The man produced a clay pipe from his ragged coat, filled it from a pouch, and asked Oakshott for a match. Jeremy pointed to a matchbox on the desk, and the man lit his pipe and puffed away for a while. Then he laughed.
‘John Smith wasn’t the best kind of company for a gentleman,’ he said. ‘He was a violent, vicious man, with two murders under his belt. But he was also stupid – killers of his kind often are. He told me how he was to make away with this friend of yours, this Michael Sanders, on 7 September. He was to lie low for a few weeks, and then come to visit you at Hazelmere Castle on the night of the twenty-first. You told him that you were going to create a diversion in the house, something to do with private family business, and while everyone was running around in a panic, Smith was to run across the lawn and hide in a little thatched garden shed. You, Dr Oakshott, would come out there, unseen by anyone in the castle, and pay him £1000 in gold.
‘Now, that kind of arrangement would have sent alarm bells ringing in my mind, but John Smith was stupid, as I said. He was shrewd enough to get me to go with him, but a wise man would have asked for a meeting by daylight, and in some public place. So he ran across that pasture and into your trap, Dr Oakshott, and was killed by your own hand. So as I said before, what do you propose to do about it?’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want £1000 in gold, or Bank of England notes. Once I’ve got that, you’ll never see me again, and your secret will remain safe with me. A thousand pounds, the sum that you pretended you were going to give John Smith. Get it together, and I’ll come for it on Thursday.’
‘I don’t know your name.’
‘There’s no need for you to know.’
‘A thousand pounds is a fortune. How do I know that you won’t be back for more?’
‘You don’t. And that’s the price you have to pay for murder, Dr Oakshott. But I give you my word, for what it’s worth. God knows, I might have died of drink before that fortune’s spent. A thousand pounds in gold or notes, and you’ll never see me again. Don’t bother to get up: you look as though you’re going to faint. I’ll see myself out.’
15
Guy Lombardo Explains
Jeremy Oakshott walked along a depressing lane of slate-roofed houses in St Ebbe’s and stopped at a decidedly superior residence, with crisp lace curtains on the windows, and a polished brass plate beside the door, bearing the legend: Captain C. P. McKerrow. Should he demean himself by calling on this man? He had no choice.
He rang the bell, and in a moment a bright little servant-girl showed him into an ornate and overheated sitting room. There was a quantity of flashy gilt furniture, heavy drapes of some oriental material, and a florid marble grate, in which a heaped-up fire was burning. The little maid asked for his calling-card – he had not expected that – and bade him wait for a few moments.
Presently, Captain McKerrow, a stout, well-fed man with a round perspiring face, came into the room. He wore an elaborate smoking-jacket and a tasselled silk cap, neither of which looked amiss on him. Despite his name, his swarthy complexion was more suggestive of the Levant than of Scotland.
‘Well, this is an honour,’ said McKerrow, glancing at Oakshott’s card. ‘A scholar, and an ornament of our great university. Perhaps you have come to see me to, er…?’
He paused delicately, his cold wary eyes fixed on his visitor. His refined voice held a slight foreign intonation.
‘I’ll be quite blunt with you, Captain McKerrow,’ said Jeremy. ‘I am in urgent need of £1000. I need it before Friday of this week. I’ve heard of you, sir, and of your reputation. There are some people in this university who would call you a loan-shark—’
‘And don’t you think that’s cruel, Dr Oakshott? Cruel, and uncalled for. I have devoted my life to helping people in distress. Desperate people come to me and plead with me to advance them a sum of money to save them from ruin and disgrace. I have never rejected any such appeal. I give them a loan, and tell them that there will be no limit to the time that they will need to repay it. They can take fifty years if they like. You can take fifty years, if you feel so inclined.’
McKerrow clasped a pair of beringed hands together, and looked judicially at his visitor.
‘I have known lives that could have been shattered for want of a few pounds at the right time. I never refuse them. Many unkind things are said about people like me, but virtue is its own reward.’
I shall choke if I have to stay in this hot room much longer with this loathsome hypocrite, thought Jeremy.
‘Will you lend me £1000 or not?’ he demanded.
‘I will, Dr Oakshott, I will. Goodness me, how blunt you are! Would you care for a glass of sirop de cassis?’
‘No, thank you. Of course, you will want some kind of security—’
The beringed hand waved away any talk of security.
‘Your fame has preceded you, Dr Oakshott. When I received your little note yesterday, I asked a friend of mine about you, and he told me of your impending good fortune – a great legacy, due to you on the demise of your good aunt. Now, here is what I will do. I will lend you £1000 now, and you can repay me when it is convenient. My rate of interest for this kind of instant transaction is forty-five per cent, compounded yearly.’
Jeremy Oakshott tried not to show the cold shock that overcame him as he heard this statement of terms. Well, he needed that money, and this was the only way to get it. He dared not approach old Hodge in Queen Street so soon after borrowing a fortune from him. And if he asked his aunt to lend him the money, she would want to know why he wanted it. He could hardly tell her that it was to pay off a blackmailer. McKerrow would be allowed to have his own way. Never mind; he would not be poor for much longer.
‘That is very satisfactory, Captain McKerrow,’ he said. ‘And when do I receive the money?’
‘Now, sir, as soon as you’ve signed this little note that I’ve prepared for your signature. That’s right. Come through here, to my strong-room. Do you want gold or Bank of England notes?’
‘Gold, I think. Will you be able to call me a cab?’
‘I will, sir. My maid will do it. Now, here is the strong-room.’
They entered what was in effect an enormous steel safe. A burly man, who had been standing there, remained in the strong-room, but turned his back on them both.
‘That man is there to see fair play,’ said McKerrow, ‘but it’s none of his business to see my clients. Everything between you and me is utterly confidential.’
He unlocked a drawer, and removed a leather bag, tied at the neck with red string.
‘One thousand pounds, sir,’ he said. ‘Come back into the parlour, and my maid will summon a cab. Meanwhile, if you are at any time in need of help, you have only to call upon me.’
On Wednesday, Jeremy gave the first of his series of lectures on the First Crusade to an eager gathering of second year undergraduates who were studying medieval history. These lectures were always popular, and were held by arrangement in the magnificent hall of Merton College. As always, it smelt of beetroot. Evidently it was a favourite vegetable of the college cook, who served it, so the legend went, with every meal.
‘It began, gentlemen, as a pious pilgrimage from the Christian west, a pilgrimage that soon transmuted into a military expedition by Catholic Europe to regain the Holy Land, lost centuries earlier to the Muslims. But you know all that, don’t you? You learnt that at your mother’s knee, or rather, in the stuffy classrooms of your schools.’ (A little tremor of laughter. He was always good with undergraduates.)
‘But I want to take you away from Pope Urban and his crusade, further into the past, to the Levant, as it existed in the year of Our Lord 632 …’
He talked for an hour. Some of his audience sat spellbound, engrossed in what he was revealing to them. Others wrote rapidly in their notebooks. When he had finished, he dismissed them, and was delighted when one young man, whose square cap sported the gold tassel of a nobleman commoner, thanked him personally f
or his fascinating lecture.
When he left Merton, and made his way into the High Street, he felt that the likes of McKerrow, and the nameless fellow who had wanted £1000, were mere shadows in comparison with his fellow dons, and the throngs of eager young men to be found in lectures and tutorials, on the river in the college eights, and on the cricket and rugger fields. All those people were part of his secure world, the world of academe.
It was only this year that his peaceful, fulfilled life had been disturbed by ghosts from the past and new terrors from the present. Michael Sanders, a shell of the handsome young man of the seventies, had fallen so low that he had come to blackmail him. That word, of course, had never been used by either of them, and he had pretended to be more than willing to help an old friend in need.
An old friend! He had hated Sanders for winning Vivien’s hand all those years ago, and when the man had presented himself at Jerusalem Hall, a pathetic wreck, he had been surprised to find that his ancient hatred burned as strongly as ever. He had watched Sanders as he sipped his tea, and talked quietly of the old days. He had alluded to Vivien’s death, adding the chilling words: ‘They brought in a verdict of “murder by a person or persons unknown”, but a lot of people wondered.’
Those words had told him that Sanders knew the truth. Perhaps he had always known. But time and weakness of character had dealt badly with Michael Sanders. To him, no doubt, Vivien was no more than a sad and sentimental memory. It was the present need to survive that had occupied him in his later years. So he, Oakshott, had sat there watching him, his hatred of the man rekindled. They had last met ten years earlier, when he had made it clear to Sanders that any attempt to rekindle a so-called friendship was unwelcome and unwanted.
Curse him, the cringing wreck! In youth, so smilingly confident, he had taken Vivien from him. If he had not done so, she would be alive today, and married to him.
He had talked to John Smith in his cell at Oxford Prison, and had offered him £1000 to make away with Sanders. He himself made certain that he could be fully accounted for by David and Mary McArthur by arranging for the removal of Sanders while he was staying with them for a few days of whist, which included a visit from the local vicar, a noted devotee of the game. And so, in the early hours of Friday, 7 September, John Smith had killed Sanders, and had got away unseen.
He felt no guilt at all, but he had been horrified when that fellow Antrobus had told him that Sanders’s killer had chosen throat-cutting as his method of disposal. It was sheer coincidence, but it had brought back frightful memories long buried in the darker recesses of his mind.
He had never intended John Smith to continue his murderous career. Dead men, as the saying went, tell no tales. He had told the man to run across the pasture towards the little thatched garden shed, where he would be paid £1000, and the dull fellow had accepted this as a reasonable thing to do. Fool! He had stood hidden in the shadow of a buttress, and when Smith came stumbling into his sights, he had shot him dead. Good riddance. The prison warders knew that he had got away with two murders. Well, he’d paid the price now.
The other prisoner due for release, Paddy Flynn, had been quite a different matter. He was essentially redeemable, a foolish fellow who had yielded to temptation, and had been sent to prison. He had apparently acted the part of ‘Orange William’ to perfection, and had then returned immediately to Ireland. It had been a pleasure to forward him quite a nice sum of money to tide him over until he procured some decent employment.
He would continue his charitable work as a prison visitor. With luck, he would never have to abuse the privilege of free access to the prisoners again. It was worthwhile work, and many a wretched fellow had been put back on to the paths of righteousness as a result of his exertions.
Next morning, Smith’s accomplice, the man who would not give his name, arrived at Oakshott’s rooms in Jerusalem Hall. He seemed slightly surprised that he had £1000 ready and waiting for him. He received the heavy bag of sovereigns with an almost deferential air, and as he left the room, he said, ‘I meant it you know, Guvnor. You’ll never see me again, as I’m going abroad. You’ve nothing more to fear from me.’ Oakshott felt an overwhelming feeling of relief. Something about the man’s demeanour had convinced him that he was speaking the truth.
Friday dawned bright and clear. Oakshott rose early to give himself time to dress more carefully than was his custom. He chose to wear a black suit with a full-frocked morning coat, a black waistcoat with matching white liner, and his best silk hat. From a flower stall in Queen Street he bought a carnation for his buttonhole.
Did he wish to impress Celia? Well, why not? And then, he wanted to cut a figure with the learned men who would be assembled to meet him at her house in Mountjoy Street. When the London train drew in to Oxford station, he settled himself in an empty first class carriage, closed his eyes, and gave himself over to daydreaming. He submitted himself to the mesmerizing rhythm set up by the train’s clattering over the track, and within a few minutes, he had fallen asleep.
Vivien! She was smiling at him, but it was a smile of amused condescension. She wore a green tweed skirt and jacket, and her face and hands were smeared with blood. How could such a fragile, beautiful creature enjoy the cruel violence of the chase? The blood came from the brace of partridge that she was holding. She had just walked out of the wood, accompanied by a young lad, one of the beaters, who was carrying her gun, open at the breech. The boy touched his cap, but he too greeted him with a kind of pitying smile.
He opened his eyes, and saw the stream of black smoke from the engine passing the carriage window. On either side, the clay fields of Oxfordshire stretched out to the horizon. Once again, his eyes closed… .
‘Oh, Jeremy, you’re such a milksop! Why shouldn’t a country girl follow country pursuits? There’s more to life than books, you know!’
Michael Sanders came along the lane to greet her. He looked handsome, full of vigour, with a zest for life. Oakshott watched the look of glad greeting that she gave him, and hated him all the more. They turned away from him, and walked together side by side, deep in whispered conversation. She still held the partridges, oblivious of the blood that dripped from them on to her skirt.
She took the dappled partridge, fleckt with blood …
It was on that occasion, long in the past, that a new, more insane hatred, a hatred of the girl whom he would never cease to love, had welled up in his heart.
At Paddington Station, Oakshott hailed a cab to take him on what was to prove a long and tiresome journey to Mayfair. They arrived at the corner of Mountjoy Street at just after eleven o’clock. Number four was a fine, four-storeyed town house, its front door reached by a flight of three stone steps. The door gleamed black in the morning sun. The brasses were highly polished. Evidently the Honourable Mrs Lestrange kept a good staff of servants.
Oakshott rang the bell, and the door was opened by an old butler dressed in rusty black.
‘Yes, sir,’ said the butler, ‘how can I be of service?’
‘I have an appointment to see the Honourable Mrs Lestrange this morning. My name is Oakshott. Dr Jeremy Oakshott.’
‘Indeed, sir? Well, I’m sorry, but you must have the wrong house.’
‘This is number four, Mountjoy Street?’
‘It is, sir. This is the residence of Mr and Mrs Abraham Rosheimer. Mrs Lestrange, you say? No, sir, there’s no one of that name living in Mountjoy Street.’
An impatient voice from somewhere in the house called out, ‘What is it, Vokes? Who’s calling?’ The old butler wished Oakshott good day, and firmly closed the door.
Oakshott stood in a kind of trance on the pavement. Had he misheard Celia when she gave him this address as her residence? He glanced down the road, and saw the bearded man with the tinted spectacles standing a few doors away, looking at him.
Enough! This man had appeared on the periphery of things once too often. He walked rapidly towards the man, who stood his ground, and to Oakshott’s
surprise, raised his hat in greeting.
‘Sir,’ said Oakshott, ‘I think this is the fifth occasion on which I have seen you observing me. I demand to know who you are, and why you are following me in this offensive manner.’
‘Dr Jeremy Oakshott, I think?’
The swarthy ‘foreigner’ spoke with an educated London accent.
‘Yes. And who are you?’
‘My name is Guy Lombardo, and I am a licensed private detective.’
‘Indeed, sir. And you are following me?’
‘Oh no, Dr Oakshott. Not you. If you’ll share a cab with me, I will take you to Ford’s Hotel, in Manchester Street. It’s a nice, old-established place, not far from Baker Street. When we get there, I’ll tell you what I am doing, and where you fit in the scheme of things.’
Jeremy Oakshott and Guy Lombardo sat in two overstuffed chairs in the parlour of Ford’s Hotel. Lombardo had ordered coffee, and neither man spoke until the waiter had arranged everything on the table, and retired.
‘Now look here, Lombardo,’ said Jeremy, ‘this is all very well, sipping coffee and making ourselves comfortable. But what is this all about? What—’
‘Contain your soul in patience, Dr Oakshott, while I tell you the whole story. Some two months ago, I was approached by a Mr Neville Chantry, the elder son of the late Sir Jacob Chantry, the industrialist and supporter of worthy causes. He had found that his late father’s name had been placed on a subscription list designed to raise money for an archaeological expedition to Syria. Mr Chantry knew that his father’s name had been used without his consent or knowledge.’
Lombardo sipped his coffee. Jeremy said nothing. He dreaded to hear what the detective was going to reveal.
‘I was naturally given access to Sir Neville’s papers, and there I found a letter from the Honourable Mrs Herbert Lestrange, asking him to subscribe to her coming expedition to Syria in the spring of 1895. Sir Neville’s secretary had attached a note to this letter, saying that his employer had declined to be associated with the project, but had sent her a cheque for £5 as a gesture of goodwill … Your coffee’s going cold. Why don’t you drink it?
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