An Oxford Murder Read online

  As Catherine and Dot were both tired, they decided to stop overnight at the pub in the room available upstairs. After they brushed their teeth and lay in the big, cushy four-poster merriment was still proceeding full strength below.

  Catherine said, “I think another talk with the dean is in order. Maybe she knows where Lady Rachel is.”

  “Good idea. Now, shut off your head, Cat. I need to sleep,” said Dot.

  Chapter Eight

  The following day, Catherine and Dot pulled into Oxford around noon and decided to have lunch at a tiny restaurant near the college. The rain was coming down in sheets when they ran inside.

  Both women ordered the vegetable soup and sticky buns.

  “I think we should split up the inquiries,” said Dot. “I’ll run Anne to earth and see what she has to say.”

  “I think I’ll have another go at the dean and then see Dr. Sargent. I also need to find out what’s new on the Christopher Waddell investigation.”

  “Who?”

  “The man I caught in Margery’s room. The St. John’s don who disappeared. All of which means I have to call Dr. Harry, unfortunately. I could do without speaking to him.”

  “Why? I’ve always found him charming. Too charming sometimes, actually,” said Dot.

  Catherine ignored this observation. “Actually, from him I learned that the dean was a bit late to The Mitre. She and Margery both arrived late. Everyone else came in one of the two cabs. Maybe Anne knows something about that. I seem to recall she and the dean were sitting at the same table.”

  “And maybe the dean knows where Lady Rachel is,” Dot said.

  “Let’s write down our questions before we get muddled,” Catherine suggested.

  They both dug in their handbags for the little appointment diaries they carried. In the back of them was a place for notes.

  * * *

  The dean offered to see Catherine that afternoon at three o’clock. Dr. Sargent was in her office, so Catherine was able to meet with her at once. She entered to find her tutor in the midst of boxing up her many books.

  “Hello, Tregowyn! I’m packing up my life, as you see.”

  “May I help?” asked Catherine.

  “It would be a great help, actually, if you would unfold those boxes in the corner and tape the bottoms shut for me. I am trying to be efficient and have this done by the end of the week. I’m going on holiday next Monday, you see.”

  “Ah! I envy you,” said Catherine. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m making my first trip to the South of France. I’m going to do nothing but lie in the sun and read.”

  “Sounds heavenly. Especially when we’re in the middle of a deluge outside.”

  “I understand they’re looking for Dr. Waddell in connection with the murder,” Dr. Sargent said.

  Catherine was startled. “However did you hear that?”

  “Word travels fast around Oxford. It’s the scouts, I think. Whatever do they want with poor, inoffensive Christopher Waddell?”

  “I caught him in Margery’s room, and he posed as a policeman. That’s against the law, apparently, but not anything so major that he should flee Oxford! Apparently, he took everything but his books.”

  “Whatever would he want in Margery’s room? How very peculiar!”

  “I have a theory that he was trying to plant some false evidence against her. She is the only one the police have found with a motive for the murder. You know—the business with her would-be publisher and Dr. Chenowith’s review.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, Ackerman’s no murderer. You and I both know that,” said Dr. Sargent roundly. She was a tall woman with jowls which quivered when she was indignant.

  “I don’t believe so, either,” said Catherine. “I know the whole business with her poetry was upsetting to her, and her husband only added to the problem with his lawsuits, but that wasn’t her doing. It quite embarrassed Margery, I think.”

  “Yes. Sir Herbert is a bit of a loose cannon. But he’s on her side, which is heartening.”

  “Yes. He does seem besotted with her,” Catherine said.

  Her tutor looked up from her work and into Catherine’s eyes as though she were going to say something, but evidently thinking the better of it, she went back to packing books.

  For a moment, they worked in silence. Catherine got the last of the boxes built and began taping. “I met Lady Rachel Warren’s parents yesterday,” she said in what she hoped was a casual tone.

  “Ah . . . the earl and his wife. How on earth did you meet them? They never leave their castle.”

  “Dot and I went in search of them, actually. We heard about their animus against Dr. Chenowith. I thought it might be interesting, in light of the murder, to hear their side of the story.”

  “You thought that poor man strangled Agatha? Why I don’t think the earl capable of breaking open his egg for breakfast! So ghastly, what happened to him in the War; I pray there will never be another one like that,” Dr. Sargent closed her box with a violence that suggested she was closing the conversational topic as well.

  But Catherine pressed on, “It was very disturbing. Lady Carroway insisted that we understand there was no way her husband was physically capable of committing the murder. And that before we even hinted that they might be involved. She actually said he couldn’t have murdered her, ‘no matter how strong his motive.’”

  “How very odd!” exclaimed Dr. Sargent. “She just popped out with that out of nowhere?”

  “Yes. It made me think. I heard that Dr. Chenowith received threatening letters. Do you suppose one of the Carroways sent them?”

  “I have always suspected them, as a matter of fact,” said Catherine’s tutor. “The notes began during the dust-up over their daughter. I know Lord Carroway was feeling quite impotent over the situation, and I fancy those are the kind of people that send such things.”

  Catherine taped a box with careful precision. She asked, “Any idea what became of Lady Rachel?”

  Her tutor sighed. “You are certainly very inquisitive.”

  Catherine tried a grin. “I’m a suspect. Haven’t you heard? Dr. Bascombe and I discovered Dr. Chenowith’s remains. I’m trying to clear my name.”

  “That policeman must have shredded tissue paper for brains.”

  “Lady Rachel?”

  Dr. Sargent became brisk. “All I know is that they were bound to commit her somewhere. She had a bit of a breakdown. I believe her to be by the sea.”

  “And we live on an island, so that is no help, whatsoever,” mumbled Catherine as her tutor turned her back and went to collect more books.

  “What are you going to do in your retirement?” Catherine asked.

  “I’m not really retiring, just refocusing. I’m going to start a day school for girls.”

  “How lovely. Where are you going to do this?”

  “In Devon. I’ve always loved it there. My family used to take our holidays there when I was a girl. But I don’t think I could live without teaching. So that is what I’m going to do.”

  “I hope you’ll keep in touch,” said Catherine. “Remember I’m from Cornwall. I holiday in the West Country, as well. I could pop in to see you on my journeys home.”

  “That would be famous. I’m certain I’ll be ready for a little adult company.”

  With the further winding down of the conversation, Catherine helped her mentor pack up the remaining books and then took her leave in order to keep her appointment with the dean.

  * * *

  “You visited the earl? Miss Tregowyn! Have you any idea the trouble we have gone to here at Somerville to resolve that more than difficult situation?” Catherine could have sworn she saw the dean’s hairpins shoot out of the coronet on her head as she bristled. “If this interference is an example of what your investigation is going to cause
, I demand that you cease it at once!”

  Catherine stood her ground under the force of the dean’s wrath. “I am almost positive they were responsible for the threats Dr. Chenowith received. Dr. Sargent agrees with me.”

  “Sarah Sargent always was indiscreet! What else did the woman tell you?”

  Surprised at the venom in the dean’s tone, she carried on, “She has no idea of Lady Rachel’s whereabouts. Do you?”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t tell you. The girl is nothing but an embarrassment to our sex and the college.”

  “Because she broke down under persecution by a professor who was supposed to be her mentor?”

  “Persecution?” cried the dean.

  “That’s what the earl called it.”

  “He’s a weak, disillusioned man,” the dean fairly spat.

  “He was all but gutted by the War, fighting for his country. I don’t call that weak,” said Catherine. She had never once suspected the dean’s venomous disposition. She dug in her heels. “The police will want to know where Lady Rachel is. They are fixing their minds on our Margery. You know she is innocent, and I suspect you also know why she was the object of Dr. Chenowith’s wrath.” She added the last bit off the top of her head, realizing as she said it that it was probably true.

  The dean’s eyes narrowed, “You think you are so wise, Miss Tregowyn, but your present course will only lead to disaster for this college.”

  “A murder of one of our dons committed by one of our alumni is not a disaster?”

  “I tell you once again. You will cease this investigation!”

  “Dean, I am suspected as well. As a woman and a scholar, I will not sit by and allow me or one of my friends to be arrested for this crime. Unlike you, I believe that finding the truth is in the best interests of my alma mater.”

  With these words, she left the office of her former dean, determined to discover what had tipped the woman over the edge.

  Chapter Nine

  Catherine tried to control her shaking hands as she mounted the stairs to her room in the dormitory. She hoped the dean did not remember that she had given her permission to stay here. Once in her room, she boiled water on her gas ring and made a cup of tea to steady her nerves. Never had she heard or known the dean was such a termagant.

  For the first time, she wondered about Dr. Sargent’s retirement. She was still comparatively young. Did it have something to do with the dean? And what about the strange look Dr. Sargent had cast her way when they were talking about Dr. Chenowith? Was there some dirt there, too? Seeing as how the woman was murdered, there must have been plenty of dirt somewhere. Was it over the Lady Rachel situation? How was she ever to know if she could not find the young woman?

  Catherine sipped her tea and ruminated as she looked through her window out over the quad. There was little to see. Thunder grumbled in the distance. What drama she had stumbled onto? Things were clearly amiss here in the deceptively gentle world of Oxford.

  Soon Dot came in, along with Anne. The Jean Harlow lookalike did not seem the least like a scholar. Catherine was glad to see them.

  “You managed to stay dry, I see,” she said.

  They held up their umbrellas. “But it is beastly soggy out there. I’m cold,” said Dot. “What are you drinking?”

  “Tea. I’ll make you some,” said Catherine. “You must be missing your twins,” she said to the blonde. “Has anyone heard when the inquest is to be?”

  “Thursday, they told me,” said Anne. “And yes, I am missing my children frightfully. They are too young to speak on the telephone, more’s the pity.” She seated herself at Catherine’s vanity stool. “Dot tells me you’re looking into the murder.”

  Catherine set the kettle to boil on her gas ring. “Yes, much to the dean’s chagrin. She’s quite upset with me, at the moment.”

  “Chenowith wasn’t liked much; I can tell you that much,” Anne said. “And, of course, she’s been beastly to Margery.”

  “I’m getting the feeling that she wasn’t popular,” said Catherine. “Do you know any particulars?”

  “She was always sticking her nose in. And, quite frankly, she was dishonest. I know that’s a horrid thing to say, but, to my sorrow, I have proof.”

  “Anything you’d care to tell me about?” Catherine poured boiling water into her teapot over the tea ball and left it to steep for a moment.

  “Only if you promise not to construe it as a motive. I’m not guilty, I swear,” said Anne.

  “Do tell!” said Dot, who was reclining against the pillows on Catherine’s bed.

  “You know that my father died last year?” asked Anne.

  “No, I didn’t,” said Dot. “I’m sorry. He was a prof at Merton College, right?”

  “I didn’t know either,” said Catherine. “I am sorry, too. But I remember meeting him in the dining hall one night. You brought him for dinner, right? He taught Greats.”

  “Yes. And he had the most divine collection of first editions. After his death, my brother and I were a bit strapped for cash to pay the death duties. We culled his collection and saw that he had some duplicates. There were two Tale of Two Cities and Vanity Fairs. We consulted Sotheby’s informally and learned that if they were in mint condition, which they were, they would be worth a tidy sum. Enough to pay death duties and have something put away for the twins.”

  “Go on,” said Dot.

  “Dr. Chenowith was one of their 19th Century experts on valuation. She learned at her father’s knee apparently and was much respected. She gave it as her opinion that the Dickens was only worth a fraction of what we were expecting because it was part of a rogue second printing that had been fraudulently labeled ‘first edition.’ She claimed that that particular press did that with Dickens often to bring in more money.

  “Sotheby’s was forced to disclose this ‘fact’ at auction and sold it at a fraction of its worth to a man whom, upon investigation by yours truly, turned out to be an agent for Agatha Chenowith. It now sits on her bookshelf as part of her private collection of First Editions.”

  “That’s dreadful!” exclaimed Dot and Catherine together.

  Anne’s hand was shaking with remembered anger, and thinking of the tea, Catherine poured out and handed the women their cups. “Yes. It was rather shattering.”

  “The picture emerging of the good Dr. Chenowith is surprising,” said Catherine. “And she’s not the only one.” She told her two friends about her conversation with the dean. “It was all very Jekyll and Hyde.”

  Both women appeared stunned. “The dean threatened you?” said Dot.

  “Definitely. And now I’m wondering about her. You sat at her table, didn’t you, Anne?” asked Catherine.

  “I did.”

  “She wasn’t in either cab. Was she late getting to the dinner?”

  “Yes. And a little breathless,” Anne said. “She apologized but didn’t offer any excuse.”

  “Hmm,” Catherine replied. “Well, I think we need to put her up there with Christopher Waddell and Lady Rachel as suspects. I refuse to include Margery.”

  Anne was clearly puzzled. “Who are Christopher Waddell and Lady Rachel?”

  Dot explained while Catherine looked absently out the window again. When their friend was brought up to date, she said, “I’m going to ring Dr. Harry. He might have heard something further about Waddell. I can’t imagine what motive he would have for doing away with Chenowith, but what in the world was he doing up here if he wasn’t involved?”

  “Oh,” said Anne. “Dreamy Dr. Harry!”

  “Down, girl,” said Dot. “You’re a married woman.”

  * * *

  Dr. Harry suggested they meet at The Bird and Baby for drinks. She agreed and proceeded to make herself presentable. At least the rain had stopped. While she had been on the telephone down the hall, Anne and Dot had left
her room, so she changed out of her frock and donned her white linen suit. If only she had known she would be staying, she could have packed more clothes. Fortunately, Jennie had pressed the garments for her.

  The scout came to the door while she was dressing, and Catherine invited her in.

  “I tried to get into Dr. Chenowith’s room today to search around like, but the police have put sealing tape on the door,” Jennie said.

  “I was sure they would have,” said Catherine. “At least until the inquest is over. They have probably found everything that is to be found there.”

  “Per’aps they didn’t look under the mattress. You’d be surprised at how many people in this college hides things under the mattresses.”

  “Good thinking, Jennie! Do you do for the dean?”

  “Not me, miss. That be Mary’s job.”

  “Well, never mind. I’m off for drinks with Dr. Bascombe. Mind you don’t get into trouble because of me.”

  The scout just grinned.

  Chapter Ten

  Dr. Harry awaited her in an inglenook of the pub. “I ordered you a lemon squash. You don’t like beer, do you?”

  “Not much,” she admitted as she slid onto the bench opposite him. “Thank you. What have you been up to while I’ve been out of town?”

  “Out of town?” He grinned, and she found herself wishing he weren’t such a heartthrob. It got in the way of her thinking.

  “To wildest Bucks.” She told him about her visit with the earl and his wife. “I would love to be able to question their daughter. She has a good motive, and she’s ‘barmy,’ according to the locals.”

  “Hmm. Interesting. Any ideas on how to find her?”

  “I’ve asked Dr. Sargent and come up blank. When I asked the dean, however, it turned into Guy Fawkes’ Night.”

  “Huh. More to that poor girl’s problem with Chenowith, do you think?”

  “I’m realizing the victim was not lily pure. My friend, Anne, the blonde, you remember, took some additional swipes at her person.” She related the story of the first editions.