An Oxford Murder Read online

She didn’t blame Dr. Harry for his feelings, really. She just wished he could get over them. Surely an undergraduate’s publication coup couldn’t truly have been a setback for his career at Christ Church?

  Stopping by the Music Room on Holywell Street, she and Cat bought tickets to hear a selection of Chopin etudes being performed there on Saturday evening. As a student, she had fairly haunted the place.

  The sun felt good on their backs, as they retraced their steps back to Somerville. When they passed the Ashmolean Museum, they spent their last free half-hour enjoying an exhibit of Egyptian antiquities.

  As she lay on her bed before she had to rouse herself and bathe, Catherine could not help but feel a worm of anxiety in her middle about the evening ahead. Had she known what they were really facing, this dread would have paled by comparison.

  Chapter Two

  The evening started well enough. The male dons had arrived for their sherry before Catherine came down to the Senior Commons Room. Dr. Wesley Williams of Balliol College, one of her favorite professors, was enlightening everyone in his circle about a new discovery. In Iceland, a pre-Christian Teutonic document had been found that added to the mighty legend of Wotan, the supreme god of ancient lore. She joined his circle and was happy to see that he hadn’t aged in the last three years. Slim and fair, his blue eyes still held their lively gleam as he talked about the conference he would attend in Germany next month. He would be able to examine the newly discovered document at that time.

  The Somerville Dean, Dr. Andrews, a scholar of early pre-Christian writings, was very interested. “I hear there are some new things being discovered in northern Norway, as well,” she said.

  “Yes.” Dr. Williams preened himself. “That is actually my Balliol team. They have managed to track down a source of oral Teutonic legends that are still being passed down there. Something like Fairy Tales.”

  Catherine shivered. “I always hated German Fairy Tales. They were so brutal.”

  “They are of ancient derivation, as I’m sure you know. Justice was untempered by mercy in those days,” said Professor Williams.

  He began to expound. As Catherine listened, the back of her neck prickled, telling her that someone was watching her. Catherine turned and casually walked to another conversation group. Dr. Harry Bascombe had arrived, resplendent in evening dress, and was studying her. He always looked as though he should have a golden earring, and never more so than when she caught him observing her.

  She smiled a bit in his direction, and he walked to her side. “I understand congratulations are due you,” he said. “Another book of poetry.”

  Catherine felt herself blush, and she became automatically tongue-tied. “Yes.”

  “I hope these aren’t so wholly imitative as your last offering.” He gave her a wry smile.

  Anger rescued her. “I am aware that anything I write would fail to please you.”

  “You are fortunate, indeed, that the public doesn’t share my prejudice. I understand your first volume did very well.”

  “It did, as a matter of fact. And Professor Charleston of Cambridge gave it a glowing review. Perhaps you saw it.”

  He looked her up and down and smiled. All he was missing was a gold incisor. “That’s a smashing frock. You look very well this evening.”

  “I would thank you,” she said, “but I don’t imagine you meant it.”

  She turned to join Dot in another group when he took hold of her arm. “Must we quarrel?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m afraid we must.”

  Dot was conversing with Dr. Agatha Chenowith who would have been pretty but for protruding teeth. She was a small woman with blonde hair she refused to cut, wearing it in a coronet about her head. The college celebrity, she was exceedingly difficult to please. She had taught Catherine much of what she knew about modern poetry. It was she who knew Virginia Woolf and was associated with her exclusive Bohemian Bloomsbury set. Dr. Chenowith had published three successful volumes of modern verse.

  She smiled brightly at the sight of Catherine. “Miss Tregowyn! Congratulations on a splendid book of poetry. I enjoyed it greatly. Well executed.”

  Catherine, who had been holding her breath, was greatly relieved. Sometimes, as now, the woman who wrote the poetry seemed wholly disconnected to Catherine Tregowyn of her daily life. “Your praise means a lot to me,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Would you care to do a reading?” she asked. “I should like you to come to my group in Bloomsbury as my guest. We do readings on Wednesdays.”

  The invitation overwhelmed Catherine. Though she had taken classes in it, the oral interpretation of poetry was not her strong suit. But perhaps she could arrange some private sessions with Dr. Sargent. She needed to make an effort with her new book coming out.

  “That would be splendid. Thank you very much. I am honored that you would invite me.”

  “A talent such as yours should be shared.”

  A sudden wave of sympathy for her friend Margery Ackerman swept over her. What that woman wouldn’t give to hear those words from Dr. Chenowith! Her review of Margery’s poetry had been scathing, and the withdrawal of the contract by the publisher had been a terrible blow. Margery’s new husband, Sir Herbert Wallinghouse, had even initiated a lawsuit.

  The small, neat Dr. Stephenson of Merton approached her, and she knew what he was going to ask.

  “Oh, Dr. Stephenson, I am so sorry! I haven’t read your proofs yet!” The man had given her an advance readers copy of his new book of Victorian poetry. He was something of a legend at Oxford having penned the iconic undergraduate text The Art of Poetry, and he was just now publishing his own verse for the first time. He had asked Catherine to do a review for him.

  The little man smiled. “I still have a week or so before the reviews need to be in. Do you think you’ll have time before then?”

  “I’ll make time,” she said. “I promise. I am very flattered that you would ask me to do it.”

  The man gave a smooth bow of his well-barbered head and then moved off to speak to Dr. Chenowith. Catherine concentrated on imprinting his request on her brain. It wouldn’t do to forget.

  Then Anne Tomlinson came up to talk about Catherine’s new poetry collection, and she thought no more about her promise that evening.

  * * *

  Cabs were organized to carry the group to The Mitre on the High Street. She climbed into one of several awaiting on Little Clarendon Street by the South Entrance to the College. Catherine rode with Dr. Sargent, Dot, and the Somerville Warden, Dr. Phillips. She would much rather have walked. The evening was mild; the sun still hovering above the horizon. It was L’Heure Bleu, one of her favorite times of the day at Oxford. The colleges still retained a bit of their detail while being silhouetted against the western sky.

  When they reached The Mitre, Catherine and Dot allowed their tutor and the college dignitaries to proceed ahead of them and ascended afterward.

  To her relief, place cards had been laid out, so she was able to avoid sitting with Dr. Harry. Her place was between Dr. Stephenson, who would undoubtedly use the time to talk about his new book, and Dr. Phillips, the Warden of Somerville.

  People were somewhat late straggling in, but after they were all seated, Dean Andrews suggested they open the champagne bottles that were out on the tables. Once it was poured, the dean said, “Tonight we salute the outstanding contributions made to Somerville College and scholarship everywhere by Dr. Sarah Mary Sargent. We wish her well in her retirement, though the college will not cease to miss her.”

  “Hear, hear,” the guests chorused before sipping the champagne.

  The servers placed beef consommé before the diners, and the meal began. Catherine was surprised that Dr. Stephenson was not the ebullient man of the sherry party. Instead of talking about his own book, he wished to talk about the Life she had written of Edith Penwyth.<
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  He asked, “Wasn’t there some sort of mystery you uncovered?”

  “Yes. Penwyth had a lover; only I never figured out who he was. She only referred to him as ‘S.’ It’s a rotten shame actually, for he sent her some poetry that was quite good. I gave some of his poems to Dr. Chenowith, hoping with her expertise on the Victorians that she could reason out who he might be. But neither of us had any luck.”

  He nodded his face quite solemn. “Interesting. I hadn’t remembered the details exactly. The book enjoyed healthy sales, as I recall.”

  “Yes. It was just luck, really. The Penwyths have been neighbors of ours for centuries. Edith Penwyth’s elderly sister was willing to give me all of her papers as well as her journals.”

  “And she couldn’t help you solve the mystery?”

  “No. Her memory was pretty much gone, and then she died shortly afterward. She was very old.”

  “Hmm,” said Dr. Stephenson.

  At that point, Catherine turned to speak to the Warden on her other side about her plans for the rest of the Long Vacation they were enjoying until the beginning of Michaelmas Term in September. Dr. Phillips was going to Scotland with her eldest daughter to visit her husband’s ancestral home on Loch Lomond.

  Catherine confessed she had no plans as her brother was coming home from abroad and she wanted to spend time with him. In actuality, she knew she would see little of William. It was Rafe, his traveling companion, that she was longing to see.

  When she spoke again to Dr. Stephenson, it was to thank him for his Art of Poetry which had helped her significantly in her efforts to compose in the medium.

  “I wish I could take credit for your excellent work,” he said. “Your first book of poems was marvelous. The Impressionistic technique was especially well-executed in your use of dark and light.”

  “Thank you so much. I was much inspired by Monet’s studies.”

  “That was clear.”

  On her other side, Dr. Phillips asked about her work, but before she could reply, Dr. Sargent rose and held up her champagne glass.

  “Tonight, I also wish to pay tribute to the achievement of one of my students, Miss Catherine Tregowyn who has brought acclaim to Somerville with her excellent verse and her insightful work about the reclusive Victorian poet, Edith Penwyth. Her publisher has just accepted a second book of poetry! To Miss Tregowyn!”

  “Hear, hear!” the room chorused. Even Dr. Harry toasted her.

  She thanked everyone and proposed a toast to Dr. Sargent and Dr. Chenowith for their coaching and instruction. It was only then that the group realized that Dr. Chenowith was not present. Murmurs began to circulate about the room.

  “How very odd!”

  “Do you think she was taken ill?”

  “Which cab did she come in?”

  Eventually, the main course of guinea hens was brought in, and the talk died down a bit, but Catherine could tell that Dr. Phillips on her left was still concerned.

  “Agatha is not strong. I sincerely hope she didn’t try to walk the distance.”

  Catherine said, “When I spoke to her tonight in the Senior Commons, she didn’t mention anything about not coming. And she seemed to be in good health.”

  “She is devoted to Sarah. I can’t believe she would miss this. Excuse me. I’ll just ring through to the College to make certain there is nothing amiss.”

  The warden was gone for some time. Several people around the table congratulated Catherine, and her conversation was general. No one else seemed terribly worried about the missing don.

  When Dr. Phillips finally returned, the main course had been removed, and they were enjoying Stilton and biscuits.

  “Mr. Hobbs, our porter, is going to organize the scouts to search for Agatha. I’m afraid she may have come over ill.”

  Brandy was served after all the plates were removed, but Catherine was too aware of Dr. Phillip’s concerns to enjoy it.

  “Perhaps I could go back to the College with you and help you to search,” she said to the warden.

  “That would be most appreciated. Let me just explain the situation to Dr. Sargent and the dean.”

  Dr. Harry was seated next to the dean and must have overheard Dr. Phillips conversation with her, for he immediately got to his feet and offered to help search. Catherine told Dot she would see her later, and the three of them left The Mitre immediately, hailing a cab on the High Street.

  “What do you think can have happened?” Dr. Harry asked the warden.

  “I haven’t a clue. That’s what worries me.”

  The cab negotiated the traffic, turning onto Longwall Street and then again onto Holywell. Somerville was the westernmost college at Oxford, and it took a good twenty minutes to reach their destination. When they arrived at the Woodstock Road entrance to the College, Dr. Harry paid the cabbie while the warden went to the lodge to question Hobbs about the search. Catherine followed her.

  Hobbs was a short man with a round red face and a head of thick gray hair. “She’s not in any of the dormitories, according to the scouts. They’ve just started to search the Hall.”

  “The chapel seems likely since it’s right by the Little Clarendon Street exit,” said Catherine. “I’ll go there.”

  “Except for the library, most of the other public buildings and classrooms are kept locked at this time of night,” said Dr. Phillips. “I’ll need your keys, Mr. Hobbs. Mine are in my office.”

  Catherine was annoyed that Dr. Harry insisted on accompanying her to the chapel.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” he told her, putting his hand in the small of her back as they walked away from the light of the lodge. “Watch your step. Those lovely shoes aren’t terribly practical, and it’s black as pitch out here.”

  It was only a five-minute walk to the new chapel. Catherine pushed open the door into the building.

  “This is a bit unnerving,” she said.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m here.”

  Ignoring his comment, she switched on the torch Hobbs had leant her.

  “My thumbs are prickling,” said Dr. Harry.

  “It’s ‘pricking,’” she said irritably. “But don’t bring Macbeth into it, for heaven’s sake.”

  The newly built chapel was small compared to other college chapels. It consisted of a long white nave with a small stained-glass window at the end. Enclosed benches lined the walls. From here, everything appeared to be in order.

  Catherine said, “You take the right side.”

  * * *

  Her discovery of the body of Agatha Chenowith left Catherine numb, shaken, and terribly cold. Her legs had seized up, and she couldn’t move from where she crouched on the floor.

  Eventually, she realized that this was a police matter, and one of them had to go ring them. She didn’t want to be the one left with the body. “Would you mind helping me up?” she asked, gritting her teeth.

  Dr. Harry got up and, neatly stepping over her, slid one arm around her back and another under her knees, and set her on her feet. “Sorry. Beastly thing to find. It looks like she’s been strangled.”

  Anxious to be gone out of the terrible place, she said, “I’ll go for the police if you don’t mind staying with her.” Her knees were wobbling.

  He patted her on the back. “You do that.”

  Chapter Three

  Catherine managed to get to the porter’s lodge, where she rang the police.

  “This is Miss Tregowyn calling from the east porter’s lodge at Somerville College, she said. “I need to report a murder.”

  Terse questions followed along with a promise that the authorities would be dispatched as soon as possible. She wasn’t to touch anything.

  When she was finished, Hobbs took pity on her and brewed a cup of strong tea on his gas ring, added plenty of sugar and insisted she
drink it while she waited.

  As she was sipping her beverage, Dr. Phillips returned. She looked from Hobbs to

  Catherine where she sat sipping tea, and said with obvious indignation, “I don’t suppose you found anything in the chapel?”

  Catherine took a deep breath. “I did, as a matter of fact. It would be a good thing if you sat down, Dr. Phillips.”

  The warden’s eyes rounded, and she sank into one of Hobbs’s folding chairs. “What is it?”

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Dr. Chenowith is . . . Well. . . she’s dead.”

  The warden’s face froze and drained of color. “Dead?”

  Catherine wanted to reach for the woman’s hand or give some gesture of comfort, but on second thought, she realized that might appear intrusive to the doughty warden. “She appears to have been strangled, but that’s for the police to decide.”

  The woman was clutching her hands tightly together and looking into space. Catherine couldn’t tell if she heard her or not.

  Hobb’s said, “They’ll be here soon, ma’am. Never fear.”

  “Dr. Bascombe is waiting by the body in the chapel,” Catherine added. She couldn’t hold herself back any longer. Getting up, she walked over and knelt in front of Dr. Phillips looking up into her face. She laid a hand over the warden’s bunched ones. “I’m sorry. It’s a shock. I know she was your friend.”

  “I can’t take it in. I was afraid she had been taken ill or something, but not . . . Never this,” said Dr. Phillips. “Of course, there were those silly death threats. I thought they were from students simply larking about.”

  Hobbs poured another cup of tea.

  When he handed it to her, Dr. Phillips’ hand shook, so the cup rattled in the saucer. “Who would want to kill Agatha?”

  Catherine hadn’t even gotten to that spot in her thinking. She still couldn’t get beyond the sight of the body.

  Then they heard the klaxon, and suddenly the police were upon them. They strode into the porter’s lodge, and, at that moment, everything changed. It was no longer a personal tragedy. It was someone’s job.