An Oxford Anomaly

by Norman Russell

  ‘Maybe he did that because he’s clever enough to know that the police would find out in the end, anyway,’ said Maxwell. ‘Covering his tracks before he’d made them, in a manner of speaking.’

  ‘That could be so. We need to find out who it was that he was visiting that night. We could ask him outright, but I’d prefer us to ask a few questions in Hadleigh. Oakshott would only tell us what he’d want us to hear; others might be more forthcoming. When we judge the time’s right, you’d better go out there to Hadleigh, and make some discreet enquiries.’

  Antrobus took a packet of cigarettes and a box of vestas from his pocket. Maxwell watched him as he lit up, and inhaled the smoke. He coughed and wheezed for nearly a minute, and then sat back in his chair. The guvnor swore by his Richmond ‘Gem’ cigarettes. His doctor had told him that they would help to clear the air passages.

  ‘Those two men, Oakshott and Sanders,’ said Antrobus, when he had recovered from his coughing fit, ‘knew each other since childhood, and were linked together further by that old tragedy – the barbaric murder of a young woman called Vivien West. They were both in love with her. Who knows what festering resentments may have come to the surface this summer, culminating in murder?’

  ‘Do you already suspect this Oakshott of murdering Sanders, sir?’

  ‘Well, it’s more than possible, isn’t it? Two members of a little coterie of friends, murdered by having their throats cut, two murders, Sergeant, separated by nearly twenty-five years, but with the same modus operandi. We need to go back into the past, and look anew at the story of Vivien West, the murdered girl. Part of our investigation is going to take us away from Oxford for a time. But not just yet. First thing Monday morning, we’ll go to the city mortuary. Dr Armitage will perform a post mortem on poor Sanders late tonight. On Monday, we’ll find out what secrets the dead man – and his clothes – have to reveal.’

  The Oxford City Mortuary was situated in a little street called Floyd’s Row, in the Oxford suburb of St Ebbe’s. The two detectives mounted the steps of the grey stone building, and pulled the bell; they could hear the jingling response from somewhere inside. In a few moments the door was unlocked by an attendant, and they entered the cold, silent mortuary. As they did so, a tall, fair-haired young man wearing a long white laboratory coat came out into the vestibule. To Antrobus he looked tremendously vital, tall and strong, a force for life in the house of the dead.

  ‘Inspector Antrobus? And Sergeant Maxwell? Dr Armitage, the Chief Anatomist, is away from Oxford this week. I’m Dr Hugh Grossmith, from the Radcliffe, and I have the results of Saturday night’s autopsy on the late unfortunate Michael Sanders.’

  Grossmith ushered them into a chilly office, containing little more than a table, a filing cabinet and a number of Windsor chairs, and motioned to them to sit down.

  ‘Michael Sanders, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘died as the result of his throat having been cut, thus severing the jugular vein. The fatal cut was made by someone standing behind him, using considerable force. The nature of the wound indicates that a very sharp knife had been used.’

  ‘Would the assailant have been a strong man, Doctor?’

  ‘He would be a man with powerful arms, I should think, Inspector – powerful arms and nerves of steel. I won’t play the detective with you, but I’d say there would be little blood on his clothes, as he attacked his victim from behind. The dead man’s heart and lungs were in good condition, with no signs of tubercular lesions in the latter. His liver was badly pervaded by yellow atrophy. At some time, long in the past, he had suffered a broken wrist.’

  The young doctor expected to be asked a question, but was startled by its nature when Antrobus spoke.

  ‘Are you a rugby man, Dr Grossmith?’ he asked. ‘The game, you know, not the school.’

  ‘Yes, Inspector. I played prop forward in the Varsity match in ’79. And I still turn out for local teams. Were you a rugby man in your youth?’

  Antrobus managed to suppress a smile. To this young man, no doubt, he seemed very old.

  ‘I was only ever one of the seven backs, as you’ll no doubt appreciate, Doctor,’ he said. ‘I was too slight for the forward line. But I was a good straight runner. I played until I was sixteen, when ill health took me off the field.’

  Sergeant Maxwell smoothed his moustache and picked up his bowler hat from the table. He made a great business of clearing his throat.

  ‘Mr Antrobus likes to reminisce, Doctor, when the occasion offers,’ he said. ‘But at present I’m sure he’d want to examine the late Mr Sanders’s effects, by which we mean his clothes and suchlike.’

  He glanced briefly at his superior officer, and saw him mouth the words, ‘Thank you.’ The guvnor bore his afflictions well, but there were some things that he deeply regretted having to give up. Rugby had been one of those things.

  Dr Grossmith rang a bell, and the attendant appeared. With Sergeant Maxwell at his side, he preceded Antrobus and the doctor into the vestibule.

  ‘Inspector,’ the doctor whispered, ‘I can see that you have consumption of the lungs, and suspect that you have fallen into a confirmed phthisis. Was that why you asked me about rugby? I expect you could see from my physique that I probably played the game.’

  ‘That was very perceptive of you, sir. Yes, I suddenly felt envious of your youth and health, and recalled how the delights of the rugby field were suddenly denied me. I contracted typhoid fever, which was said to have weakened my heart. It was very unprofessional of me to ask you those questions. My sergeant, in his own blunt way, warned me to be quiet, and get on with the task in hand. I hope you’ll forgive me.’

  ‘I will, Inspector. And you’re entitled, I think, to feel that kind of envy. One day, a cure will be found, but not, I fear, until some time very far in the future. I must leave you now. Goodbye, Inspector. Try to get out into the fresh air as much as possible.’

  The attendant showed them into a windowless room, its un-plastered walls painted with lime wash. A heap of clothes lay on a trestle table. The attendant lit a gas-jet fixed by a bracket to one of the walls, and left the room.

  There was a set of clean but heavily darned underwear, and a decent shirt with buttoned cuffs; its matching stiff collar, and the two studs needed to fix it to the shirt had been placed beside it. The trousers yielded a handkerchief, and 3/11d in loose silver and copper.

  ‘This jacket’s got the label of an Oxford tailor, Walters & Co., stitched in it, sir,’ said Maxwell. ‘It’s bursting at the seams, and poor Mr Sanders had hidden some of the tears with ink, but it must have been quite costly when new. There’s nothing in the main pockets, but – ah! – here’s the return half of a train ticket. It’s an open third class ticket from Birmingham New Street.’

  ‘Birmingham – well, that doesn’t surprise me,’ said Antrobus. ‘I think we’ll find that poor Sanders had lodgings there, as well as in Hadleigh. I expect that he’d lived in lodgings in different towns and villages for years. But he came originally from Henning St Mary, the place where that poor young girl had her throat cut in ’72. It’s a point worth remembering. Henning St Mary… . I must go there, Joe, and ask some pertinent questions. Two murders. Two throats cut. Surely there must be a connection?’

  ‘There’s something sewn into the lining here, sir,’ said Maxwell. He ripped the silk lining away from the cloth, and removed an old, stained envelope. It bore a penny stamp, and was franked as coming from Henning St Mary, via Hereford, 1 Oct 1885. Maxwell handed it to the inspector, who removed a single sheet of stained and much-folded paper. It was a brief letter, headed ‘2, The Cottages, Henning’, and written in a spidery hand, the ink faded to a dull brown.

  Dear Michael (it ran)

  I never knew anything for certain, and it’s years ago now. But a lot of folk knew that he was very much in love with Vivien, and jealousy can lead to terrible things. Amy is still convinced that he did it, but can produce no evidence of any kind for her belief. We will never know the truth of it. It was
Caleb Williams who said he’d spoken to someone who’d actually seen Jeremy do the deed, but Caleb was a demon of a man, bitter, and thinking that the whole world owed him a living. So if you want to take up with Jeremy again, do so, because all these rumours are just talk. No one will ever know for certain who killed poor Vivien West.

  Your old friend,

  Alison Savernake.

  ‘More names,’ said Antrobus. ‘I want you to go out to Hadleigh tomorrow, Joe, and find out what Oakshott did while he was there. Try the Bull first – no one there will have seen you, as neither of us wandered very far from the Tenches’ house when we went there to view the body last Friday. Oakshott may be entirely innocent – I hope he is, because he seems a very pleasant kind of man. But he may be one of those people who can act with great boldness and ruthless courage when they see themselves threatened. So find out what he did on Thursday night.’

  As they left the dreary lime-washed room they were accosted by young Dr Grossmith. He was holding a letter.

  ‘Inspector,’ he said, ‘I have written a full report on Michael Sanders, and you have now examined his effects. Will it be in order to release the body? I have a letter here from a friend of Sanders, offering to arrange for his burial. He further asks whether he can be given Sanders’s effects, as he was a close friend of the deceased since boyhood, and knows that he is entirely without relatives.’

  ‘I suppose this friend is Dr Jeremy Oakshott, of Jerusalem Hall? Well, you can certainly release the body, and entrust poor Sanders’s things to Oakshott. There was a sum of £10 in half-sovereigns. That should be held by one of the coroner’s officers until after the inquest.’

  ‘When will that take place, Inspector? I have a very busy schedule—’

  ‘It will be a quick affair, Doctor, open and closed on the same day. Its purpose is to announce publicly the cause of death, and the inevitable verdict in this case: murder by a person or persons unknown. You may be called to state your findings, but it’s more than likely that your written account will be sufficient.’

  The landlord of the Bull public house in Hadleigh placed a tankard of mild in front of the sole occupant of the bar. It was mid-morning, and all the men were out at work. At first, he’d thought that this stranger was a debt collector, or if not that, then some kind of Methodist preacher. He was dressed entirely in black, and had placed his black bowler hat on the trestle table at which he was sitting. A nervy sort of man, for ever sucking at his moustache. But preachers didn’t down a pint of mild as this chap did.

  ‘I heard in town that there’d been a dreadful murder here last Friday,’ said Sergeant Maxwell. ‘A poor old beggar-man, wasn’t it? Stabbed to death in a lodging house. It’s a hot day today, landlord. Why don’t you draw yourself a glass of something, on me?’

  The landlord relaxed, and viewed his customer with a smile. Whoever he was, he wasn’t going to demand a glance at his books, or preach him a sermon.

  ‘Well, that’s very kind of you, mister. I’ll have a glass of bitter. Yes, we had an awful murder here last Friday, but it wasn’t a tramp. He was a commercial traveller, and he’d come in here most nights, and most mornings, too, for a drink of something. Spirits, mostly. He was all patched and darned, but you could see he’d been a gentleman, once.’

  ‘A drunk, was he?’

  ‘Oh, no, not a drunk. He was too old a hand at drinking to be that. He’d always walk out steady, no matter how much he’d had. It was a crying shame. He spoke well, you know, and he’d come out with bits of poetry and foreign words, but there was no side on him. Mr Sanders, his name was.’

  ‘Sanders? Was it Michael Sanders? Well, dear me, isn’t that sad? That’s why I’m here today, landlord. That Mr Sanders had friends in Oxford, and one of them in particular wondered whether his friend from former days was the man who’d been murdered. He gave me his name, and asked me to find out for certain. And he was stabbed to death?’

  ‘No, his throat was cut, in the garden of Joe Tench’s boarding house. Terrible, it was. It was Doris Tench that found him dead on his bed on Friday morning.’

  So that’s what he is, thought the landlord. He’s one of those college servants, or scouts, as they call them.

  ‘Yes,’ said Maxwell, ‘this friend of his is a Dr Oakshott, who’s a Fellow of Jerusalem Hall. He told me that he was actually here, in Hadleigh, on the night of the murder. As you can imagine, he’s very upset.’

  ‘Oakshott? Oh yes, he’s quite well known here, mister. And he was a friend of poor Mr Sanders? Well, what a coincidence! Dr Oakshott came here last Thursday evening. He’d posted me a note to meet him with the trap at Forest Halt, which I did.’

  ‘And he stayed here, did he?’

  ‘Well, no, not here, at the Bull. He had his valise with him, and I carried it for him as we walked across the village to Hob’s Lane. He was staying the night with Dr and Mrs McArthur. As you know Dr Oakshott yourself, you’ll realize what those three folk have in common!’

  When Sergeant Maxwell arrived at Dr McArthur’s house in Hob’s Lane, he showed the maid his warrant card, and told her to take him directly to her master. The time for anonymity had passed. He was shown into a pleasant sitting-room, furnished in the light, simple style that Mr Antrobus had told him was called art nouveau – English was no longer good enough to describe new fashions. The room opened out on to a veranda, where Dr and Mrs McArthur were sitting at a cast-iron table, drinking coffee, and reading what appeared to be the London newspapers.

  ‘Sergeant Maxwell?’ said Dr McArthur, rising from his chair. ‘What can we do for you? Constable Roberts told me about your investigation at Mr Tench’s house, and was kind enough to give me the gist of Inspector Antrobus’s conclusions.’

  A pleasant, friendly man in his forties, thought Maxwell. And his wife must have been a real beauty in her younger days. They seemed to be undisturbed by the presence of a policeman in their house. But appearances could be deceptive.

  ‘Dr McArthur,’ said Maxwell, ‘did you know that the late unfortunate Michael Sanders and your good self had a mutual friend? I refer to Dr Jeremy Oakshott—’

  ‘Jeremy? Well, you do surprise me. Did you know that, Mary? Sit down here with us, Sergeant. How very odd… . The three of us have been friends for a number of years, but Jeremy – Dr Oakshott – never mentioned this Michael Sanders. I saw him lying dead, you know. PC Roberts called me in as soon as he saw the body, and I gave a provisional description of the cause of death.’

  ‘Not that there was much doubt, Sergeant,’ said Mary McArthur. ‘The poor man’s throat was cut from ear to ear.’ She smiled knowingly at Maxwell. ‘And I suppose you’ve come here to find out whether Jeremy had an alibi – that’s the word you policemen use, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, ma’am, you’re quite right, so I’ve no need to beat about the bush. Dr Oakshott arrived here in Hadleigh on Thursday evening, and was brought over here by the landlord of the Bull. The landlord told me that you three had some kind of connection. He didn’t tell me what it was, and I never asked him.’

  Maxwell had allowed his words to be coloured by a faint belligerence. Mrs McArthur’s smile had been unforced and without malice; but there was nothing amusing about murder.

  ‘My wife and I, Sergeant,’ said Dr McArthur, ‘are fiendishly attached to the game of whist. We are both gold medallists of the Oxford County Whist League. Dr Jeremy Oakshott is the leading whist player in the county. He comes here to dine and sleep every two months or so, and we play far into the night. Sometimes, he’ll stay for a few days with his uncle at Hazelmere Castle, which is only a mile from here, and on those occasions we invite other players from the villages round about to join us for a private contest.’

  ‘And Dr Oakshott never left this house during the period spanning the evening of Thursday, 6 September, and the morning of Friday, the seventh?’

  ‘He did not. George Standish – the landlord of the Bull – brought him here, and here he stayed. We dined early, and set up the tab
les at seven o’clock, when we started play. We played until after one o’clock—’

  ‘Are you quite sure of that time, Doctor? After one o’clock?’

  ‘Yes, in fact, it was nearer half past. I remember looking at that little carriage-clock on the mantelpiece, and remarking that we’d been known to go on as late as two.’

  Maxwell had been writing in a notebook for the last few minutes. He wrote very swiftly, and McArthur saw that he was recording the interview in shorthand.

  ‘Sir,’ said Maxwell, putting down his pencil, ‘it takes four to play whist. Who was the fourth player?’

  ‘It was the vicar, the Reverend Matthew Parkinson. He, too, is a bridge fiend! When he left, the house was locked up, and we all retired to bed. The maid who answered the door to you lives out.’

  ‘When did Dr Oakshott leave?’

  ‘I called him at six – it was too early for our maid to have arrived. My wife brought him a jug of hot water, so that he could wash and shave. He came downstairs at seven, drank a cup of tea and ate a couple of biscuits, and left. George Standish was already waiting outside with the trap, to take him to Forest Halt.’

  Dr McArthur stood up, indicating that the interview was over.

  ‘So there you are, Sergeant Maxwell,’ he said. ‘I can account for Dr Oakshott’s entire stay here. When the house is locked up for the night, I place the keys on my bedside table. Of course, you did quite right to seek for an alibi, but Jeremy Oakshott is a kindly, gentle man, who would hurt no one. In your search for the assassin of Michael Sanders, you must look elsewhere.’

  5

  Miss Probert’s Testimony

  James Antrobus arrived at the Herefordshire village of Henning St Mary at mid-morning. Wednesday had proved to be one of those quiet, sunny, late summer days when few people seemed to be about. Henning was a town of mellow redbrick houses dating from the previous century, some with stuccoed fronts and classical porticoes.