An Oxford Murder Page 5

  Something about the man was off. Was it his unmatched socks clashing with his lofty demeanor? She decided to bluff it out. Looking at him right in the eyes, she said, “I’d like to see some identification.”

  To her surprise, the man turned on his heel and ran back down the hallway. Instinctively, Catherine ran after him, clattering down the stairs. They ran across the quad, but he outpaced her and eventually disappeared through the west porter’s entrance into the traffic of Walton Street.

  Chapter Five

  Thoroughly disgusted with herself, Catherine asked the porter to ring the police.

  “I’m Miss Catherine Tregowyn, a witness in the Chenowith murder,” she told the dispatcher. “I found a man claiming to be police searching the rooms at Somerville college. When I asked to see his identification, he ran. I lost him, I’m afraid. But I think someone should take down his description.”

  “Hold the line, miss. I’ll put you through to Detective Chief Inspector Marsh.”

  When the detective came on, she repeated her story.

  “We don’t take kindly to police impersonations. They’re a crime, as you probably know. Would you please come down to the station, miss? This may be the break we need. We can have you work with a sketch artist preferably while the details are fresh in your mind. Could you be here at three o’clock?”

  “You’re on St. Aldate’s Street, is that correct?”

  “Yes, miss. In the City Hall.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Prior to leaving for the police station, Catherine decided to check Anne’s room before the woman returned from Blackwell’s.

  Jennie had already made the bed and scrubbed out the washstand. Catherine wasn’t exactly certain what she was looking for. She found that when it came down to it, she was squeamish about opening Anne’s journal or even her dresser drawers. Her appointment diary and telephone book lay open on the desk. Flipping through that was unproductive of anything except giving Catherine a nervous stomach.

  Some detective I am!

  * * *

  It was a stiff walk to the south side of Oxford, but she shunned the idea of a cab. Catherine loved walking through the city, and she had time. She was very glad she had packed a pair of stout walking shoes.

  The walk was a favorite of hers. She walked down St. Giles, passing St. John’s College. The road then split to accommodate the gem of St. Mary Magdalene’s church which had sat in the middle of the ancient thoroughfare since the twelfth century. She passed Balliol College and the Martyr’s memorial, the somber spire commemorating the death by burning of Archbishop Thomas Cranmer during the English Reformation.

  As usual, when passing by all this history, Catherine’s mind boggled at the chance she had had to study in such a place. Her own family history included martyrs and freemen, lords and ladies. One day she was determined to trace it all and construct a family tree for the children she still hoped to have.

  Of course, children presupposed a husband. She allowed her mind to dwell for a moment on Rafe. Since her girlhood, she had always supposed she would marry him. But now she wasn’t certain that was at all likely. With an effort, she pushed the problem away. It would do her no good to dwell upon it now.

  She had arrived at Christ Church, Dr. Harry’s college with its lofty cathedral. It was her favorite of all the colleges, with its Tom Tower (named after its huge bell), large Tom Quad, and of course the magnificent cathedral. On a whim, she went through the porter’s gate and asked the wizened man if he knew if Dr. Bascombe was in college at the moment.

  “I’m a colleague from Somerville College, Miss Tregowyn.”

  “I’ll just ring his rooms,” the porter said.

  Dr. Harry apparently answered. The porter informed him, “Miss Tregowyn at the gate for you.” He motioned for Catherine to come around to the lodge entrance and handed her the telephone.

  “I’m on my way to the police station. They’re going to have me work with a sketch artist on a rendering of a man I caught at the college today snooping and impersonating a police officer. I thought you might want to come along and see if you could identify the sketch. It may be someone connected with one of the professors you are looking into.”

  “Jolly good. I’ll be along in a minute.”

  Catherine took the opportunity to stroll into Tom Quad and gaze about her at the honey-colored walls. She loved Oxford, never more than when she took the time to walk about and enjoy the atmosphere—the soft light, the medieval architecture, the whisper of brilliant minds. She could lose herself here again, but what purpose would that serve? She needed to be out in the world with her East End lads who probably would never have much connection with learning—really learning—except what she could give them. She dreamed that maybe one or two of them would catch a love of knowledge from her and run with it, someday qualifying for a place at Oxford funded by a generous scholarship.

  Dr. Harry joined her.

  “Hullo! What’s been going on?” he asked.

  She recounted her adventure at Somerville that afternoon.

  “Who the devil could the fellow be?” Dr. Harry pulled at the tie about his neck. “How very exasperating!”

  It was a short walk from Dr. Harry’s college to the Town Hall where the police station was. Detective Chief Inspector Marsh greeted them and offered them coffee while they waited for the sketch artist to arrive.

  “Was the man well-spoken?” the detective asked. “Did he speak like a Toff?”

  Catherine had not even thought of this detail. “Now that you mention it, it was odd. He spoke like a professor, full of authority. That must be what tipped me off to ask for his identification. Who but a professor would speak like a duke and wear unmatched socks?”

  Dr. Harry laughed. “Well, we’ll see if I recognize the man. Aside from his socks, how was he dressed?”

  “I couldn’t really tell. He wore a trench coat. His shoes were just brown oxfords. They didn’t give the impression of having been recently polished.”

  They were given an interview room to work in when the sketch artist arrived. She was an attractive young woman who looked like a student. It transpired that she was an artist with a degree from the Slade. Her name was Robin.

  “I’m working on my portfolio here in Oxford,” she said. “The colleges and the gardens are wonderful material. I offered my services to the police. I’ve done this sort of thing in London.”

  Robin started by asking the general shape of the man’s face.

  “Sort of like a rectangle—wide brow and double chin with a dimple. He had jowls,” said Catherine.

  They moved on to the positioning of the eyes, shape of the nose. The hardest thing to get right was the mouth.

  “His front teeth overlapped just the slightest bit. Oh, and ears. His ears were large, and they stuck out from his head.”

  After an hour and a half, the sketch was complete.

  “Well, Dr. Bascombe?” Catherine asked.

  “You know, I’ve seen this fellow. He’s part of a group that drinks at The Bird and the Baby.”

  “I assume you are talking about The Eagle and Child?” asked Detective Chief Inspector Marsh. “Does he do so frequently?”

  “Yes. I don’t know any of his compatriots, but they all seem older—not students. Probably professors.”

  “So I was right,” said Catherine with satisfaction.

  “Maybe not. He’s just one in a sea of faces. You know how crowded the pub gets,” said Dr. Harry. But that dimple in the chin is kind of a tip-off.”

  “We’ll have one of our detectives take the sketch over there and ask the barmen,” said the policeman. “Now, Miss Tregowyn, we’ll need your statement, and then you’re free to go.”

  * * *

  “Shall we take an evening walk along the Isis?” asked Dr. Harry as they left the Town Hall.


  “That sounds good. It got very warm in there,” Catherine fanned herself with her hand.

  “There’s usually a breeze off the river this time of day,” he said. “What do you think of this business?”

  “It’s amorphous. Too many possibilities. The only ones with real alibis for the time of the murder are Dot, the warden, Dr. Sargent, and me. We were in the first cab. Was there any particular reason your cab didn’t leave until awhile after ours?”

  “Your friend wanted to go upstairs after drinks and ‘freshen up.’ She said she’d be a few minutes. So I took my time, too. When I got to the cab, I was the first one there. She came right along. We waited on the other two professors and then the cab was full, so we took off.”

  “By my friend, you mean Anne, the platinum blonde?”

  “Yes.”

  They had reached the Isis and the promised breeze. For a moment, Catherine stood in its wake, took off her hat, closed her eyes, and let it ruffle her shingled hair. “So,” she said, her eyes still closed, “None of you have an alibi for the time of the murder.”

  “You shouldn’t stand at the edge of Isis with your eyes closed next to a murder suspect. It’s very foolish.”

  Her eyes flew open. “Much as I dislike you, I can’t see that you’ve got a motive.”

  “Surely an aspiring poet like yourself takes Journal of Modern Verse.”

  His reference to her as “aspiring” put her teeth on edge. “Oh, yes! How can I forget when it made me feel so vindicated! Dr. Chenowith gave you a rancid review in there, didn’t she?”

  “I despised the woman, I freely admit. I only went last night to honor Dr. Sargent, whom I adore.”

  “Your admiration of her is mutual, I know.”

  “What a wretched place Oxford is!” he exclaimed suddenly.

  She stopped on the footpath. “Most people think just the opposite.”

  “Do you?” he asked.

  “Well, I admit this murder has given me pause. I do see your point. Do you really think it is the result of professional animus?” she asked.

  “No one knew how to inspire that emotion more than Agatha Chenowith. Surely you knew that, even though you were her fair-haired girl?”

  “Well, I must admit I thought her treatment of Margery was terribly unfair. And I know Marge has suffered agonies because of it,” Catherine said.

  “The dislike of her extended to many of the other colleges as well. It hasn’t been good for Somerville. I expect Dr. Sargent would have had a much nicer turnout for her farewell last night if it weren’t for Dr. Agatha Chenowith.”

  “You’re right. I never realized that. If what you say is true, that isn’t good for Somerville. And, somehow, I expected a larger crowd last night. I wonder if the dean was aware?” she said.

  “I don’t know how she could help but know.”

  Catherine stopped. She exhaled slowly. “Between you and me, they’ve offered me Dr. Sargent’s position.”

  “Even though you haven’t a doctorate?”

  “I’m to study for it and obtain it within three years.”

  “So you’ve decided to take the job?”

  “No, actually, I have already decided to stick with what I do. I like my independence, and I’ve sensed some of what you say about the Oxford community. But I didn’t ever think it would lead to murder.”

  “What is it you do, besides writing verse?” he asked.

  “You forgot the adjective. Possibly execrable?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth,” he advised.

  Catherine was oddly reluctant to reply. But at last, she answered, “I tutor little boys in the East End who are having difficulty learning to read or with their sums.”

  “Hmm.” He looked at her closely.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Noble of you. I suppose you’re a Communist?”

  “Of course, I’m not a Communist!”

  She stood her ground for a moment and then turned down the path that traversed Christ Church Meadows.

  He hastened to catch up with her. “So why do you do it then?”

  “I happen to love little boys and want them to get a good start in life.”

  “You really think you can make a difference?”

  “At least it’s worth a try. Now go away. I’ve had far too much of you for one day.” She branched out from the path, making her way across the open meadowland.

  Chapter Six

  By the time she had crossed the meadow and arrived at Broad Walk, she was far too tired to return to Somerville on foot. Walking back to St. Aldates, she flagged down a cab to take her the rest of the way. It was only then that she realized she had missed her concert in the Music Room. Dot must be worried. Regret tugged at her. Catherine loved Chopin. She could only hope that the sketch the police artist had made would lead somewhere eventually.

  Though it was past her work hours, Jennie was awaiting her in her room. The white-haired woman had fallen asleep in Catherine’s armchair, but she awoke at the first sound.

  “Oh, Miss Tregowyn! I am that glad to see you. I was worried, and so was Miss Nichols.”

  “Why were you worried, Jennie? I’m not a student anymore.” Catherine laughed. “I get along just fine in London, you know.”

  “Have you had anything to eat?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, and I am wretchedly hungry.”

  “I’ll just pop down and check the larder. I know we have cheese and biscuits. Mayhap there’s some fruit as well.”

  “That sounds heavenly. Thank you,” said Catherine. “I’m going to take a quick bath. I feel quite grimy.”

  When Catherine returned to her room, she found Jennie had been as good as her word. She had even fixed her a cup of tea.

  “Wonderful! This will do nicely.”

  As soon as Catherine sat and had her first biscuit and cheese, Jennie said, “I was able to find out the answer to your question, miss. The girl who cried?”

  Catherine was surprised. “Excellent work! Who was it?”

  “A girl named Lady Rachel Warren. An earl’s daughter she is. There was a fuss, that’s why Mary remembered it. Her parents took her out of school and wrote a complaint against Dr. Chenowith.”

  “Oh, dear. It does sound serious. Good work, Jennie. Did you happen to find out any details about the incident?”

  “So ’mat about a poem she wrote. The girl, I mean.”

  “Good. I mean, it must have been rotten. Poor Lady Rachel. Do you know anything about who her parents complained to?”

  “Some board. Sounded like high muckety-mucks.”

  “The Board of Trustees?” Catherine asked, holding a biscuit halfway to her mouth.

  “That’s it,” said the little scout, beaming.

  “That’s serious.” And yet the dean had made it sound like she was just mentioning it in passing. It must have raised an unholy stink. No wonder she had been reluctant to name the girl.

  “Got anything else for me to do, then?” asked Jennie. Eagerness shone out of her little brown eyes.

  “Not at the moment. You’ve done marvelously well. Thank you. I knew you would come up trumps.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes and ears open,” the scout said.

  “Be careful,” said Catherine, suddenly concerned. “I don’t want you to lose your job over this.”

  “I’ve been a scout for a long time, miss. I reckon I know how to keep my job.”

  * * *

  Catherine had not intended to stay at Oxford longer than the weekend, but she had planned on going to services at the Christ Church Cathedral before she left, so she had packed her favorite suit—a powder blue linen with a fitted skirt that had stitched down pleats to the knees and hung to mid-calf. She had brought her matching cartwheel hat the brim of which she wore turned down on the rig
ht side of her head.

  As she was leaving, she noted the packaged advance reader’s copy of his poetry from Dr. Stephenson sitting on her desk. She had brought it with her from London thinking she might have time to read it. Well, perhaps later on.

  Catherine took a cab to the Cathedral. She was very happy to see that the world-famous choir was singing for the service. Settling into her seat, she contemplated the vaulted ceiling and the beautiful stained glass with its musical motif. The Cathedral always calmed her with its dedicated space and light in a world where those commodities were often sorely lacking.

  The choir was sublime. Hearing its songs echoing hauntingly off the walls and columns was worth her entire trip to Oxford. It carried her away from the sordid crime and the questions it had generated. By the end of the service, she had completely forgotten she was to meet Dr. Harry.

  But there he was, waiting for her as she left the Cathedral, dressed in his blazer with a red carnation in his lapel. Her heart gave a little leap, surprising her. How could she possibly be attracted to that mustachioed rogue?

  “You’re looking very glam,” he greeted her.

  “I think we said everything we needed to say last evening,” she said.

  “You’re still angry.”

  “Certainly not. Only tired of you. And hungry.”

  “Sunday dinner at The Mitre. My treat. I’ve even rung them up. They’re holding a table for us.”

  Sunday dinner at The Mitre meant roast beef and Yorkshire pud. Her stomach growled. Betrayed by the flesh. How could she answer no?

  Without replying, she merely fell in with him as he began to walk the short distance to the High Street and turned toward the restaurant.

  “Because of you, I missed my Chopin concert last night,” she said.

  “My charm can be an inconvenience,” he said.

  Shaking her head, she didn’t reply. They crossed to the other side of the High.

  When they entered the restaurant, she breathed deeply of the savory smell of roast beef.