‘Hazelmere Castle, Dr Oakshott, is worth no more than £1500, as you well know. The property market is depressed, and has been for most of this decade. Hazelmere Castle. Castle? Dear me! What was it Tennyson said about such edifices?
“Awe-stricken breaths at a work divine,
Seeing his gewgaw castle shine,
New as his title, built last year.”
‘That describes Hazelmere to a tee. All plaster and pretence. Do you have anything that you can offer me?’
‘I have considerable expectations—’
‘Ah! Now we are talking. I was waiting for you to say that. Your aunt has recently inherited a vast fortune. And a friend – never mind who – has told me that she has named you as sole heir in her will. If you will formally offer me an open claim on your inheritance, I will advance you the £6000 immediately, at a rate of interest of four per cent per annum, without restriction. You can repay the interest of £240 yearly, and the capital sum whenever it is convenient for you to do so, either whole or in part.’
Jeremy Oakshott tried his best to stifle the gasp of relief that sprang to his lips. The old banker had frightened him by quoting Tennyson, which recalled that sonnet, The Dappled Partridge, with its grim secret meaning. Now he felt totally reassured. Aunt Arabella would not live for ever.
Old Mr Hodge slid a sheet of paper across the desk.
‘My clerk has already drawn up the necessary document, assigning me an interest in your inheritance. I knew you’d agree to that. But let us say no more about the gewgaw castle.’
His heart beating with excitement, Jeremy appended his signature to the brief type-written document.
‘I could give you a counter-cheque, payable to your good self,’ said Hodge, ‘but I would not advise it. Instead, let me urge you to accept a banker’s draft. You can give that to whomever you please, without the bank having to approve your choice. As a matter of fact, I have such a draft here; it only needs my signature.’
The old banker signed the draft with a quill pen, blotted it, and handed it to Oakshott, who took it with a trembling hand. He rose, and shook hands with Hodge.
‘A final word before you go, Dr Oakshott. You are engaging on something airy, a future project, which as yet has no substance. You could buy a whole row of terrace houses with that money, and rent them out for profit. But this expedition – it’s a gamble, not an investment. Be sure of what you do.’
Oakshott went straight from Hodge’s Bank to the Clarendon Hotel in Cornmarket, where Mrs Lestrange was waiting for him. She looked very smart in a dark green wool suit, with a matching short cloak. Although no connoisseur of women’s clothes, he knew enough to see that her suit had come from one of the London fashion houses.
‘Well, Jeremy? Did your banker see sense?’
‘He did, Mrs Lestrange – Celia.’
He drew the banker’s draft from his pocket, and handed it to her. She glanced briefly at it, and put it into her reticule, at the same time removing a picture postcard, which she handed to Oakshott. It showed a fine, porticoed and pedimented church, crowned with an elegant clock turret.
‘This is St George’s, Hanover Square, in Mayfair,’ said Mrs Lestrange. ‘It is the church where I would wish to be married. I assume that you are a member of the Church of England?’
‘Yes, yes. Celia, my mind is reeling! When do you propose that we—’
‘I see no reason why we should not marry this month. You can come up to London and obtain a Special Licence from Doctors’ Commons. Now, I am leaving Oxford this very day. Come up to town this Friday, the twelfth, and call upon me at my house at 4 Mountjoy Street, Mayfair. I want you to meet some other members of the expedition team, including the epigrapher, and the Arabic translator. And then you can take a cab to Doctors’ Commons.’
She stopped speaking, and laid her hand on his arm.
‘Jeremy,’ she whispered, ‘am I rushing you into an action that you might come to regret? Do you want to wait longer, to learn more about me? It’s not my wish to seem forward or unwomanly. Since my husband died, I have become accustomed to fending for myself.’
‘Dear Celia, you need have no qualms on the matter. I feel that a whole new world is opening up for both of us. I feel—’
‘Enough. I am so elated that I will soon burst into tears if we pursue the matter further! I must leave you now, or I will miss my train. Till Friday, then, dear Jeremy. Be sure to remember the address: 4 Mountjoy Street, Mayfair.’
Mrs Lestrange rose, and walked rapidly out of the lounge.
Mrs Benson stood at the landing window of her boarding house in Dragonfly Lane, Park Town. The garden, and the pavement outside, were crowded with chests and cases. It was vexing to lose two lodgers at once, but there were people clamouring to stay with her, and next week both suites of rooms would be occupied once more.
Mrs Lestrange had been a most welcome guest, a lady of quality, and a famous name, apparently, in academic circles. She was sorry to see her go.
Mr Murchison, her friend, had been a quiet, tidy man, but much reduced, as the saying went. They were friends, those two, but there were friends and friends. Still, it was not for her to say anything. They’d both paid fully to the end of the month, which was very handsome, really. The pantechnicon would arrive soon, to take all their things away. A cab had been hired for three o’clock, to take them to the station. They were going away together, which made you think – but she was not one to gossip.
Jeremy Oakshott walked out of Cornmarket, along Magdalen Street, and so into the wide, tree-lined boulevard of St Giles. The leaves were beginning to show a touch of autumn, but it was a pleasant day, with white clouds scudding across a clear blue sky.
A new life was beckoning! Soon, he would be free of the provincial restraints of Jerusalem Hall. Once married to Celia Lestrange, he would move out of his cramped bachelor quarters in the ancient college, and buy a fine, detached house in North Oxford. Later, perhaps in December, he would purchase a town house in London, after due discussion with Celia. They would start their joint adventure there.
He passed Pusey House, built ten years earlier as a memorial to Dr Pusey, one of the architects of the Tractarian movement. A High Church friend of his from Magdalen had taken him there to hear a talk on marriage as a sacrament. Well, very soon now, he would be involved in that sacrament himself.
Oh, Vivien, Vivien!
Bits of recent conversations now came to blight the pleasure of his walk. What had the old banker said? ‘This expedition – it’s a gamble, not an investment. Be sure of what you do.’ He was right: he was building castles in the air. And Jonathan Grigg had told him that very morning that two of the signatories to Celia’s subscription list were dead, and could not have put their names forward. What did it mean?
As he passed the gothic archway leading into the Jesuit church of St Aloysius, Jeremy saw the black-clad figure of Father Cuthbert Linacre SJ standing in front of the clergy house. He was in earnest conversation with the tall, bearded man who wore tinted glasses. Well, the man was probably a Catholic. A foreign Catholic of some sort.
Linacre had claimed that three volumes of Captain Lestrange’s letters had been written by Celia. Forgeries! Linacre had known Captain Herbert Lestrange well, or so he claimed. What was he to think? Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
He had walked far enough. It was time to get back to Jerusalem Hall. He crossed Woodstock Road, and began the pleasant walk back into Broad Street. It was as he passed St John’s College that he suddenly remembered something else that Father Linacre had said. ‘There’s no money there, you know. That’s why she’s for ever holding those fund-raising events.’
He turned in to the Broad, and felt a few spots of rain falling on his face from an errant cloud. Nature, evidently, was showing her sympathy for his sudden and chilling misgivings. The scholarly part of his nature reminded him then that English scholars called that sort of thing the ‘pathetic fallacy.’
‘It’s very kind of you
to ask, Mr Gates,’ said Sergeant Maxwell. ‘Yes, Inspector Antrobus is much better, and walking in the hospital garden. He’s still in the Radcliffe, but will be back in the office by Thursday. I thought we were going to lose him this time, though.’
Sergeant Maxwell and Mr Gates were sitting in the back bar of the Worcester Arms, a little free house tucked away in a court behind Beaumont Street. In a city dominated by Morrell’s Brewery, it was a treat to enjoy two golden pints of Allsopp’s India Pale Ale.
‘I don’t usually come this far down,’ Maxwell continued, ‘but I wanted to consult you on a private matter. Private to the likes of you and me, if you get my meaning.’
Mr Gates knew exactly what he meant. Joe Maxwell was a policeman. He, Frank Gates, was a warder in HM Prison Oxford. They were both sporadic attendees at Cowley Road Methodist Church.
‘I want to ask you about boots, Mr Gates. Prisoner’s boots. When you get a new batch of villains, do you kit them out with boots?’
‘We do, Mr Maxwell. They get a pair of pants and a jacket with broad arrows, and a little cap to match. Likewise, a pair of stout boots. We’ve an interesting programme of activities for them to follow, including work in the shale yard, and on the treadmill. If they’re indigent on discharge, we give them a pair of boots free. Boots are very important for our lags.’
‘And where do they come from? The boots, I mean, not the lags.’
‘They come from Birmingham Gaol. They supply smaller prisons like ours with boots and clothes. Is there any special reason for asking, or don’t you want to tell me?’
‘I’ll tell you with pleasure, Frank. Last month we were summoned to look at a man who had been shot dead – murdered, you know. When we took off his boots, we found that they had “HM Prison Birmingham” stamped on them.’
Maxwell rummaged in one of the pockets of his overcoat and produced a sheet of paper, which he handed to his friend. It contained a drawing, in various coloured crayons, of a large tattoo, depicting a coat of arms, the words ‘Ashanti 1874’ and the motto Semper Fidelis.
‘That was tattooed on our dead man’s arm,’ said Maxwell. ‘I wondered whether it means anything to you. The man was supposed to be a Fenian, but we don’t believe that.’
‘By George, it does mean something!’ cried Mr Gates. ‘That, and the boots. I think your dead man was a villain called John Smith. He was released on 5 September gone. I don’t know about him being a Fenian, but I can tell you that he was a dangerous, evil man. Robbery with violence was his speciality, with the accent on violence. We know that he’d committed two murders, but he got away with both by threatening witnesses. He’s no loss, I can tell you.’
‘John Smith … Was that his real name?’
‘Yes, it was. I can lend you our file on him, if it would be any good. John Smith … Wait till I tell the others. These gentlemen are wasting their time, in my opinion.’
Mr Gates drained his glass, and looked expectantly at Maxwell.
‘Yes, I think we could both do with another pint. I’ll get them in a minute. Gentlemen, you say. You’ve lost me there, Frank. What gentlemen?’
‘Oh, I mean the prison visitors. They’re good-hearted folk, Joe, but they don’t live in the real world. There was one of them visited Smith every week. He brought him a Bible, and some tracts, and a few eatables that we let them have. He’d sit in that man’s cell for an hour. When you opened the spy-hole you’d see the two of them there, sitting side by side on the bunk, talking.’
‘And how did John Smith react to all this visiting? Did he read his Bible?’
‘He did. Very meekly and quietly, but with a mocking smile playing about his mouth. He read the tracts, too. God knows what he was up to. And when the day for his release dawned, Dr Oakshott was there, to talk to him and give him some money.’
‘Dr Oakshott? Dr Jeremy Oakshott, of Jerusalem Hall?’
‘Why, yes, Joe. Don’t sound so startled! Dr Oakshott is a marvellous kind gentleman, who’s been a prison visitor for years. He was wasting his time with John Smith, but he did have his successes. We had a young Irish chap, Patrick Flynn, who was inside for stealing railway sleepers. Dr Oakshott was here, too, when Flynn was released. He gave him some money, and I heard Flynn say: “God bless you, sir, you’ve been like a ministering angel to me. And when I’ve done here, I’ll go back home, and make an honest living.” He will, too, I’ve no doubt. He was one of Dr Oakshott’s successes.’
Sergeant Maxwell rose, and went to the bar, where he ordered two more pale ales. Frank Gates was proving to be a very welcome mine of information. He paid for the ales, and brought them back to the table, being careful not to spill any of their precious contents.
‘This John Smith – are you sure that was his real name? All kinds of villains call themselves John Smith. Was he a loner? Or did he have a mate? That kind of killer usually has a cringing, cadging lieutenant to run errands for him, or provide him with an alibi.’
‘He did have a mate, a man called Joel Tasker, who came from Northampton. He was what I’d call a craven swaggerer. Quiet-spoken, but a villain by conviction. You know the type I mean. As a matter of fact, Tasker visited Smith just days before he was released. They were busy whispering to each other in the visiting room. Tasker did a three-month stretch with us a couple of years ago, for receiving. But he was all smiles and swagger when he came here as a civilian visitor. “Nice to see you again, Mr Gates,” he said. I felt like kicking him out into the road!’
‘You’ve helped me a lot this morning, Mr Gates,’ said Maxwell. ‘When this business of John Smith is brought to a conclusion, we’ll meet here again, and I’ll give you all the details.’
Sergeant Maxwell bade his friend farewell, and walked thoughtfully up Beaumont Street. He had been right. Smith, a villain in Oakshott’s pay, lured into a deadly trap, and done to death. What had Smith done for Oakshott, that his mouth had to be closed for ever by a bullet through the heart? As he passed the Randolph Hotel the answer to his own question came clearly into the forefront of his mind. Smith had been hired to murder Michael Sanders, while Oakshott flaunted his alibi in front of his friends the McArthurs. And Patrick Flynn … He, too, had surely been in Oakshott’s pay. Could he have been the lively Orangeman who had entertained the denizens of the Farmer’s Arms in Hazelmere village?
As Jeremy Oakshott walked through the gatehouse of Jerusalem Hall, Tonson the porter came out of the lodge. He looked worried and apprehensive.
‘Dr Oakshott,’ he said, ‘a man has come to visit you. He wouldn’t give his name, but he said he had some urgent news to impart to you.’
‘A man? What kind of man, Tonson? I was not expecting anyone today.’
‘Well, sir, he claimed to know you, but, asking your pardon, sir, he was not a gentleman, in fact he was quite a rough, ragged fellow, with a sort of knapsack on his back. I thought of summoning the beadles, but he was quiet-spoken enough, and seemed anxious to see you. I told him to sit on the bench in the quadrangle until you returned.’
‘How long has he been here?’
‘Just over an hour, sir.’
As Oakshott entered the quadrangle, he saw the man in question get up from the bench. Could it be some indigent friend of Sanders? He wore a suit that had seen better days, and a battered billycock hat. His face, now wreathed in smiles, had the ravaged complexion of a chronic drunkard. Perhaps he was some old crony of Michael Sanders. Well, if half a sovereign would get rid of him, he could have that.
‘Dr Oakshott?’ said the man, raising his hat. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, sir. We had a mutual friend, you know, now dead. Perhaps you could spare me a moment of your valuable time?’
Yes, this was some cadger, and Michael Sanders, no doubt, was the ‘mutual friend’.
‘You’d better come in, my man,’ he said. ‘I can let you have a few minutes of my time.’
The man followed him into his study, and without being invited, sat down in an armchair. He took the knapsack off his back, and slamme
d it down on Oakshott’s desk, sending some papers flying. Jeremy suddenly felt threatened and alarmed.
The man opened his knapsack and produced a pair of field glasses.
‘Do you know what they are, Dr Oakshott?’ he asked. The man had sprawled back in his chair, with his legs stretched out in front of him. His voice was not unpleasant, but he looked at Oakshott with a kind of loathsome familiarity.
‘They are field glasses,’ said Jeremy. ‘Do you wish me to buy them? I will give you a sovereign for them, and then you can be on your way, my good fellow. I have important work to do.’
‘Have you, sir? Have you really? And in the midst of all your important work, sir, can you recall the night of Friday 21 September just gone?’
Jeremy Oakshott sat down in his chair at the desk. Oh God! Who was this frightful, quiet-spoken man whose every word held menace?
‘It was on that date, Dr Oakshott, that I watched through those field glasses while my friend John Smith— Ah! I can tell from that little cry that you know who our mutual friend is! It was through those glasses that I saw John Smith run across the pasture at Hazelmere Castle, as you’d told him to do, and it was through those glasses that I saw you, half-hidden behind a buttress, with a rifle in your hands. Some lackey in the castle, standing at an open window, fired a shot, and got Smith in the leg. And then you fired, Dr Oakshott and hit him in the heart. I saw you. I saw it all. So what do you propose to do about it?’
Jeremy Oakshott glanced despairingly around the room. What could he seize to brain this vile intruder, to batter the life out of him? There was nothing, and in any case, the man was strongly made, and no doubt ruthless.
‘John Smith told me how you visited him in prison, and gave him tracts and Bibles. He also told me how you recruited him to kill a friend of yours, and promised to give him £1000 once he’d done the deed. You arranged all that while you were visiting him in his cell in Oxford Prison. But John Smith never worked alone. He always had a second-in-command, to check that all was as it should be. Sometimes it would be me, sometimes somebody else. But he was never alone.’
An Oxford Anomaly Page 18