‘Hmm… . What do you think of that letter, Sergeant, and the cheque for £100?’
Sergeant Maxwell held the letter close to his eyes, and mumbled to himself, as though he was quietly reading it aloud. Then he threw it down on the table.
‘It looks as though it’s in reply to a cadging letter from the late Sanders, sir, tapping an old friend for money. He certainly chose the right friend. A hundred pounds!’
‘Jerusalem Hall… . I’ve heard the name, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen it. Do you know it?’
‘Yes, sir, it’s a tumble-down sort of place in that maze of lanes behind New College. It’s near the Archangel public house, where I occasionally partake of a glass of their special porter.’
‘You’re a positive cornucopia of information, Joe. We’ll have to pay a visit to this Jeremy Oakshott in the very near future. I’ve searched this room, and so far, I’ve found some clothes, all neatly darned and folded, a pipe, that cheque, and that letter. Now, here’s a little leather satchel – it was in the bottom drawer of the dresser. I haven’t opened it yet. Let’s see what’s in it.’
Antrobus removed two books from the satchel. One was a copy of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, bound in cracked and stained vellum. It was well thumbed, and there were pencilled annotations in some of the margins.
‘Ah!’ said Antrobus. ‘Ovid! This book takes me back to my schooldays. Oh yes, look: Omnia mutantur, nihil interit. What do you think of that?’
‘I think, sir, that as well as being a sponger, our Mr Sanders was also a learned man. A scholar and a gentleman, as you might say, despite that fact that he was as poor as a church mouse. Mr Tench said he drank too much.’
Sergeant Maxwell’s face suddenly flushed with vexation. He eyed his superior with something approaching malevolence.
‘Sir,’ he said, his voice growing louder as he spoke, ‘I’ve temporarily forgotten what that bit of Latin that you quoted meant. Would you oblige me by refreshing my memory?’
Inspector Antrobus laughed. Sergeant Maxwell didn’t approve of his occasional shows of learning. When he quoted bits of poetry, or some Latin, Maxwell evidently thought that he was aiming above his station.
‘Of course, Joe,’ he said. ‘It means, “Everything changes, nothing perishes”. Now, let’s see what this second book can tell us about its owner.’
It was a copy of The Book of Common Prayer, bound in white goatskin, and with little brass clasps to hold it closed. Antrobus opened it, and saw that the end-papers had been inscribed very elegantly in copperplate script.
Vivien West, Priory House, Henning St Mary, near Hereford. May, 1872.
A betrothal gift from Jeremy.
Sergeant Maxwell was standing at the window, commenting on the arrival of the mortuary van from Oxford, but Antrobus scarcely heard him. For some reason, the prayer book was beginning to exert a disturbing influence on him. Jeremy… . Was that Jeremy Oakshott, the benefactor of Michael Sanders, lying dead in Robinson’s barn? And was Vivien West Sanders’s wife? If so, she must be traced. But it was early days yet.
A stiff card of some sort had been inserted some way into the book. When Antrobus turned to the place that it was marking, he saw that it was the marriage service. The opening page, and the page preceding it, were splashed with blood, long dried to a sullen brown. Splashed? Or sprayed? Had the bride had a sudden nose bleed as the service commenced? Even as he framed the thought, he dismissed it. It was too banal, too like an excuse for not contemplating more disturbing possibilities. He began to experience a kind of depression, in which the very light seemed to fade from the room. The Form of Solemnization of Matrimony… . But this wedding, he felt convinced, had never taken place.
He examined the book mark. It was printed in black on a white card, and showed a veiled woman kneeling at the base of a grave-monument, upon which was written the single word RESURGAM – I will arise. There were things here crying out for interpretation. He looked through the remaining pages, noting that many sections of text had been underlined in pencil.
Why had Michael Sanders brought this book with him on his journey as a commercial traveller? The book of Ovid’s poetry was evidently an old favourite, brought along to pass some idle moments when they offered themselves. But the prayer book was surely a precious relic, something very personal and private. Had he brought it with him to show to the man called Oakshott, who had sent him a cheque for £100? The man called simply Jeremy in Vivien West’s inscription?
Antrobus suddenly began to cough, a harsh, hacking convulsion, accompanied by stertorous breathing. Maxwell turned to look at him, and then resumed his watch at the window, whistling what sounded like The British Grenadiers. Joe always behaved like that when he had one of his coughing fits. He brought out his handkerchief and delicately wiped his lips. When he put it back in his pocket, it was stained with fresh blood.
He had suffered from consumption of the lungs for over five years, and had dutifully submitted himself to the various treatments available. He had endured spells in hospital, lying in beds on open balconies. He had received intensive courses of the creosote treatment, and injections of tuberculin. His left lung was virtually useless, and he had been told that one day it would have to be removed. Well, life had to go on. He took a small paper sachet from his pocket. A pulmonic wafer always gave him relief.
‘Sergeant,’ he said, ‘I think our investigation lies elsewhere. If anything of significance happens here, Constable Roberts will keep us informed. On the way back to town, I’ll tell you about this old prayer book, and some of the things that I found in it. And tomorrow, if all goes well, we’ll pay a call on Mr Jeremy Oakshott, of Jerusalem Hall.’
Inspector Antrobus and Sergeant Maxwell arrived at Jerusalem Hall just after nine o’clock on the Saturday morning. The porter in the lodge, who told them that his name was Tonson, informed them that Dr Oakshott was closeted with the Rector, and would not be available until ten. Would they care to see some of the college buildings while they waited?
They were shown the college hall, a rather gloomy chamber smelling of stale food. Its panelled walls were hung with faded old portraits, and there were three gothic windows dark with stained glass blazons of ancient benefactors. The long tables held lines of battered candle sticks containing unlit guttered candles. It was so dim that they could not quite make out the ceiling, but Tonson informed them that it was constructed of open beams. The whole place reminded Antrobus of the fanciful illustrations by George Cruikshank in Dickens’s early novels.
‘We’re rather out of the way here, Mr Antrobus,’ Tonson said, ‘and I’m told that there’s not much money in the college coffers. It’s by way of falling down, is Jerusalem Hall. Very sad, really. Now let me show you the chapel.’
The chapel was lighter than the hall, and contained some very fine carved stalls. It had evidently escaped the wholesale restorations that had taken place elsewhere in the mid-years of the century. The altar was a Jacobean table covered with a carpet in the old style. Like the rest of the college, the chapel was lit by candles.
‘It’s not much of a place, is it?’ said Maxwell loudly, clutching his black bowler hat to his chest, and looking round the chapel with distaste.
‘Well, no, Sergeant,’ said Tonson, ‘you could never compare it with our grand neighbour, New College. There’s some that rather unkindly refer to us as New College’s Coal-hole. Not very nice, really.’
‘Joe,’ whispered Antrobus, ‘when this Dr Oakshott finally appears, go back to the lodge with Tonson, and find out all you can about him. Oakshott, I mean, not Tonson. You know the kind of thing. When we’re done here, we’ll adjourn to that public house you mentioned – the Archangel – and compare notes over a glass of something reviving.’
As they emerged from the chapel, a man in academic dress appeared from the entrance to one of the staircases.
‘Here he is, gentlemen,’ said Tonson. ‘Dr Oakshott, sir, you have two visitors. From the police.’
‘Insp
ector, I’m devastated. Shocked beyond words. Poor Sanders! Was it robbery? If so, these villains will get nothing. Michael Sanders had no money and few possessions. You say he was murdered. How – how was it done?’
‘His throat was cut, Dr Oakshott—’
‘What?’
Jeremy Oakshott had sprung up from his chair behind the cluttered desk of his study. To Antrobus, it was as though the man had suffered a physical blow. His shock seemed natural enough, but then, some of the deepest-dyed villains could bring tears to your eyes with their tales of woe.
‘His throat was cut? Just like … Have you found out who did it?’
‘Dr Oakshott,’ said Antrobus, ‘just now you began to make a comparison between the manner of Mr Sanders’s death, and something else, which you didn’t specify. “Just like”, you said. Just like what, sir?’
‘Did I say that? I can’t recall what I could have meant.’
Antrobus let the matter drop. He delved into one of the pockets in his greatcoat, and brought out the bloodstained prayer book. He saw the other man’s eyes widen with something like fear.
‘Dear God! Is that … is that Vivien’s prayer book? Where did you get it? Of course, poor Michael Sanders must have had it with him. I expect he took it with him everywhere. Poor man! Poor fool! Oh God! May I see it?’
His hands trembled as he opened the book, and Antrobus saw him mouth the words of the inscription silently. Tears welled up unbidden in his eyes. He opened the book at the cardboard marker, and turned as white as marble when he saw the dried bloodstains. Antrobus waited in silence. In a few moments’ time, this man would be compelled to speak.
Oakshott closed the book, and pushed it across the desk to Antrobus.
Jeremy Oakshott sighed deeply, and sat back in his chair. He seemed to have regained his equanimity, and the inspector saw that he was composing himself to tell a story. The man was too intelligent to pretend that the prayer book – and its history – were unknown to him.
‘Inspector,’ said Oakshott, ‘there is a deep and terrible mystery here, and I must not make it any more obscure by keeping silent. I cannot begin to imagine why anyone should have wanted to harm Michael Sanders… . He was a poor, friendless man, with a very sad history.’
For a while Oakshott remained silent, evidently reliving the past. Then he spoke again.
‘There were three of us, Mr Antrobus, three friends from childhood, and we all lived with our respective families in a little town called Henning St Mary, near Hereford. My father was headmaster of the grammar school there, and we were quite comfortably off – he had a small annuity of £30 from a family trust. Michael – Michael Sanders – was the only child of Mr Bertram Sanders, Assistant Vice-Chancellor of the Diocese of Hereford. And Vivien… .
‘She was a beautiful, vivacious girl, Mr Antrobus, the daughter of a local landowner, and we three were true friends. Michael and I were sent to Uppingham School, in Rutland. Michael and I both loved her, and continued as friendly rivals for her affection until 1870, when she was eighteen. It was then that she declared her love for Michael. He was a very handsome, charming young man, you know, in those days. Her parents raised no objection to their betrothal, and their wedding was planned to take place in Hereford Cathedral on 20 May, 1872. She and I were just twenty, Michael a couple of years older. I was to be the best man.’
‘You have a very good memory, sir.’
‘I am a professional scholar, Mr Antrobus, accustomed to committing many facts to memory. But every day and date in that year is etched on my memory. Those memories usually lie dormant, but now, as you will realize, they have come into the forefront of my recollection.
‘On the Friday before the wedding, Vivien was sitting in the garden of her family’s house, a pleasant villa in a place called Ford’s Lane. It was a lovely sunny day, and she had arranged herself in a basket chair, placed in a grassy arbour at the rear of the garden. I had given her that prayer book as a present at the time of her engagement, and she was to carry it with her to the altar on her wedding day. She had taken it with her into the garden, to read over the marriage service. When she was found—’
Oakshott suddenly broke off, and hid his face in his hands. Antrobus waited. It was over a minute before he resumed his story.
‘When she was found, Inspector, she was sitting dead in the chair, with her throat cut from behind. The prayer book, still open, was stained with her blood. It was Michael who discovered her body. There was, of course, a full police investigation, but no culprit was ever found. The years passed, and Michael and I went our separate ways. I studied for a while in London, and then came here. I have been here ever since.
‘Michael never recovered from losing his fiancée. He took to drink, and fell into the opium habit. His late father placed him as a clerk in a number of legal establishments, but he was always dismissed for poor time-keeping and drunkenness. Eventually, he found work as a commercial traveller, and it was in that capacity that he approached me only days ago, ostensibly to chat about old times, but really, I knew, to apply to me for help. And there it is. I am shocked and saddened by poor Sanders’s murder, and I trust that you will do your utmost to bring the killer to justice.’
4
Mr Tonson Remembers
‘This lodge is a snug little place, Mr Tonson,’ said Sergeant Maxwell. ‘A man can be king of his castle in here.’
‘True enough, Sergeant. I see everyone that comes and goes. Not that there’s much going on out of term time. Mind you, it’s not a place I’d like to live in. Its foundations are weak, and they’re always saying that it’ll fall down one of these days, so I’m glad that I live out. Mrs Tonson and me have a nice little cottage in Waynefleet Lane, just a stone’s throw away.’
The porter’s lodge was very small, but an ingenious use of shelves and cupboards allowed it to hold rows of box files, ledgers, sand buckets, storm lanterns, and a long letter rack, divided into pigeonholes. A sort of glazed hatch could be opened into the gatehouse vestibule when visitors wanted to make enquiries. Fixed to the wall facing the hatch was an electric telephone.
‘Looking at you, Mr Tonson,’ said Sergeant Maxwell, ‘I can see that you’re an observant man, the kind of man we’d like to have in the detective police. Now, here’s a question for you. Did you happen to see a visitor who came here last Tuesday morning? He came to see Dr Oakshott.’
‘Oh yes, I remember him. He came through here, and asked me how to get to Dr Oakshott’s rooms. He wanted to show me a letter, to vouch for who he was, but I said that wouldn’t be necessary. A Mr Sanders. He came by appointment. A polite gentleman, he was, well-spoken, though I think he’d fallen on bad times. He was smart enough, but a bit threadbare, if you know what I mean. He was wearing a frock coat with a felt hat. It set me wondering whether he couldn’t afford a topper, which would have been the correct thing to wear. Sitting here, by this hatch, you come to be an observer of people and their little ways.’
‘Did he bring anything with him? A case, perhaps?’
‘No, he just came by himself.’
‘How long did he stay?’
‘About an hour, I think. But see here, Sergeant, what’s all this about? Why are you asking me all these questions?’ There was an edge of truculence in the normally equable porter’s voice.
‘Well, the fact is, Mr Tonson, that this Mr Sanders has just been murdered – yes, terrible, isn’t it? Somebody cut his throat. The inspector’s come today to ask Dr Oakshott if he noticed anything unusual about Mr Sanders when they had their meeting, and to tell us something of his history. At the moment, of course, we don’t know anything about him.’
‘Murdered! Well, you do surprise me, Sergeant. He didn’t look at all like a man who was going to be murdered. When did it happen?’
‘Friday night, in the early hours.’ The time had come to try a little cunning. This Mr Tonson seemed a nice chap, but he wasn’t among the brightest of God’s creatures.
‘It makes you thankful, M
r Tonson,’ he said, ‘that your Mr Oakshott came back safely, seeing as there was a killer at large. The murder took place at Hadleigh, about five miles from here. Somebody told us that he’d been out in those very parts on Thursday or Friday.’
It was nothing more than a wild surmise, but it achieved its purpose.
‘Dear me, is that so? Mr Oakshott did go out to visit somebody at Hadleigh. He went up Thursday night, and came back Friday morning, about eleven. Yes, he could have been murdered, too!’
Maxwell saw Inspector Antrobus emerging from an arched doorway into the quadrangle. Evidently his interview with Dr Oakshott was over.
‘I’ve enjoyed this little chat with you, Mr Tonson,’ he said. ‘Here’s my guvnor now. I’ll tell him what you said about Dr Oakshott going out to Hadleigh last Thursday, though, now I come to think of it, he’s probably told him already.’
‘Yes,’ said Tonson, opening the lodge door. ‘It was Thursday, the sixth. “Oh, Tonson,” he said to me that morning, “I’m going out to Hadleigh this evening, and will be staying the night. I’ll be back Friday morning.” He’s very courteous in that way, you know. He lets you know his whereabouts, in case he’s needed. Not that he ever is, but it’s a kind thought. He’s a kind man altogether.’
Inspector Antrobus and Sergeant Maxwell sat at a well-scrubbed wooden table in the deserted back bar of the Archangel, an ancient hostelry not far from Jerusalem Hall.
They had each drunk a pint of Morrell’s best bitter. Antrobus had given his sergeant a full account of his interview with Jeremy Oakshott. In return, Maxwell had told him about his conversation with the porter.
‘So Oakshott was actually in Hadleigh at the time of the murder,’ said Antrobus, ‘which puts him immediately under suspicion. And yet he quite openly told the porter that he was going there. A man contemplating committing murder at Hadleigh wouldn’t have done that.’
An Oxford Anomaly Page 4