The Late Scholar

by Jill Paton Walsh

  ‘Tell them to pay for the work, or I will withdraw permission to hunt over my land,’ said Peter.

  ‘Very well, Your Grace,’ said the agent, and then cleared his throat and said, ‘They as much as told me, Your Grace, that you would not do that, because you yourself ride to hounds. They said in your brother’s day he would have made good the damage or had one of his farmers do it.’

  ‘Times have changed,’ said Peter. ‘I’m getting too old to hunt.’

  ‘Perhaps Master Bredon?’ the agent said.

  ‘I gather he thinks hunting is cruel,’ said Peter. ‘We won’t be held to ransom over this.’

  After the land-agent, Peter’s sister-in-law, the Dowager Duchess Helen, arrived with a series of complaints about the management of the stretch of the park between the Dower House and the Hall, which she could see from her windows. The grass had not been cut, and wild flowers were appearing. Peter explained that he was making economies – but she would be welcome to have the grass cut herself if she wished. Helen pleaded poverty, and Peter suggested sheep.

  All this brought it home to Peter that being the Visitor for St Severin’s was by no means the most boring or burdensome of his duties in life, and he resolved to be back in Oxford the next day as promptly as he could.

  He dined quietly with his mother, listening to her rattling on about the old days, and complaining about Helen’s behaviour. ‘The moment you and Harriet aren’t here to keep her at bay, she comes over and begins to order the servants about as if they were her own, and asking if the family jewels are safely locked up, and that sort of thing.’

  It was a pity, Peter thought, that Helen’s tenure of the Dower House was not subject to a charter of some kind.

  His mother went early to bed these days, and Peter rang Harriet to bid her goodnight.

  She said she was lonely in the college rooms by herself.

  ‘Lonely from Oxford is becoming as familiar as Indignant from Tunbridge Wells,’ he said. ‘But cheer up, Domina, I’ll be with you tomorrow early.’

  ‘Oh, not too early, Peter,’ she implored him. ‘Don’t drive too fast!’

  Chapter 10

  Peter probably did drive much too fast. He arrived mid-morning, just as Bunter was bringing coffee to Harriet, and in self-defence he pleaded that he had left very early; before breakfast, in fact. A life-saving infusion of coffee would be just the ticket. Bunter, who should have known better, produced not only coffee, but a late breakfast of bacon and eggs, and Peter could not well decline it without breaking his cover-story. He saw the exchange of glances between his wife and his man, and defiantly consumed his second breakfast and demanded more. How he was then to manage lunch remained to be seen.

  Mid-morning breakfast offered a good opportunity to confer. Gently Harriet persuaded Bunter to sit down and join in. She feared losing the easy-going informality between the three of them that the war had imposed, and returning to a way of life that now seemed not only grandiose, but preposterously dated. Bunter, reluctant but courteous to his backbone, usually complied if the discussion was professional, as it clearly was on this occasion.

  Peter explained the result of Cousin Matthew’s burrowing through the college charters.

  ‘But 1945 isn’t so long ago!’ said Harriet. ‘Could selling the Boethius already have been under discussion?’

  ‘It might have been,’ said Peter. ‘Although as far as I know the sell-the-manuscript row is recent, having been triggered by the offer of the land. Perhaps somebody foresaw it? To be honest, Harriet, I think that simply knowing that the college finances were ropey might have made the fellows or the Warden drop that clause – just in case they had to sell something.’

  ‘What else did they, do they, have to sell?’ asked Harriet.

  ‘There is a playing field,’ said Bunter, ‘at Marston.’

  ‘Good grief!’ said Peter. ‘What would the college cricketers say to that? Or the rugger men?’

  ‘Is this a particularly sporting college?’ asked Harriet.

  ‘Quite a few undergraduates read law,’ said Peter.

  ‘So?’ said Harriet, lost.

  ‘Well, when they wanted to tighten up the law exams,’ Peter told her, ‘someone said, “What will the rowing men read now?”’

  ‘I think you make some of this up, Peter,’ said Harriet. ‘Whoever heard of oarsmen needing a playing field?’

  ‘Let’s return to our sheep, then,’ said Peter.

  ‘I have some sheep of my own,’ said Harriet, producing her notes on the TLS review. ‘The blackest literary sheep I have ever had the displeasure of reading.’

  Peter and Bunter read the notes in silence, passing the pages between them.

  ‘I’m amazed that the TLS published this,’ said Peter. ‘It’s actionable.’

  ‘Reviewing, however harshly, counts as fair comment,’ Harriet said.

  ‘Yes – but this goes beyond commenting on the book and comments on the possible motives of the writer. I’m amazed they let it pass.’

  ‘Even Homer nods,’ said Bunter.

  ‘I have heard that this particular Homer is often on his travels,’ said Harriet. ‘His staff hold the fort for him. And all the reviews are anonymous in the TLS.’

  ‘I should think it’s much easier to mount attacks on people if the piece is unattributed,’ said Peter. ‘One would think twice about what one said if the words stood above one’s signature.’

  ‘That’s the whole point, I think,’ said Harriet. ‘That it enables comment without fear or favour.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, the fact is that we need to know who wrote this vitriolic attack.’

  ‘Good luck to you,’ said Harriet. ‘I have known lots of authors desperate to find out who to thank or who to hate, or to whom to give a nasty review in return. The TLS is incorruptible.’

  ‘Let’s put that to the test, shall we?’ said Peter.

  ‘Who tries – you or me?’

  ‘You try first, Harriet,’ said Peter. ‘Keep me in reserve; I have a card up my sleeve.’

  Harriet went to the phone to mount her attack.

  In her absence Peter asked Bunter if he had any thoughts on the situation.

  ‘Well, my lord,’ said Bunter, ‘I have spent some time, as you realise, these last few days in the company of Miss Manciple. I have had the opportunity of observing her while we are jointly employed on cooking your meals. It is my opinion that she is not entirely consumed with anxiety and grief for the absent Warden.’

  ‘Really? You do surprise me, Bunter. She put on a jolly good show when she talked to us.’

  ‘Show might be the word for it, my lord. She has told me a good deal about her young life on the London stage as an actress, and her continuing interest in amateur dramatics.’

  ‘Does she arouse suspicion in any other ways?’ Peter asked.

  ‘She has sent several parcels,’ said Bunter.

  ‘My dear chap,’ said Peter, ‘long association with me has made you unreasonably suspicious. She might have an impoverished aunt, or a needy nephew, or a charitable disposition. There are people still sending food parcels to Poland.’

  ‘Yes, my lord, but Miss Manciple’s parcels are never addressed. They are in her shopping basket, ready to be taken to the post, with no address as yet written on the brown paper wrapping.’

  ‘That is certainly odd,’ said Peter. ‘Has she just mislaid her address book?’

  ‘The parcels are duly taken and posted,’ said Bunter, ‘and that itself is odd, my lord. There is a cubbyhole in the porters’ lodge in which one can put items for the post, and the porters attend to them. A trip to the post office is not strictly necessary at all.’

  At that point Harriet returned to the room. ‘No luck,’ she said. ‘I didn’t expect it, as you know, but it’s a stone wall. They put me through to the editor himself, and he’s perfectly charming, but of course he won’t budge. It’s the paper’s set policy, and always has been.’

  ‘Right,’ said Peter. ‘Now it
’s my turn.’

  ‘What makes you think he will tell you what he won’t tell me?’ asked Harriet, somewhat miffed. After all, the TLS was in her territory.

  ‘Oh well,’ said Peter, blushing slightly, ‘the editor’s name is familiar. I was at school with him.’

  Off he went to the phone. Harriet and Bunter could hear his familiar light and bantering tone, and then various darker tonalities in what he was saying, but could not make out the exact words. Indeed, the knee-jerk embarrassment at overhearing someone made them take cover from eavesdropping and begin to talk quietly to each other, mostly about Peter Bunter’s progress at school, and about Mrs Bunter’s new photography studio in Putney. Bunter said Hope would like to take photographs some time of various Oxford colleges whose alumni might like them as souvenirs.

  ‘I think many people buy copies of the Oxford Almanacks from the OUP shop in the High,’ said Harriet.

  ‘I understand some of those are now in short supply,’ said Bunter.

  ‘Please tell Hope she is very welcome to join us in this set of rooms while we are in occupation here,’ said Harriet. ‘It would be good to have her with us if she can spare the time.’

  Bunter said he would convey the invitation.

  Then Peter returned with a sheet of paper in his hands.

  ‘How did you get on?’ asked Harriet.

  ‘Modified rapture,’ said Peter, pulling a face. ‘He wouldn’t tell me what we want to know, even when I threatened him. Nicely, of course.’

  ‘What did you threaten him with, Peter?’ asked Harriet, astonished.

  ‘Well, perhaps warned would be a better word than threatened. I warned him that the police might want to know what he wouldn’t tell me, and that it is a criminal offence to obstruct the police. And he said that he would wait till the police asked him, and then consider whether to tell them or go to prison. I do have some trouble imagining him in prison, but we might really have to set Charles upon him.’

  ‘You don’t sound entirely frustrated, Peter,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Well, although he wouldn’t tell who wrote the review, he thought he could tell me something else. He didn’t realise that what he would divulge might be even more useful,’ said Peter. ‘He mentioned that there have been quite a few people asking just what I was asking; and he thought he could let me know who those people were. I made a list.’

  Peter pushed his notes across to Harriet.

  Mary Fowey had asked; so had Elaine Griffiths. So had Professors Lewis and Tolkien and Wren. Miss de Vine had asked. All these people ought to have known better. Well, anyone who asked the TLS to break the anonymity rule, including herself and Peter, ought to know better. There were four names from St Severin’s: Mr Enistead, Mr Vearing, Mr Oundle, Mr Gervase.

  ‘Why have you asterisked Vearing?’ asked Harriet.

  ‘He, I gather, rather more than just asked. He kicked up an enormous fuss, and threatened the paper with a suit for libel that would force them to disclose the perpetrator.’

  ‘Did the threat work?’

  ‘No. They held their ground and the fuss died down.’

  ‘Peter, does any of this get us anywhere?’ asked Harriet. ‘Or is it a massive red herring?’

  ‘Well, it’s another fuss about the manuscript,’ said Peter, ‘and it’s only five years ago. It might be to the point – we can’t tell till we find what the point actually is. And it does tell us that although a lot of people were angry, a group of the Anglo-Saxon warriors rode to arms defending their manuscript and their fellow scholar, yet the one who was particularly wrought up was Vearing. I suppose we might ask why?’

  Bunter cleared his throat. ‘I might be able to cast light on that question, my lord,’ he said.

  ‘Cast away,’ said Peter.

  ‘Well, it is a theme of the gossip among the college servants,’ said Bunter, ‘among whom I have inveigled myself as a colleague, that Mr Vearing is not the man he used to be. He was like a father to David Outlander, who was, I understand, a somewhat nervous and volatile young man. The servants assure me that the most brilliant of the college students are more or less mad, in their eyes at least. Mr Vearing intervened several times to defend young Outlander; for example he paid the university fines when Outlander broke the rules. What happened to Outlander broke his heart.’

  ‘What did happen to him, Bunter?’ asked Harriet. ‘We know he was damaged by that review, and has left the college . . .’

  ‘He left the world, my lady,’ said Bunter. ‘He hanged himself.’

  ‘God help us!’ said Harriet. ‘Oh, how shocking, how sad!’

  ‘Mr Vearing’s own son was killed in the war,’ said Bunter. ‘And his wife, too. Their house was bombed. When he came out of the army he moved back into college and became a sort of uncle-at-need to some of the undergraduates and the research fellows. Mr Thrupp told me that Mr Vearing had even befriended one or two of the servants, when a small loan could avoid a large problem. Thrupp says he always knew where to go when such help was required, if it was more than a whip-around among the servants themselves could settle. He says Outlander’s death was too much for Vearing. He has been rather odd since then.’

  ‘And now,’ said Peter quietly, ‘he is determined at all costs to stop the college selling the manuscript. And the manuscript is the only arbiter that could settle the question whether Outlander’s book is justified.’

  ‘Well, at least we can see the origin of some of the passion all this arouses,’ said Harriet. ‘Gervase said that the split in the fellowship about Outlander and the split about selling the MS is roughly the same.’

  ‘I don’t at all like the shape of what begins to emerge,’ said Peter.

  ‘Is there a clear shape yet, Peter?’ asked Harriet. ‘And what about the other side in the dispute? What is motivating them? Have they too got a grievance simmering away against the TLS?’

  ‘Well, on the face of it they don’t need a hidden motive,’ said Peter. ‘When short of money it’s entirely rational to sell a valuable asset. Dukes are selling off their Van Dykes all over the country to pay death duties. Is this different?’

  ‘And what about Enistead?’ asked Harriet. ‘Wasn’t he in favour of keeping the book? So did someone have an animus against him?’

  ‘Well, however suspicious we may feel about round knobs on banister rails,’ said Peter, ‘and accidental braining of self thereupon, the only undoubted murder is that of Oundle, and that happened in London and may have nothing whatever to do with matters in college.’

  ‘You don’t believe that, Peter.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ he said. ‘I don’t like coincidence any more than you do. But, Harriet, suppose it’s the wrong book?’

  ‘What do you mean, Peter? Which book?’

  ‘Twixt Wind and Water, perhaps.’

  ‘In which all the alibis,’ said Harriet, thinking aloud, ‘were rock solid, but turned out to be for the wrong time of death . . .’

  ‘Just thinking,’ said Peter. ‘Wind and Water was based on the case at Wilvercombe which we were both concerned in solving. In that case, the alibis had been carefully devised to cover the time of the murder; but the fact that when you found the body it was lying in a pool of fresh blood . . .’

  ‘. . . had us all racking our brains because the time of death had been mistaken, and we placed it at two o’clock, perhaps two hours later than it had really occurred. I don’t see how that would fit the present case. Am I missing something?’

  ‘At Wilvercombe,’ Peter said, ‘that preposterously horrible gang of homicides were wrong-footed by the mistake. They didn’t have alibis for the supposed time of death; only for the real time of death. Turn it round, Harriet and you’ll see what I mean.’

  ‘I don’t get it yet, Peter,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Well, the hapless victim in the Wilvercombe case,’ said Peter, ‘was a haemophiliac, and the murderer didn’t know that. But suppose someone was a haemophiliac, and you did know it. You would know that th
e time of death would appear much later than the actual time of death.’

  ‘But are you suggesting that the entire college was in a plot to murder Oundle? That they all organised an alibi . . .’

  ‘We’ll apply Ockham’s razor to that suggestion,’ said Peter. ‘That is to suppose more than is necessary. If Ambleside is right, then alibis for an ordinary morning in term don’t need organising; everyone would have one, and everyone would expect everyone else to have one. So suppose the murder took place at around seven thirty or eight in the morning. The murderer can be back in Oxford giving a lecture by ten easily, safe in the knowledge that nobody is going to ask him where he was at around eight.’

  ‘But he would need to know that Oundle was a haemophiliac. And for a start, Peter, do we know that?’

  ‘It’s a wild speculation, I admit,’ said Peter. ‘I shall ring Charles at once.’

  ‘Charles?’ Peter said down the line. ‘Could you get forensics to check if Oundle had haemophilia?’

  ‘And Charles said,’ Peter reported to Harriet when he put the phone down, ‘ “How in hell did you come up with that, Wimsey? I was about to tell you that . . .” ’

  ‘Which leaves us with an interesting question, doesn’t it?’ said Harriet. ‘Poor Alexis, you remember, had kept his haemophilia secret; it would affect his job prospects, and his marriage prospects too. Did Oundle do the same? Because if everybody knew about it, somebody might tell the police in the course of an interview, and the alibi for the time of death would be finessed. So the question now is, who knew? How do we find that out?’

  ‘I think we will start by asking them,’ said Peter. ‘I think it’s time I gave them a pep talk, don’t you?’

  In the Old Library then. Meeting in the Hall too public – all the undergraduates would be aware of something afoot. The Senior Common Room too small for everyone at once. The Old Library was now very little used and sometimes hired out for conferences or weddings. Harriet slipped in right at the back, and at the last minute, to listen inconspicuously.