An Oxford Anomaly

by Norman Russell

  He means it, thought Antrobus. He’s shown not the slightest trace of anger or indignation. How could I have been so incredibly wrong?

  ‘I have already begun to set up the Trust for you, Miss Cathcart,’ said Merryweather, ‘and it will be operative within the next fortnight. Deloitte will transfer all monetary deposits to Coutts and Company. All paper investments will be placed in the hands of one of their accredited brokers.’

  ‘Can you give us both an idea of the extent of our bequests?’ Jeremy asked.

  ‘Yes, indeed, Dr Oakshott. The house, and its contents, should yield you about £1,500. I scribbled a few figures last week, which is why I can give you that provisional sum. I expect you will want to demolish the house. The land, of course, is entailed to the De Boulter Estate.’

  Merryweather seemed very pleased to have furnished Jeremy with these figures.

  ‘As for your bequest, Miss Cathcart, I can say that the amount has proved to be far larger than was supposed. Mr Littlemore had made some spectacularly successful investments during the last three years. The sum involved amounts to £1,254,000.’

  The legatees rose from the table, and in doing so, Jeremy Oakshott caught sight of Inspector Antrobus in the back office. His face flushed with anger, and he strode across the room to confront him.

  ‘Antrobus! You came to spy on me, did you? And Merryweather connived in your sneaking attempt to discompose me. We’ll talk about that later, Merryweather. There are other solicitors in Oxford.’

  ‘Sir—’

  ‘You thought that I murdered my uncle in order to inherit his fortune. God knows what else you thought I had done. Well, let me show you this.’

  Jeremy Oakshott took a letter from the inner pocket of his frock coat and all but thrust it into the inspector’s hand.

  ‘Read it! And after you have done so, maybe you will set out to find my uncle’s killer.’

  It was a letter from Ambrose Littlemore to his nephew Jeremy Oakshott, dated 14 September, a week before he was murdered.

  My dear nephew,

  I want you to know that I have very recently written a new Will, duly witnessed, in which, as before, I leave you Hazelmere Castle and its contents. The bulk of my estate, which will now be something over £1,000,000, I have left in Trust to your Aunt Arabella. I know that you will acknowledge the justice of this bequest. She suffered much, because her mind was deranged. She is not the only member of our family to have been tainted with madness, but she has atoned for her crimes, condemned to incarceration, and rendered a cripple through the electric therapy that she endured.

  Think well of me, Jeremy. I will always hold you in regard, and follow your academic career with the greatest interest.

  Your affectionate uncle,

  Ambrose Littlemore.

  ‘I knew the terms of Uncle’s Will a week before he died. I received that letter the day after poor Michael Sanders was murdered. I had only slender expectations from my uncle, as his letter shows. Did you think I murdered him to inherit a sham castle that is worth only a few hundred pounds in real terms? I am prepared to forget your intolerable persecution if you will now set out to find who murdered Uncle, and who murdered my friend Michael Sanders. You have wasted valuable time.’

  ‘Sir,’ Antrobus stammered, ‘I am devastated. I can only apologize—’

  But Jeremy Oakshott had stormed out of the room.

  ‘Mr Merryweather,’ said Arabella Cathcart, ‘I should pay no attention to what my nephew said just now, if I were you. About changing solicitors, you know. He knows perfectly well that he can do nothing of the sort. We’ve been tied up with Merryweather since Farmer George’s time.

  ‘Now. I won’t pretend that this legacy has not come as a complete surprise, because it has. I have lived out of the world so long that I am not prepared for its shocks and surprises. Nevertheless, I strongly disapprove of what Ambrose has done. I can’t think whatever possessed him to leave Jeremy with nothing. Dear boy! You saw how pleased he was at my good fortune. It was Jeremy who fetched me away from Frampton House. He has been sorely tried of late.’

  ‘Yes, indeed he has. You saw how he rushed out of the room after he’d confronted Antrobus with his folly. He clattered downstairs and out into the Cornmarket as though all the devils in hell were at his heels! There is his hat, and there are his gloves. He’s quite forgotten about you, Miss Cathcart. If you like, I’ll walk you down to the Clarendon, and you can stay there until the silly fellow comes back.’

  ‘Mr Merryweather,’ said Arabella Cathcart, ‘I want you to draw up a Will for me. Setting aside all the mumbo-jumbo you lawyers use, I wish to leave everything unconditionally to Jeremy when I die. Can you do that?’

  ‘I will do it this very day, Miss Cathcart, and if you come in on Monday, which is the first of October, you can sign it, and my two clerks will witness it. I think you are doing the right thing. October! In a few days, the undergraduates will be flooding back, and the old city will change its character once more. We will hear the ringing of bicycle bells in all the streets, and there will be riotous uproar once again at night, when inebriated youth finds itself pursued by the Proctors, with their human bulldogs in attendance. Ah, well! One is only young once. Here’s Mr Oakshott now.’

  Jeremy, looking rather shamefaced, appeared at the door. He was holding a very large bunch of flowers.

  ‘A peace offering, Aunt Arabella,’ he said, ‘for dashing off as I did. I couldn’t stand being in the same room as that fellow any more. I went across to the market and bought you these flowers. As I came back, I saw Antrobus skulking away towards Carfax.’

  ‘Well, they’re very nice flowers, but you will have to carry them with you all the way to the station. Better still, you can give them to poor Mr Merryweather. You are going to see me off, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. There’ll be a carriage waiting for you at the Halt. By the way, Merryweather, don’t pay any attention to what I said about – er – another solicitor. I was carried away by that lugubrious man’s presence. Please accept these flowers as a token of my regard. Come, Aunt, let me call a cab to take us to the station.’

  12

  Delusional Spasm

  Sophia Jex-Blake and Sergeant Maxwell walked together in the fragrant gardens of Lady Margaret Hall. The close-cropped lawns were still redolent of summer, but the trees were starting to show the golden tints of autumn.

  ‘As the matter stands, mum,’ said Sergeant Maxwell, ‘Mr Antrobus is thoroughly put out by recent events. Nonplussed, if there’s such a word. He was so sure that Dr Jeremy Oakshott was guilty of his uncle’s murder that he wouldn’t listen to me, or to the Superintendent. Now he’s swung the other way. Dr Oakshott is as pure as the driven snow. And there the guvnor sits, immersed in routine paperwork. He’s thinking of handing over the case to Inspector Corbett at Cowley Police Office.’

  Sophia looked at the man who had come to seek her out at Lady Margaret Hall. He wore a long, black overcoat, meticulously buttoned up, and was clutching his bowler hat to his chest. It was a stance that seemed to be habitual with him. When not speaking, he was unconsciously gnawing his walrus moustache. He was no stranger to her, but now she was seeing him in a fresh light. She could see the concern for Antrobus in his eyes.

  ‘And what’s your view of the matter, Mr Maxwell? Do you also believe that Dr Oakshott is as pure as the driven snow?’

  ‘I’m undecided either way, mum. When Mr Michael Sanders was murdered, Dr Oakshott was “on the spot”, as we say, but Dr and Mrs McArthur had him in their sights for every moment. When Mr Littlemore was stabbed to death, Dr Oakshott was standing on the terrace with Colonel Scott-James and Lord Arthur Farrell. Mr Antrobus was forced to admit that Oakshott could not have murdered Michael Sanders, but he believed that he could have murdered his uncle. Would you like me to tell you his reasoning?’

  ‘If you would be so good.’

  ‘Mr Antrobus suggested to me that Oakshott went upstairs with his uncle, ostensibly to fetch
that diamond dagger, and straight away stabbed his uncle to death with a pair of scissors concealed about his person. He then dragged the body into the gallery—’

  ‘Yes, I have heard this theory. My own suggestion is that Mr Littlemore walked from the room of his own volition, not realizing that he had been stabbed.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, mum. Mr Antrobus believed that Oakshott stabbed his uncle and then rushed down the servants’ staircase, picked up a rifle which he had previously hidden in one of the cupboards in the kitchen passage, ran through the empty silver room, and slipped out on to the terrace. He could have concealed himself behind one of the buttresses there, and when the first shot was fired at the Fenian man, he would have fired his own rifle with intent to kill. He had no time to clean the weapon, but put it back in its rack and swiftly joined the Colonel and Lord Arthur on the terrace. It would have been an almost suicidal risk, mum, but it could have been done. I can state as a fact that a second rifle was fired, and returned to its rack uncleaned, and that it must have been fired by someone in the house.’

  ‘It’s very interesting, Sergeant. It also implies that Oakshott must have known the so-called Fenian if he was so quick to silence him. Two murders within the space of fifteen minutes. And Mr Antrobus has now abandoned his hypothesis?’

  ‘When Dr Oakshott proved beyond all shadow of doubt that he had no motive for killing his uncle, my guvnor collapsed. You need the three things, mum, motive, means and opportunity. Dr Oakshott had the means and the opportunity, but no valid motive. He would have been risking his neck for £1500.’

  ‘Hm… . Can you fire a rifle, Mr Maxwell?’

  ‘Yes, mum. I was in the Army at one time.’

  ‘What about Mr Oakshott? Was he in the Army?’

  ‘About fifteen years ago, mum, he was in the county militia. Quite a few university gentlemen were in the militia in the late seventies and early eighties.’

  ‘Did Mr Antrobus know that?’

  ‘He didn’t, mum, not until I’d told him. You see,’ said Maxwell, ‘a detective sergeant is left to pursue his own enquiries, as we say, and keep his findings to himself until he thinks his guvnor should know about them. I didn’t tell the guvnor about Oakshott being in the militia at first, because I didn’t want to fuel his growing prejudice against him. But I told him in the end.’

  ‘I see. Now about that jewelled dagger—’

  ‘I have a friend who keeps a jeweller’s shop in the Cowley Road, mum. I got him to come out to Hazelmere Castle and look at it. He said that all the stones set into the dagger were made of coloured glass. I thought as much. Even maharajahs and suchlike aren’t going to give away fortunes to all and sundry. It’s different, of course, when they send gifts to Her Majesty. I haven’t had time to tell the guvnor that, mum, but I will at the first opportunity.’

  ‘So, no hidden fortune there. Now, Sergeant, you’ve told me that Mr Antrobus has hidden himself away. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I want you to rouse him out of his torpor, if that’s the right word. He’ll listen to you, mum. I believe you were going to make some investigations yourself. The last time you did that, you turned that particular case upside down.’ 1

  They had reached the tennis court near the boundary of the Parks. Maxwell stood quite still, waiting to see what Sophia Jex-Blake would say.

  ‘Where is he?’ she demanded.

  ‘He’s in his office in the High Street, mum, drawing up duty rosters for traffic patrols. He’s been real bad this morning, mum, coughing, you know, and spitting up blood.’ A spasm of pain crossed his usually impassive face. ‘I sometimes think that I’m going to lose him one of these fine days. Superintendent Fielding says he’s dying before our eyes.’

  ‘Superintendent Fielding is not a qualified doctor, Mr Maxwell, and should watch what he’s saying. Very well. In an hour’s time I will call upon Mr Antrobus and shake him out of his depression.’

  ‘Shake, mum? I hope you’ll use no violence.’

  Sophia laughed.

  ‘No physical violence, Mr Maxwell, I promise you. But I will do violence to his lethargy. I was going to go my own way, but now I’m going to take him with me, whether he wants to come or not. Give me one hour, and you will see.’

  ‘Come with you? I can’t, Miss Jex-Blake. I have put myself under heavy censure over this business. I am surprised that Dr Oakshott has not taken further measures against me.’

  Antrobus was sitting behind a table in his High Street office. It was strewn with folders and graphs, and loose sheets of paper, covered in pencilled notes.

  ‘Upon my word, Inspector,’ said Sophia, ‘I believe you are enjoying your misery! Come, I have the cure for all your ills.’

  ‘The steel drops?’

  ‘Those, yes. But I have something equally effective.’

  She opened her reticule, and produced two train tickets.

  ‘I was going to go my own way, but now, as I’ve just told you, I think I must take you with me. You can’t be left alone. I am going to visit Dr Samuel Critchley, the distinguished mental specialist. I have questions that I wish to ask him, and where a direct approach fails, I will resort to wheedling. Come with me. I have purchased two train tickets. You will not want to leave me out of pocket.’

  James Antrobus laughed. There was no gainsaying this determined woman, who was both physician and friend.

  ‘This is outright blackmail, madam,’ he said. ‘I am appalled at your underhand tactics to make a fellow conform to your wishes. Very well. I shall accompany you. Sergeant Maxwell will give these wretched schedules to one of the constables. Come, ma’am, I am entirely at your disposal.’

  ‘I expect Sergeant Maxwell will make investigations of his own,’ Sophia ventured.

  ‘Oh, yes, I’m sure that he will. And when he judges the time is right, he’ll tell me the result of those investigations. That’s how he and I work. We don’t tread on each other’s toes. He doesn’t much like formulating theories, but he’s a meticulous investigator. But enough of him. Let us turn our attention to Dr Samuel Critchley.’

  Frampton Asylum was not as Antrobus had imagined it. No bleak, prison-like heap of granite; it was in fact a simple, elegant, late Georgian mansion, its white stucco gleaming in the morning sun. The extensive grounds were somewhat overgrown, which gave the place an air of privacy and seclusion.

  And there was nothing sinister about Dr Critchley, a comfortable red-faced man with a shock of white hair. He received his visitors in what was evidently his study.

  ‘Your fame has preceded you, Dr Jex-Blake,’ said Critchley. ‘I am delighted to meet you. I read your paper on Unhealed Lesions in The Medical Mirror with great interest.’

  ‘You are very kind, Doctor,’ said Sophia. ‘Your paper on Self-Generating Convulsions of the Cortex in The Lancet last May was truly ground-breaking.’

  That’s taken care of the civilities, thought Antrobus. Now these two physicians can get down to business. He had been introduced to Critchley as Mr Antrobus; the name had clearly meant nothing to him, which was probably just as well.

  ‘So how can I be of help, Dr Jex-Blake?’ Critchley asked.

  ‘I am sure that you are aware, Doctor, of the recent murder of Mr Ambrose Littlemore at Hazelmere Castle. He was stabbed in the back with a pair of tailor’s scissors. His cousin, Miss Arabella Cathcart, was confined here at Frampton in 1879, and released this August gone. Can you assure me that she is completely cured? I have long been an admirer of your electro-convulsive treatments.’

  ‘I take it, ma’am, that you are a friend of the family? I realize that you are aware of the crime that brought her here: the stabbing of a young woman with a pair of scissors. But I can assure you, Miss Jex-Blake, that Miss Cathcart is completely cured. When she came here, she had fallen into a fixed delusional spasm. She—’

  The doctor glanced questioningly at Antrobus.

  ‘You can speak safely before my colleague,’ said Sophia. ‘He has my full confidence.’


  ‘I said that Miss Cathcart came here in the ineluctable grip of a delusional spasm. Her symptoms were almost identical to those characterized by Grein and Steinberg in their classical experiments at the House of Mercy in Nuremberg. She had stabbed a young woman to death, but could not understand that this was both a moral and a forensic crime. It was murder, of course, but she was found unfit to plead by reason of insanity, and came here. She was a danger to others, and was confined to a cell here for six months. She received both psychiatric counselling and drug therapy, which calmed her considerably, though the delusional spasm still remained.’

  Sophia glanced briefly at Antrobus. Her lips formed the words: Ask a question.

  ‘Dr Critchley,’ said Antrobus, ‘what was the nature of that delusional spasm? How soon was it before she became free from it?’

  ‘It was a very interesting delusion,’ said Critchley. ‘I had met only one case of it before, but that was when I was working in a different hospital. Come through into the operating theatre. I can consult the relevant papers there.’

  They followed Dr Critchley down a long corridor which took them to a modern extension at the rear of the building. It consisted of a large rectangular room, lit entirely by a skylight, and containing two operating tables, covered in dark rubber, and fitted with leather restraints. Between the tables stood a console, displaying a number of dials and heavy brass switches.

  Antrobus shuddered. He was no stranger to operating theatres, but this one succeeded in frightening him. He could imagine Miss Cathcart secured by those leather straps while her brain was exposed, and invaded by electric probes.

  ‘We have our own generators here,’ said Dr Critchley, proudly, ‘so we have no need of batteries of jars. Now, in this filing cabinet I have the details of Miss Cathcart’s case, together with a full account of the treatments she received over the course of fifteen years. Sit down at that table. I’ll join you in a minute.’

  He rummaged through one of the drawers in a filing cabinet and removed a bulky cardboard file.