An Oxford Murder Read online

  “This was an inspired idea,” she admitted.

  They were seated at a small table in front of a window. It was perfect.

  While they awaited their food, they sipped Chablis, and she said, “I do have some news.”

  She told him about Jennie’s nugget of information.

  “The Board of Trustees, eh? I wonder if Chenowith got a dressing down.”

  “Possibly. That kind of thing is hard to keep quiet. You were right about Chenowith damaging the college’s reputation.”

  “The family must have money and influence. An ordinary incident like that rarely makes it to the Board of Trustees.”

  “There could have been more to it. There must have been some kind of emotional trauma. We only have the scouts’ version.”

  “True. I have some news, as well. Last night I went back to the police department and borrowed the sketch for the evening. I inquired of my drinking pals about the man in the sketch. It was definitely worth the bother. He’s pretty distinctive looking. Turns out he drinks with dons from St. John’s. At a stab, he’s one of them. No one could remember his name from the pub, but I imagine the police will make short work of that. I took the sketch back this morning. They were glad of the information.”

  “Pardon me for ever doubting you,” she said.

  “I will pardon you just about anything,” said Dr. Harry. “He’s probably another one of us poetry people, like Stephenson and Williams.”

  “Wouldn’t you know him, then?”

  He considered. “I should. Maybe he’s more in Williams’ line than mine.”

  “Early Teutonic period, before it branched off into early English.”

  “Right. Pretty arcane stuff,” said Dr. Harry.

  Their dinner was served, and if Catherine had been standing, the sight of it would have made her weak in the knees. She dug into her roast beef. For a moment, their conversation ceased.

  “It’s interesting. I find the development of poetry fascinating,” she said. “It’s rather like how painters have learned to use the medium of paint differently down the centuries; only the poet’s medium is words.”

  “And I doubt whether there is any place in the world you can study all stages of that development better than here.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, after sampling the excellent Yorkshire pud. “I seem to have carried us off-topic. Do you think the police will arrest the St. John’s man if they manage to locate him?”

  “I think they will. I can’t imagine what he will have to say for himself. Snooping around a female dorm? Impersonating a police officer?”

  They made short work of their dinner, and afterward, over coffee, Dr. Harry decided to see if he could use The Mitre’s telephone to ring the police station. He disappeared briefly into the back regions of the restaurant.

  “No joy,” he said, upon his return. “They identified him as Dr. Christopher Waddell of St. John’s all right, but he has taken off.”

  “Taken off?” echoed Catherine.

  “Disappeared. Vanished. With all the belongings he could carry, apparently.”

  “Hmm.” Catherine weighed this information with surprise. “That puts rather a serious complexion on things, doesn’t it? A don leaving his college with no explanation.”

  “Murder is serious,” Dr. Harry said.

  “So they think he is the murderer?”

  “If they didn’t think so before, they surely think so now,” said the professor.

  “So he got into the college without the porter’s knowledge, and just happened to run into his quarry by the chapel as she was hurrying off to an engagement . . .” Catherine posited.

  “They could have planned a rendezvous. Chenowith might have thought he just needed a few moments of her time.”

  As she cut her beef, Catherine considered this. “Yes. That makes sense. But what could possibly have been the motive?”

  “Maybe we’ll never know,” said Dr. Harry, filling his pipe.

  Catherine thought over this possibility. She was not satisfied. “Do you think he will be named the murderer at the inquest?”

  “No.” The professor tamped down his tobacco. “What evidence they have doesn’t even have a firm connection to the case. We don’t know why he was in the dormitory or if it had any connection at all to the murder.”

  “It’s very strange. I suppose if there is an open verdict of murder, the investigation will proceed.”

  “Yes. I’m not out of the woods yet,” he said, puffing his pipe.

  Catherine had a sudden thought. “They might even think you recognized him and warned him.”

  “I’m afraid they do think that. They asked me about it, anyway. They want to see me again.”

  She was surprised at her own alarm. “Oh? And you’re just sitting here calmly enjoying your pipe?”

  He grinned a particularly insouciant grin. “They can wait. Gives them a chance to go through my digs anyway.”

  “You’re infuriating!” she exclaimed. In reality, she was a little afraid of him. She had allowed herself to become too comfortable with the professor, even beginning to overcome her dislike.

  “Did I tell you how that hat becomes you?” he asked.

  “No. And you shan’t have the chance. I’m leaving.” Taking up her clutch bag, she rooted for currency to cover the amount of her meal and left it on the table.

  * * *

  Catherine walked back to Somerville by way of Turl Street onto Broad Street and thus to the Martyr’s Memorial and St. Giles. She was thinking furiously and was nearly run down by two different bicyclists.

  Was Dr. Christopher Waddell the murderer? What in the world was he seeking in the dormitory? He had been in Margery’s room. Margery was a suspect.

  Catherine’s thoughts took an about-face. What if she had been looking at the picture from the wrong perspective? What if he was not looking for something, but was going to plant something? Something that would strengthen the case against Margery? Evidence that would carry that case forward past motive and opportunity? Well, if that was his intent, thank heavens she had caught him at it. Or what if he was working with Dr. Harry Bascombe? Her Sunday dinner companion could have warned Waddell. What on earth could their motive be? Did they have something against Dr. Chenowith personally or professionally? It was impossible to imagine what that could be.

  Chapter Seven

  Dot was waiting in her room when she returned. She had almost forgotten about her friend.

  “What on earth have you been up to?” Dot asked. I haven’t seen you since yesterday morning!”

  “I went to services this morning and then out to dinner with Dr. Harry. He’s with the police now. Or anyway he should be unless he too has disappeared.”

  “He too? What are you talking about?”

  Catherine told Dot of the happenings on the day before when she had discovered the intruder and helped the police.

  “Oh, and Jennie came through with a bit of information.” She related the story of Lady Rachel Warren, Chenowith’s insult and the report to the Board of Trustees.

  “My! You have been busy! Need a Watson?”

  “I could use a Sherlock to tell you the truth. I don’t know which way to turn at this point. I’m in something of a dilemma. Is Harry Bascombe guilty? Or is this Christopher Waddell the murderer?”

  “Surely Waddell is more likely than Bascombe!”

  “I would hope so. Then there’s also this story with Lady Rachel. I feel I need to look into that.”

  “Tell you what! Let’s go down to the library and look at Debrett’s. We’ll find out who her father is and where he lives. I’ve got the motor, remember. We can drive off and do a bit of sleuthing.”

  “We’re not supposed to leave Oxford until after the inquest, but I suppose we could leave word with the porter where to find u
s. At least the police will know we haven’t disappeared.”

  “I’d better dress up some if I’m going to meet an aristocrat,” said Dot.

  * * *

  Debrett’s had yielded the information that Lady Rachel Warren was the only child of the Earl of Carroway whose principal seat was in Buckinghamshire—just a few hours away.

  “Perfect,” said Dot. “We won’t even be gone overnight if we’re lucky.”

  “Let’s pack a toothbrush and a change of clothes, just in case,” said Catherine.

  It was a lovely day for a drive—no fog, rain, or clouds to be seen. Ah, July.

  Once they got to the town of Dawley, they stopped at The Horse and Dragon for a pub snack and directions to Carroway Castle. It had been a bit too noisy for conversation in Dot’s motor with the top down, so while eating pickle, cheese, and peasant’s loaf, they planned their strategy.

  “We should give false names, I think,” said Dot. “In case they check on our cover story with the Board of Trustees.”

  “Right. I’ll be Miss Jane Featherstone. I think I belong to The Spectator magazine.”

  “I’ve got my camera in the boot,” said Dot. “I’ll be your photographer, Miss Olivia Manchester. I’ve always wanted to be called Olivia.”

  The first bit of trouble they ran into was the guard at the gatehouse. Obviously, the earl valued his privacy. Catherine made a swift change of plans.

  “I’m Miss Jane Featherstone of Somerville College. I am here to see Lord Carroway on behalf of the Board of Trustees,” she said. She could feel the shock emanating from Dot beside her at the wheel. “This is my secretary, Miss Olivia Manchester.”

  “Are you expected?”

  “No. But I am certain his Lordship will want to speak to us.”

  “His Lordship doesn’t see anyone without an appointment, and scarcely anyone with an appointment.”

  “What about Lady Carroway?”

  “I shall see if she is available.”

  While the guard rang the house, Dot hissed, “Have you any idea how much trouble we will be in if they happen to ring the Trustees?”

  Catherine nodded. “I’m willing to chance it. But you can stay out of it.”

  The guard returned. “You are to park in the front-drive. Lady Carroway will see you in her sitting room. The butler will show you the way.”

  As they drove down the long, poplar-lined drive to the castle, Catherine said, “Golly, I haven’t seen a real live butler in ages.”

  “Have you ever heard of Carroway Castle?” asked Dot.

  “Never. But I don’t know much about County Bucks.”

  The drive took a sharp curve, and suddenly the golden-stone castle came into view. It was surprisingly medieval. There was a grass planted moat and a drawbridge with a coat of arms displayed above it.

  “I wonder if King George stays here on weekend visits,” said Dot. “It’s grand enough.”

  Once they were across the drawbridge, crenelated towers guarded the castle keep where the living castle stood. Catherine couldn’t imagine living in such a place. There were few windows and centuries’ old conifers shrouded the building.

  Dot parked the car in the circular drive. Catherine was seldom intimidated, having grown up on a large Cornish estate, but this place was overpowering.

  A butler in full butler-kit answered the knocker.

  “We are Miss Featherstone and Miss Manchester to see her ladyship,” Catherine said.

  The butler bowed and pulled the door open widely. “Good afternoon. My lady is taking tea in the west sitting room. She wishes you to join her.”

  They followed him down a dark inner corridor lit only by oil-burning sconces, into a room at the west end of the castle. There a series of small windows let in the western sunlight, and a tiny woman with dark brown hair streaked with gray sat behind a large silver tea service.

  “How do you like your tea?” she asked, without introduction.

  “I am Miss Featherstone, your ladyship. I take my tea with milk and sugar. Thank you.”

  “I am Miss Manchester, my lady. I take lemon, please.”

  “Have a seat, have a seat. If you’re not slimming, the lemon seed cake is very good.”

  Catherine accepted her tea from Lady Carroway and sat in a green damask chair. The whole scene reminded her of tea on the best china with her Granny when she was a child. Dot seated herself next to her ladyship in a chair with a needlepoint cover.

  “You’ve come from the college? You may not see our daughter.”

  “No,” said Catherine. “I quite understand that. She has been through enough. We were scheduled to come this afternoon to see how the family is getting along; however, now we have some news that may interest you. Perhaps you have seen it in the paper.”

  The little lady, whose face was surely prematurely lined, tilted her head to one side. “We don’t read the news or listen to the wireless. Not since the War. Too upsetting.”

  “Dr. Chenowith was murdered on Friday evening at the college,” said Dot with the air of someone who could not restrain herself.

  Lady Carroway blinked and stared. Then she dropped her teacup with a clatter on the wooden floor. It shattered by her feet.

  “Murdered? Friday evening?” she repeated. What little color she had possessed left her face, and her lips trembled.

  “Yes,” said Catherine. “I’m afraid so.”

  Lady Carroway sat bolt upright. “Gel!” she all but shouted to Dot. “Ring for the butler.” She nodded toward the bell pull in the corner.

  Setting her teacup on the table, Dot got up and pulled the bell pull. The butler entered almost immediately. Catherine suspected he had been lingering outside the door.

  “Simmons. His Lordship is working on his stamps, I believe. Tell him his presence is required most urgently.”

  Catherine shot a glance at Dot and said, “We did not mean to alarm you.”

  The lady folded her lips against her teeth and said nothing. In a few moments, they heard shuffling noises through the open door to the corridor. In walked what appeared to be a very old man. His jaundiced skin hung in heavy folds over his face, he dragged his feet, and his breaths were heavy rasps.

  Catherine and Dot leaped to their feet and held out their hands, introducing themselves.

  “My husband served as a major in the War. He lost a leg and was gassed,” his wife explained. “Now you can see that he couldn’t possibly have committed murder,” she said. “No matter how strong his motive.”

  “Murder?” repeated her spouse in a deep, chesty voice. He fell into a storm of hard coughs. “Who was murdered?” he gasped.

  “The Chenowith woman,” said his wife. “Now, gels, perhaps you will leave us in peace.”

  Lord Carroway stared at them, his face contorted in a mask of hate. “Persecuted my daughter,” he said. “Wouldn’t leave her be.”

  The bout of coughing overcame him, and he fell. The butler entered from the hallway and helped his lordship into a chair.

  Catherine was completely tongue-tied. Dot took her arm and said, “We’ll leave you in peace. We’re desperately sorry. For everything.”

  Horrified by what she had seen and heard, Catherine allowed Dot to lead her away from the pathos. It was with difficulty that she left the castle, however. She felt as though she ought to do something, say something.

  “Those poor people,” she said finally, once the front door shut behind them. “Those poor, poor people. I’ve never seen anyone who was gassed in the war.”

  “Most of them didn’t live long,” said Dot. “I’ll bet you anything you like their daughter is the world to them.”

  “Still, it was very queer.”

  “Very.”

  As they sped away, Catherine said, “Why do you suppose Lady Carroway immediately jumped to the conclusion t
hat we were there to get his alibi?”

  “Well, we were,” said Dot.

  “But we’re not the police!”

  “Do you suppose . . . I mean . . . What if murdering Agatha Chenowith is something he has threatened to do? Often? Maybe he sent her the death threats! And, what did he mean about persecution? What has happened to their daughter?”

  “Perhaps,” said Dot, “She’s mentally unhinged.”

  “Perhaps she killed Dr. Chenowith,” said Catherine.

  They sped down through the plane trees toward the village. “Pub,” they both said at once.

  The diamond-paned windows of the Horse and Dragon where they had dined earlier showed a full complement of locals laughing and settling in for an evening of relaxation before the workweek began the next day. Dot and Catherine walked in, squeezed between the patrons, and ordered—Catherine a lemon squash, and Dot a pint of lager.

  They sat on stools at the bar and listened to the conversation around them. Catherine was still recovering from the scene at the castle, while Dot, more outgoing than she was, struck up a conversation with a woman on the stool beside her.

  Ever direct, Dot said, “We were just up at the castle. I haven’t been called ‘gel’ since my granny died.”

  “Oh? And what would you be doing up there?” asked the large woman next to her. Catherine noticed she was dressed in a printed jersey, no doubt her Sunday best.

  “We’re looking for our friend, Lady Rachel Warren.”

  “No joy, I suppose,” said the woman.

  “Nope,” said Dot with a sigh. “Wouldn’t even talk about her.”

  “Not surprised. Barmy, she is.”

  Catherine joined the conversation, “Really, truly? We were at school with her.”

  “Hmm,” said the woman. She drained her beer. “Everyone knows she’s barmy.” With that, she slid off her stool and said, “Hope you find her if that what’s you want.”

  They weren’t able to make much more headway, though they stayed another hour at the pub. Apparently, it was well-known that Lady Rachel was “barmy,” but no one had the least idea where she was. Some speculated that she lived, unseen, at a room in the castle, but the servants never spoke of her. Others had it that she was a “loon” kept somewhere in a bin for crazy people.