An Oxford Murder Page 8
“You’re right. The woman is emerging as what they call an unsavory character.” He sipped his beer. “Her behavior towards Lady Margery and Lady Rachel seems not only ill-natured but full-on bullying. And the episode with your friend Anne is downright criminal. Can Somerville have been harboring a sociopath?”
“I think that’s taking it a bit far. But she certainly was not all she seemed.”
“Perhaps her position as an admired member of the intelligentsia went to her head, and she believed she was entitled to being above the laws of ordinary decent behavior.”
“It could be, I suppose. I am bracing myself to face her contemporaries in Bloomsbury. I don’t suppose you’d care to go with me?”
“That would be jolly good fun! This murder must have shocked them down to their socks.”
“You’re not going to be all sour grapes about them, are you?”
He laughed. “I knew Lytton Strachey, and he liked my work well enough. I really don’t feel inferior, my dear.”
“Still, the review from Dr. Chenowith rankles.”
“It does, I’ll admit. Whatever else she was, Agatha Chenowith was a scathing critic.” He settled back into his bench, beer glass empty.
“I guess we need to remember people aren’t all good or all bad,” said Catherine. Leaning forward, she asked, “What can you tell me about Christopher Waddell?”
“I’ve been looking into his life, as you can imagine. He taught classes exploring the connection between myths and legends and the creation of nations. Was of the belief that the Church plunged civilization into the Dark Ages.”
“That’s not an unusual position,” she remarked. “I don’t suppose you’ll join me in having a pork pie?”
“That sounds a remarkably good idea. I’ll force myself through that madhouse up to the bar and order them.”
When he returned, pies in hand, she dug into hers. Vegetable soup seemed hours ago. “So, the professor is a Marxist, I presume?”
“Actually, not. It seems that he’s a fascist, or at least has fascist leanings.”
“According to. .?”
Dr. Harry said, “His colleagues in the department who are Marxists, I admit.”
“So, he’s not part of a conspiracy or anything,” prodded Catherine.
“Well, something was going on in his life. Apparently, he had become secretive and temperamental. Given to making rash statements about the injustice of the Versailles treaty, and the praiseworthy rise of a strong leader in Germany. He was not in favor of the Labor Government.”
Catherine felt as though she had awakened Through the Looking Glass. Now they were dealing with fascists? “How very strange. What could such a person want in Margery’s bedroom?”
“I think your idea that he was planting something was right. He wanted her to take the fall for the murder. Maybe he’s rabidly anti-aristocracy or something. She’s not Jewish, is she?”
“I have no idea. Why do you ask?”
“That’s one thing I’m sure of. Waddell is anti-Semitic.”
“It seems like he’s anti-everyone.”
“A little paranoid, certainly,” agreed the professor. “But more to the point, what connection could such a person have to Agatha Chenowith?”
“You mean why would he murder her?”
“Right.”
“I have no idea. She wasn’t political that I ever heard. Her whole life was poetry and literature.”
“Maybe there was a personal connection. He wasn’t married.”
“Now, that’s an idea. She was pretty anti-man, but maybe he was the one to break through that. He wasn’t bad looking. Just a bit overweight,” Catherine mused.
“Or maybe he was a fan of hers. Maybe his attentions weren’t welcome. You know strangling is one of the crimes of passion.”
“Yes. Waddell could have detained Chenowith on her way to the dinner, declared himself, met with a rebuff, and attacked.” She sighed. “Oh, this is all too ridiculous.” She took another bite of her pie. It was delicious.
“Equally ridiculous—maybe he was acting on behalf of poor Lady Rachel . . . ”
“Yes. That may seem ridiculous, but it seems more probable than a crime passionel.”
He finished up his pork pie. “Well, all I have to say is thank heavens we finally agree on something.”
“Yes. Christopher Waddell shall remain an enigma.”
“I had slightly more luck with Dr. Wesley Williams,”
“Oh, yes?”
“Well, not in terms of the crime, which he had no reason to commit that I can see, but I did find out something rather interesting.” He began fiddling with his pipe. “While remaining with Balliol and giving the odd lecture now and again, he is actually something hush-hush with the government.”
Catherine laughed. “But don’t you see? Now we must face the possibility that Chenowith was assassinated!”
“By headscarf,” he said, keeping a straight face.
“Her poems were actually some sort of code,” added Catherine.
“She was secretly working to overthrow the government,” Dr. Harry said.
“There must be hallucinogens in this pie,” Catherine concluded.
“Then there’s Dr. Anthony Stephenson . . .”
“Oh, heavens!” Catherine exclaimed.
“What is it?”
“He sent me an advance readers copy to read. He’s publishing some poetry and wants a review. I keep forgetting I must get to it.”
Dr. Harry got his pipe going. “Well, in any event, the man is clean. Exactly who and what he says he is.”
“He restores my faith in Oxford, then. It’s been a trying couple of days.”
“I think you need a walk in the fresh air,” Dr. Harry said.
They made their way out of the pub to find that it had started raining again. Dr. Harry had brought an umbrella, fortunately.
“Let’s walk back to Somerville if you don’t mind. You can come in to visit in the Senior Commons Room until the rain stops, at least.”
There was an enforced intimacy about sharing an umbrella with someone. Dr. Harry held the umbrella over them with his right hand, and his left went gently around her waist. His hand on the small of her back caused a tingle there. How ridiculously susceptible she was!
She began to ramble about her encounter with the dean and how shocked she had been.
Dr. Harry said, “My guess is that Dr. Andrews has to contend with rather a lot of prejudice from otherwise all-male Oxford. She is probably exceptionally sensitive to any scandal.”
“But I tell you, she was practically rabid. It was though someone flipped a switch and she saw me as the enemy. We have always been on such cordial terms.”
“You have been a great asset to Somerville, though I hate to admit it. I can see why you would be puzzled. But the dean is highly regarded also,” said Dr. Harry.
“How far would she go to keep the college’s name sacrosanct?” asked Catherine. “I am inclined to put her under the list of suspects. Perhaps Chenowith had committed some sin more than usually unpardonable. Maybe she was part of something truly scandalous that we know nothing about.”
“I see we’re back to the assassination theory.”
“If you had seen and heard her, I think you would find my suspicions valid,” she insisted.
“I will take it under advisement,” he promised.
When they reached Somerville, he greeted Hobbs, the porter, but declined her invitation to join her in the Senior Commons Room.
“I have plans for the rest of the evening. Another time I would find it delightful,” he said.
He left her in the quad outside the door to the hall, cheeks burning in embarrassment.
Every time I begin to see him as human, he goes and says something that restores my dislike! He c
ould have simply said, “No, thank you.” Instead, he has to humiliate me.
* * *
Catherine determined that she would spend her evening reading Dr. Stephenson’s poetry manuscript. Making herself a cup of Ovaltine from the provided supplies, she settled at her desk.
Two more days until Rafe gets home. He will expect me to meet his ship. And when I don’t, he won’t find me in London, either. Perhaps I’d better drop a line to his flat.
Using the college stationery she found in the desk, Catherine dated her note and then paused, trying to decide what to say. Finally, she began:
Dear Rafe,
I’m sorry I wasn’t there to meet your ship! I have been detained at Somerville College in very mysterious circumstances indeed! I am investigating a murder. Of course, I am a suspect. As yet, I haven’t been arrested, just under suspicion. Dot and I are staying in the dorms. Will be here at least until Thursday when the coroner’s inquest is scheduled.
If you’re at loose ends, you might come up.
Dying to see you, of course.
Cat
Addressing the envelope, she found a stamp in the drawer, left by some kind student, and propped the letter on the mantel for Jennie to drop in the post. Then, putting Rafe and all the complications he brought to her life out of her mind, she turned to Professor Stephenson’s manuscript.
To her surprise, the poetry turned out to be Victorian in flavor. The words flowed and were the tiniest bit reminiscent of Tennyson. The meter was very predictable.
Was it her imagination, or had she read this before? Not only did it feel predictable but vaguely familiar. Of course, her mind was a mish-mash of Victorian poetry, having taken her degree in the subject. But after she had read halfway through the manuscript, she began to suspect that Dr. Stephenson wasn’t original.
Her mind kept going back to the mass of papers she had received from Edith Penwyth’s daughter. The poems by her lover that she referred to only as ‘S.’ Most of Penwyth’s poems Catherine had used in the biography she wrote or edited into a new book of her poetry.
Now she recalled the visit she had made to Edith Penwyth’s daughter four years ago, and the thrill it had been to see the unpublished poetry in the poet’s own handwriting. There had also been a journal, covered in water-stained pink silk. In it, she had recounted her steamy love affair with an amateur poet. His poetry had made an impression. There had been reams of it. Catherine had mentioned him in her book, of course. Surely, they had a copy of her book at the college library. She had included just one of his sonnets, as it was an answer to one of Penwyth’s.
It was full dark now and raining, but outside her window, she could see the lights of the library beckoning. She was tired of sitting. After standing up and stretching, she realized she had no torch. Perhaps Dot did.
However, when she knocked on the door to Dot’s room, her friend did not answer.
“Oh, well,” she said aloud. “I know my way well enough.”
Dressing in warmer clothes, which included a scandalous pair of flannel trousers, she pulled on a jumper and took her umbrella with her. At the last minute, she grabbed Rafe’s letter. She could post it outside the library. As she descended the stairs and went out into the quad, she began to think she was slightly addled to be going after her own book at the library when it was coming down in sheets.
She had to cross the quad and hoped no one was watching as she stepped on the sodden grass. It was strictly forbidden to do so, but she wasn’t about to go around the long way in this weather. Catherine shivered.
When she reached the door of the library, she scuttled inside, closed down her umbrella, and shook it. Who would be working here out of term time on a Monday evening?
She came upon a small group of older women sitting in a semi-circle listening to Dr. Harry, of all people. Standing just out of sight behind a bookcase, she listened to him do a reading of his poetry. So, this was his engagement. He was presenting to a book club.
Not wanting to be caught listening to him, she retraced her steps and went up the back staircase to the biography section. There she found her book shelved neatly in the Ps. Opening it on the spot, she paged to the part about Penwyth’s lover. There was the sonnet.
I do not seek for Arthur, no
Nor broken chancel far below.
The greatest knights, the grandest kings
Once marched where now the waxwing sings.
Their hoofbeats echoed in the hills
On paths o’ergrown with daffodils.
The verdant green of England’s breast
Obscures the humble and the blest.
Her golden sun and gentle rain
Wash down upon the ancient plain
And wipe away the transient fears
Of distant drums of yesteryears.
Yes! I thought that sounded familiar. I wonder how much Dr. Stephenson plagiarized. I have heaps of these sonnets at home.
She needed to borrow this book. As a graduate, she still had privileges at the library. Taking the back stairs again, she went down to the ground floor. There was a sleepy young woman behind the check-out desk. Just as she was signing for the book, she heard the chatter of female voices. Dr. Harry’s reading must be concluded.
She scurried out the door, back into the rain. With all the witnesses emerging from the library, she dared not walk across the wet grass this time. Instead, she followed them around the paved walkway that skirted the quad towards her dormitory. The ladies branched off at the porter’s lodge, and she walked on a few steps.
Out of nowhere, before she could do much more than registering the presence of another person, she was coshed on the head and fell to the ground.
* * *
She awoke to someone pulling her eyelid open and shining a light into her eye. She was most awfully cold.
Where am I? What’s happened?
Catherine was lying on a rather hard bed, covered by nothing more than a stiff, white sheet. The person peering into her eye was a man.
“Ah, you have come to yourself!” he said heartily. “That was a very nasty hit you took. I’m afraid you have a concussion. I’m Dr. Ryan.”
Her teeth began to chatter. “I’m freezing.”
“You’re in shock.” A nurse materialized with a stack of folded blankets she tucked around Catherine.
Another person came into view. Dr. Harry. In her vulnerability, she was conscious of the urge to curl away from him, but her limbs were too heavy.
He spoke. “What’ve you been getting up to that’s caused someone to try to kill you? You were hit with a cricket bat! Did they tell you I found it at the scene?”
Her head hurt so badly Catherine couldn’t think.
“I found you on the walkway near the porter’s lodge,” Dr. Harry told her.
Moaning a bit, she tried to sit.
“No,” Dr. Ryan said. “You stay down. You’re in the Radcliffe Infirmary. You must stay down. I’m afraid if you get up too soon, you’ll lose consciousness again. We need to keep you awake. We don’t want you slipping into a coma.”
“May I?” Dr. Harry asked the doctor as he brought a straight-backed chair to her bedside.
“Yes. Anything that’ll keep her awake.”
“The police are coming. They want to question her now that she’s conscious.” He looked into Catherine’s eyes. Worry clouded his. “I’m afraid this was attempted murder, darling.”
The “darling” glanced off her. She heard it but, in her pain, discounted it.
“Just stay with her,” Dr. Ryan said. “Call me if there’s any change.”
To her, he said, “We can’t give you anything for the pain, just yet. It might cause you to lapse into a coma. Bear with it as best you can.”
It’s all very well for him. He hasn’t got sixteen hammers beating in his head.
She managed to ask him the time.
“Quarter to one. You were out for a while. We didn’t know if you were going to regain consciousness. You gave me quite a scare,” Dr. Harry said.
She wouldn’t have Dot awakened at this hour. When was it when she left the library? Who had done this to her? Why?
“Edith Penwyth,” she murmured.
“Who?” asked Dr. Harry.
“Penwyth’s lover.”
“Darling, you’re not making sense. That happened in another century.”
She was too tired to explain. Closing her eyes, she turned her head away.
“You must try to stay awake. Where were you going at nine o’clock at night?”
“Library,” she said.
“Why?”
“Copy of my Penwyth book.”
Conversing sapped her of what little vitality she had.
“Ah,” he said. “Well here is Detective Chief Inspector Marsh, come to question you. Do you want me to raise the bed just a bit?”
“No,” she said.
The handsome detective looked down at her from his great height. “Getting ourselves in trouble now, are we?” he asked heartily.
She grinned feebly. “Not canoodling.”
“Then who have you been harassing?” he asked.
“Everyone,” she said. “Dr. Harry knows.”
She realized her mistake in referring to Bascombe this way but cared little. Everything took second place to the pain she was trying to endure.
The professor told the policeman about her interviews at Carroway Castle and her disagreement with the dean. “Neither of those would appear to account for the attack. The earl and his wife are old and ill. And I can’t see Dean Andrews wielding a cricket bat. There must be ramifications to her questions that we don’t realize. Serious ramifications, apparently. To someone who is deathly afraid.”
“You found her, I take it,” said the policeman.
“Yes. I was just coming out of the library, where I had given a reading. I don’t know the names of all the ladies who attended, but the library will have a list. It was the Monday Night Reading Group.”