free that evening. Her palms grew damp. What would she wear? Did she own anything that didn’t make her appear a frivolous debutante?

  She took a deep breath. Perhaps there was time to order something new. Something more sophisticated to give her confidence.

  Catherine rang her dressmaker and made an appointment for the following morning. Then she called Dot.

  “Did you get an invitation to the dinner for Dr. Sargent?”

  “I did. Sounds smashing. Shall we motor up together?”

  “By all means,” said Catherine. “Care to come to Madame Devereaux’s with me tomorrow? For some reason, I feel I have to have a new gown.”

  Dot laughed. “He wouldn’t happen to have a mustache, would he?”

  “Dr. Harry has nothing to do with it,” she protested. “I got notification from my publisher today. They’ve offered me a new contract. I’m going to celebrate with a new frock so I look smashing and unassailable.”

  “Congratulations! Spiffing! But wouldn’t a glass of wine be less expensive?”

  * * *

  Her friend expanded on her theme the next day as they took a cab to Madame Devereaux’s.

  “Jolly good news about the poetry,” she said. “I’ll be certain to mention it in Dr. Harry’s hearing at the dinner. But, Cat, why do you care so much what he thinks?”

  “He still prefers to think of me as a spoiled rich girl of no account.”

  “That’s his loss. You crushed his ego. The worst thing a woman, particularly a scholarly woman, can do to a man. You bested him at his own game, and everybody knows it. I’m sure Christ Church College wasn’t too pleased that you published such a revealing new biography about a poet Dr. Harry considers to be his own private property and unearthed inferences he overlooked.” She laughed. “Not that I would deny you any excuse for a new frock,” she cont
inued. “You should look triumphant and on the rise.”

  Dot herself was a shortish redhead with a curvier figure than was presently in vogue and envied Catherine’s long, lean look. But being five foot, seven inches in a world where most women were five foot five or under made her feel that she was of Amazonian proportions, and Catherine disliked her height intensely. Except when she was at her dressmaker’s.

  Madame Devereaux made much of her, seating them with demitasse cups of coffee and an assortment of pastries. “Mademoiselle Catherine, I have designed a new gown in black that would suit you perfectly. It will bring the gentlemen to their knees.”

  When the mannequin glided out to show the new creation, it took Catherine’s breath away. Backless to the waist, except for a high Mandarin collar encircling the neck, it was fitted to the knees and flared out from there. The shoulders were bare.

  “Oh! I couldn’t possibly wear that to an Oxford function,” Catherine said with regret. “Perhaps I did not properly explain myself, Madame. I need something tres sérieux.”

  The little woman showed a pout. “It will be a great loss.” She beckoned to the next mannequin who modeled a closely fitted black silk gown with a square neck and a gathered voile overlay that made her appear as though she were moving through a cloud. Both elegant and serious.

  “That is perfect!” said Catherine and Dot together. “And you can have it ready by a week from Thursday? I shall be leaving that Friday morning.”

  “Mais oui. And you have the sable fur? The one with the high collar that so matches your hair? This you must wear with the dress.”

  “Of course,” Catherine agreed.

  The two friends headed for luncheon at the Savoy.

  Over Dover sole fillets Dot said, “Somerville won’t seem the same after Dr. Sargent leaves.”

  “She really is too young to retire,” said Catherine.

  “They will be after you again, now that there are such big shoes to fill.”

  “I’m sure Dr. Sargent’s replacement has already been selected. Besides, I don’t want to hide myself away at Oxford, tempting as that sometimes seems. I prefer London or even Cornwall.”

  “Why is that? I thought you loved university life.”

  “Every little academic incident is blown up into huge proportions. A single paragraph or even a word can cause a tectonic shift.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean,” said Dot. “But every position has the potential to be that way. My advertising firm can be a very small and exceedingly mean little world sometimes.”

  “Give me my little chaps in the East End any day,” said Catherine. “They are just as they seem to be and proud of it.” She lifted her wine glass, “Here’s hoping everything at Somerville will be and will remain friendly.”

  “And non-tectonic,” said Dot. “Now, we have given enough of our attention to Dr. Harry today. Tell me how you are feeling about Rafe’s homecoming.”

  Catherine’s stomach clenched like a fist.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Has William written anything about how he is doing?” Dot asked, referring to Catherine’s brother.

  “William says he is in terrific form. But who knows if it will last?” asked Catherine.

  * * *

  When the two women set out in Dot’s motor for the City of Dreaming Spires, a fine mizzle cleared up nicely during the drive. The fickle summer sun shone. How would Rafe feel about the misty English weather after the heat of Kenya?

  “Perhaps, if the weather holds, we shall be able to go punting on the Cherwell,” said Dot.

  “Admirable plan. Let’s just get settled in our digs and swing by Blackwell’s first.”

  “If I let you inside that bookstore, you won’t be out before we have to dress for dinner!”

  Catherine chuckled. “I cannot come to Oxford without going to Blackwell’s. Given the choice, I would far rather miss the dinner.”

  The initial prospect of Oxford as they crested the last hill and looked out over the valley always thrilled Catherine. Today it was clear, and no mist shrouded the much-loved spires, but the sight was still fantastical. It always amazed her from this vantage point how lacy and whimsical stone towers could appear.

  Plus, there was that elusive atmosphere that came with the knowledge that learning had been going on in this spot since the thirteenth century. Oxford had a soul that inspired dreams and discoveries, launched great intellects and served as the seat of both rational and heated debate.

  They negotiated the busy streets, dodging motors, omnibuses, and bicycles, finally arriving at Somerville. The porter (new since their day) handed them keys to their rooms. There was also a note from Dr. Sargent inviting them to sherry in the Senior Commons Room at seven o’clock before they would all travel together to The Mitre for dinner.

  Catherine and Dot had rooms near one another in their old dormitory and were happy to see their favorite scout, Jennie. The woman must be in her sixties now, Catherine surmised, but though her hair had gone white, she was vigorous as ever.

  “That happy I am to see you girls,” said Jennie with her big smile. “I’ll be your scout, of course. Couldn’t give that job to anyone else. There’s tea being served now in the Senior Commons Room if that suits you.”

  “A cup of tea sounds perfect,” said Catherine. After removing her hat and washing her hands, she looked in the mirror to smooth her freshly waved dark brown hair. Her large brown eyes looked back at her out of a heart-shaped face. She would do. Joining Dot, she went downstairs.

  The first person to greet them was Anne Tomlinson, another Old Girl with platinum hair that she wore a la Jean Harlow. It was hard to remember she was the mother of twins and that her name was now Stuart.

  “Cat! Dot! I was hoping you would be here!” Catherine’s heart warmed at the greeting from her friend.

  “Anne!” exclaimed Dot. “How are your twins? And how do you manage to appear so glam?”

  Their friend tittered. “I have a marvelous hairdresser. And the twins are never still. They managed to cover me in marmalade just as I was leaving. I had to change every stitch!”

  Margery Ackerman, now Lady Margery Wallinghouse, walked over to them, teacup in hand. She practically jingled with gold bangles and chains about her neck. “My dears!” she said. “So happy to see you.”

  In fact, Catherine was somewhat surprised by Margery’s presence.

  “You are looking splendid,” said Catherine. Leaning closer, she whispered, “It is magnanimous of you to come.”

  Margery wrinkled her short nose. “One can’t hold onto a grudge forever,” she said.

  “Dr. Chenowith will be happy to see you, I’m sure,” Catherine said in a normal tone. She was one of the few who knew that the acerbic don’s public criticism of Margery’s work had cost her a publishing contract.

  “I’m actually hoping she won’t be here—that she’ll be hobnobbing with Virginia Woolf et al. this weekend.”

  At that moment, Dr. Sargent, the guest of honor, virtually flew into the room, her black gown billowing behind her. “Oh! Tomlinson! Ackerman! Tregowyn and Nichols! So good of all of you to come! It’s lovely to see the Old Girls together again. Tutoring you women was my greatest joy!”

  “We are protesting,” said Dot. “We are going to block the entrance of The Mitre with our bodies. None of us thinks you are old enough to retire.”

  The don laughed. “Nichols, still up to mischief, I see. You shall pour me out a cup of tea.”

  “Two sugars?” Dot asked.

  “You remembered! Yes.”

  Catherine asked, “Who else have you invited?”

  “Well, tonight there will be my corresponding dons from some of the men’s colleges, the Warden and the Dean, of course.”

  “No other Old Girls?” Catherine asked, puzzled.

  “I didn’t wi
sh to be exclusive. I couldn’t invite some from a class and not all, so I simply chose all my girls from one year, and your year was my favorite.”

  “Well now,” said Anne. “Isn’t that lovely.”

  “Some other Somerville dons will be joining us, of course. I think it is going to be a good group, all in all. We’ll certainly fill the private room at The Mitre.”

  Catherine smiled at her tutor. “It sounds like a stimulating evening for certain.”

  The women began to chatter and catch up on one another’s lives. Catherine told Dr. Sargent about her new poetry publication.

  “My dear, I shall be certain to announce it this evening. I am so pleased. We shall drink to its success.”

  * * *

  Dot and Catherine spent the rest of the afternoon walking through Oxford, enjoying memories. The sun on the Cotswold stone of the colleges threw everything into a glowing golden light. Catherine inhaled the indefinable sweetish scent she always associated with the city. They enjoyed the display of purple and red summer flowers and listened to all the college chapel bells ringing in the hours.

  Of course, they did visit the labyrinthian Blackwell’s bookstore where Catherine checked to see whether Dr. Harry Bascombe had any new publications. He did have one about a minor Victorian poet which she purchased to keep abreast of his scholarship.

  Dr. Harry was one of that rare breed of men found in colleges who seemed to care little for material things and lived for their work. Before their falling out, she had admired him tremendously and felt honored that he took an interest in her work on the Victorian female poets.

  If she were honest with herself, she knew that it irked him that she, who had wealth to spare and only an undergraduate education, should have made such an academic coup with her first book, Life of Edith Penwyth. As with many things in scholastic life, a bit of luck had been involved. She had grown up a stone’s throw from the reclusive Penwyth’s cottage and had known the old lady when she was a girl. The poet’s sister had been only too glad to hand over all her papers and journals to a woman poet she knew as well as she did Catherine, instead of the irritating men who constantly besieged her.