‘I won’t tell you how I followed that cheque from the bank to the clearing-house, and then to the receipt ledgers of Mrs Lestrange’s bank. It’s a complex process, and its details have to remain secret. But the outcome of the matter was this: Sir Neville Chantry’s cheque for £5 had become a cheque for £500 when it was credited to Mrs Lestrange’s account. Fraud and forgery, you see. Do you want to hear more?’
‘Yes.’ Oh God! He could see where all this was leading.
‘I and my agents probed further into that list. Another defunct philanthropist, Sir Philip Margrave, had also sent Mrs Lestrange a cheque, this time for £50 – it was a bona fide donation – and that cheque had also grown to £500 before it reached Mrs Lestrange’s bank.’
Mr Lombardo leaned forward in his chair, and tapped Oakshott on the knee.
‘I saw you give something to Mrs Lestrange in the lounge of the Clarendon Hotel, in Oxford – I was shadowing her, you understand, not you. I couldn’t see what it was. But there is a Catholic priest in Oxford who knew Captain Herbert Lestrange well. I introduced myself to him, gave him the gist of my investigation, and asked if he could help me in any way. He told me that Mrs Lestrange was drawing you into her net. That piece of paper that you gave her in the Clarendon – I hope it was not money?’
Oakshott groaned, and placed his head in his hands. What a vain fool to think that such a woman as Celia Lestrange could have had any interest in him! He had been duped.
‘It was a banker’s draft for £6000.’
‘Then you have lost that money, Dr Oakshott. Mrs Lestrange’s power to deceive lay in her great erudition. She was indeed a scholar of antiquity, fluent in Arabic, Greek and Latin. But she had long tired of academe, and had set her sights on more exciting things, or so my agents tell me. Father Linacre knows that the books ostensibly written by her husband were, in fact, written by her. Forgery again.’
Jeremy Oakshott had mastered himself. He drank his cold coffee, and looked at the mysterious man with the tinted glasses. With his waxed beard and moustache, he looked like a prosperous merchant banker.
‘There’s more, isn’t there, Mr Lombardo?’
‘Yes, there’s more. I have discovered that a man living at the same lodgings in Oxford, a Mr Murchison, is in fact Captain Herbert Lestrange. He did not perish in Egypt. My agents have ascertained that he fell victim to acute alcoholism, and for a time lost his faculties. He was concealed out there in Egypt by the family of a faithful native servant, while his wife gave out that he was dead. He has more or less recovered now, but he is a physical ruin. She is devoted to him, by all accounts.’
So while she was proposing marriage, she was already married. Why had he not let the dead bury the dead? Why had he not been content with his secure life as a bachelor scholar? Fool! His own vanity had brought him to this pass.
‘Where is she now?’ Oakshott asked. ‘Can nothing be done to stop her? I was entirely deceived, you know. She played upon my academic reputation to rob me of a small fortune, and even had the impudence to propose marriage to me—’
‘And you fell for it all. I sympathize, Dr Oakshott, because I know you are not the first to have been misled in that particular direction. What specific enticement did she hold out to you?’
‘She had excavated a hidden cache of ancient documents in the Levant,’ said Oakshott. ‘I was to have accompanied her out there to examine them. She actually showed me one of these documents, so I know that they did indeed exist.’
‘Yes, they certainly existed, Dr Oakshott. Have you heard of Senator Otis Kennedy, the American collector? Well, on 27 September last, Mrs Lestrange was observed handing those documents to Senator Kennedy. In return, he gave her a cheque, drawn on the Bank of Philadelphia, for $5000.’
‘Is this man heavily crippled? And was the handover of the documents made in Oxford?’
‘It was. And the Senator is indeed badly deformed, which made following him easy for my agent.’
‘Then I saw the exchange made! It was the day after my father’s funeral. Luckily, Mrs Lestrange did not see me. What should I do now, Mr Lombardo? I am shocked beyond measure.’
‘I should go back to Oxford, Dr Oakshott, and forget the whole business. You must realize that whatever money you handed over to this woman is irretrievably lost. The whole scandal will break within the week.’
‘And she and her husband will be arrested?’
‘No. Very late last night, they stepped on to a steamer at Harwich, bound for the Hook of Holland. Unknown to them, I had an agent on board, who will follow them to their destination. From information gathered from various confidential sources, we think that they will cross France by train to Marseilles, and take a boat there to Morocco, where they will effectively disappear. These things can be done, you know.’
‘But what will they do? They are fugitives. All decent society will shun them.’
‘Things are very different out there, Doctor. They intend to “go native”, as the expression goes. They are both fluent in Arabic. They are also friends of the Sultan of Morocco. Go back to Oxford, Dr Oakshott. Reconcile yourself to your losses. Forget them.’
‘What do you get from all this?’ It was a rude question, he knew, but Guy Lombardo was clearly not offended.
‘Me? I will proffer my bill for £120 to Mr Chantry, who, I am sure, will gladly accept it. You have been atrociously used, Dr Oakshott, and I am truly sorry for you. Ask at the reception, and they will call a cab to take you to Paddington Station.’
16
An Oxford Anomaly
Inspector James Antrobus was feeling decidedly better. He was breathing more naturally, and without pain, and when he looked in the mirror he saw that the hectic spots had disappeared from his cheekbones. What had they called the process? Artificial pneumothorax. Well, collapsing his lung had worked wonders for him.
He was enjoying a leisurely afternoon tea with Dr Sophia Jex-Blake at the Clarendon Hotel in Cornmarket.
‘It would seem, ma’am,’ he said, ‘that I owe my life to you for the second time this year. And after your exploits in Henning St Mary, I’m very tempted to make you a Special Constable.’
Sophia Jex-Blake laughed. How she esteemed this slight, badly consumptive man! Working with him was a welcome change from chairing committees, engaging with correspondents in the English and Scottish press, and working unceasingly to further the cause of women in medicine. And it was true, she had saved his life on two occasions, at the same time acting as his fellow-investigator in the uncovering of heinous crimes.
‘I shall take up your offer of Special Constable if I can find the time to spare,’ she said. ‘As for my exploits in Henning St Mary – well, you would have achieved the same results had you not been prevented by illness from accompanying me. Now, I take it that you were convinced by Mrs Pepper’s story?’
‘I was. And so was Superintendent Fielding when I gave him a written account of your doings. That old lady has given a very convincing narration of what happened in the garden of Priory House, but her crowning achievement was to show you a living witness to Vivien West’s murder.’
‘Yes, George Potter, a little boy of ten, now grown to man’s estate—’
‘When I visited Henning St Mary, ma’am, all witnesses of every kind to anything were buried in the churchyard. I’d only to mention a name when the Rector would jerk his head in the direction of God’s Acre.’
‘Well, in the case of George Potter, Inspector, Providence was on our side. And it was young George who saw Jeremy Oakshott sneak into the arbour and cut that poor girl’s throat. The boy said that he had the face of a demon. Well, perhaps he had. George suffered from brain fever as a result of what he had seen, poor little fellow.’
‘We are ready to make our move within the next few days,’ said Antrobus. ‘George Potter is here in Oxford, staying with Sergeant Maxwell and his wife. He’s more than willing now to tell what happened all those years ago, and cleanse his own memory, so to speak. You’re
staying with Miss Wordsworth at Lady Margaret Hall, I think? When we do make our move, will you accompany us? There’s a certain lady who may be in need of your professional ministrations.’
‘I shall be delighted.’
‘Then that’s settled. Besides Superintendent Fielding, myself and Sergeant Maxwell, we will be joined by Constable Roberts from Hadleigh. You remember him, perhaps? Oh, and Chief Inspector Hallett from Hereford.’
‘And who, pray, is Chief Inspector Hallet?’
‘Well, you see, ma’am, as the crime was committed in Herefordshire, it needs a Herefordshire officer present to serve the warrant. As soon as we’re ready to move against Oakshott, I will give you the word.’
‘Good morning, Dr Oakshott,’ said Tonson, the college porter. ‘I hope you had a pleasant weekend in London, sir.’
Pleasant! This good man could have no conception of the weight of hopelessness that he had endured during his few days in London. Not only had he been duped by an unscrupulous harpy, but he had suffered a shattering loss of self-esteem. After his dramatic meeting with Guy Lombardo, he had secured a room in a small hotel near Paddington Station. On Saturday morning he had taken a cab to Jermyn Street, where he had bought a small present for Aunt Arabella. He had caught a late train for Oxford on Saturday night, arriving there at seven o’clock on Sunday morning. He had breakfasted in the King’s Head, and then walked down to Jerusalem Hall.
She had fooled him out of £6000, a sum that he was bound to pay back to Hodge the banker. More, he owed £1000 to the vicious loan-shark in St Ebbe’s. How could he have come to this pass? A widely-respected scholar with a European reputation, duped by the wiles of a clever, unscrupulous woman.
He had been too besotted to ask himself how that anomalous quotation from the Strasbourg Oath had found its way on to the back of an ancient Kufic parchment. Crude forgery, of course. The text of the Oath was readily available in any academic library. Perhaps Sultan Baibars’s letter was a forgery, too. After all, he neither spoke nor wrote Arabic. Curse her! Was he ever to be free from her kind? Well, he knew what he had to do. What was Tonson saying?
‘There’s a gentleman called to see you, sir. He wouldn’t give his name, but he said that you would know him. I told him that you wouldn’t be in till ten, but he said that he’d wait for you. I took the liberty of showing him into your study.’
Oh God, what now? Tonson had called him a gentleman. Was this some shabby-genteel hanger-on of Michael Sanders, come to cadge a few pounds, and gossip about old times?
As Jeremy Oakshott walked along the path beside the college hall, he fancied that he heard someone walking with a staggering gait behind him. For a moment, the bright light of the morning was blacked out by the gloom of the gallery leading from his uncle’s room to the main staircase of Hazelmere Castle.
He had almost fainted with terror on that fatal Friday when he had heard that clumsy footfall behind him, and turning, had seen his ‘dead’ uncle, eyes wide with a kind of mute questioning, staggering towards him. He had stabbed him with Aunt Arabella’s scissors in his bedroom, and had left him for dead. Left the desiccated old miser where he had fallen. But Uncle had been able to walk out into the gallery, where he had finally collapsed into the great chair. He would remember that ghastly pursuit for the rest of his life.
He turned round on the path, but there was no one there.
‘My dear Oakshott, I’ve finally tracked you down! I was going to write, but thought it would be much better if you and I could have a private chat together. How are you? You’re looking rather peaky, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
Who was this man? And what new terror did he bring? Did he detect a hint of mockery in his voice?
‘I’m a little overtired,’ said Oakshott, ‘but otherwise in fine form. How can I be of service?’
His visitor shook his head in mock remonstrance, and smiled.
‘You don’t recognize me, do you, Oakshott? You should get out more! Being marooned here in Jerusalem Hall is very bad for you. If I were to mention All Souls’ library—’
He almost cried aloud with relief. He had seen Alan Johnson at many university functions, but had never actually met him. He was the archivist of All Souls College, a man with a deep interest in the many collections of ancient manuscripts held in the college library. He was a hearty man in his fifties, who had once played rugby in one of the Varsity fifteens.
‘I expect you’re quite content to remain here in Jerusalem Hall,’ he said, ‘especially as you are engaged on finishing the second volume of your great work on the Crusades. But I want to try and interest you in the Gilbertson Archive at All Souls. It hasn’t been properly looked at since the 1750s. There’s a mass of twelfth and thirteenth century material there, most of it in Latin and early French. The Warden would be very pleased if you would undertake to collate this material, and prepare an edition of the Archive suitable for publication.’
In God’s name, why could this offer not have been made just one week earlier? To work on the Gilbertson Archive would be a delight, and to produce a critical edition for publication would be another crowning achievement in his already distinguished career. A week ago, the lure of the Archive would have made him view Mrs Celia Lestrange’s overtures more warily.
‘I expect you know what I’m going to say next,’ Johnson continued. ‘I can’t speak officially for All Souls, of course, and that’s why I wouldn’t give my name to your man at the gate. But I’m quite certain that after the publication of your edition of the Gilbertson Archive, the Warden will offer you a Fellowship with us. But keep that under your hat!’
‘My dear Johnson, I don’t know what to say! This is a tremendous honour. I shall be delighted to undertake the task. I hope to have finished the second volume of my work on the Crusades by Christmas. I trust that I will be allowed to make a preliminary skirmish in All Souls’ library before then!’
‘Come to see us whenever you wish, Oakshott. Meanwhile, say nothing about the Fellowship until its award is publicly announced. I’m told that our Warden has already whispered in your Rector’s ear. I’m due to see the Vice Chancellor at noon, so I’d better be on my way.’
Fame at last. He was still in his early forties, so he could realistically hope for a professorship in a few years’ time. What a fool he had been to fall for that woman’s blandishments! How could such a tawdry relationship compare with reaching the pinnacle of academic success? It was all in the past. Let it stay there. Only the future had any validity now.
That fellow Antrobus had evidently fallen by the wayside, fooled by his having produced Uncle’s letter at the reading of the Will. It had been delightful to watch him collapse in confusion, stammering out apologies which he had pointedly not stayed to hear. From the moment that he had received Uncle Ambrose’s letter, deliberately excluding him from inheriting any part of his vast fortune, he had determined to put the old miser out of the way.
Uncle had known what he had done all those years ago. That letter from Tennyson had made that abundantly clear. And the great wordsmith had woven all the blood and horror of that time into his sonnet, ‘The Dappled Partridge’. Uncle had been pragmatic enough to leave past transgressions undisturbed; but he had made sure that his nephew would not enjoy his fortune after his death.
Uncle’s letter had come as a gift from the gods. He recalled his mock indignation against Antrobus with relish. ‘Did you think I murdered him to inherit a sham castle that is worth only a few hundred pounds in real terms?’ (Well, no; there had been more to it than that.) All carefully rehearsed, and secretly savoured.
The threat from the law had receded from that moment. Michael Sanders, the pathetic blackmailer, had been slaughtered by the brute John Smith. Good riddance! He had always hated him – hated him for winning Vivien’s hand. When he turned up at Jerusalem Hall, begging for favours – begging allied to subtle threats – his fate was sealed. And John Smith had paid for the savage murder of Sanders with his own worthless life. The
re was a certain economy of justice about the whole thing.
Oakshott sat in his chair at the desk, lost in thought. The light in his study seemed to dim, and the morning sun faded from the sky. He was back in front of the garden gate at Priory House in Henning St Mary.
He could smell the scent of the box hedges, and felt the springy turf beneath his feet. He had armed himself with a sharp steak-knife from the drawer in the schoolhouse kitchen. He had brooded for days on the coming marriage of Michael Sanders and Vivien West. He was to be the ‘best man’, a kind of consolation prize for his rejection. They would both look upon him kindly and patronizingly, while secretly laughing at him.
He would never be able to harm her, of course; but he could frighten her, make her feel some of his despair. He was only twenty years old, passionate and resentful. He would frighten her by pretending to commit suicide only days before her wedding.
He had found her sitting in a basket chair in the arbour at the rear of the garden. She was wearing a white sprig muslin dress. Her straw boater lay on the grass, and her long auburn hair fell free behind her. She was reading the Prayer Book that he had bought for her. He had kept it secretly among his possessions, hoping that if she chose him, she would carry it with her down the aisle. When she had chosen Sanders, he had given it to her as a present.
She must have heard his laboured breathing, for she half turned round and smiled at him. How dare she smile so indulgently at the man whom she had rejected! Or was it mere indulgence? Was it not a smile of mockery and contempt for a weak, self-absorbed boy? He had known in his own heart that he would never be the man that Michael was.
And then her expression had changed to something between wonder and fear. It was then that the blood had rushed to his head, and he yielded to a wave of blind hatred for the girl who had rejected him. He had cupped his hand under her chin, pulled her head back, and then he had cut her throat.
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