Oh, Vivien, Vivien!
The light suddenly returned to the room as he was jolted out of his reverie. Time to move. There was work to be done. He took pen and paper, and wrote a letter to his friend Dr David McArthur.
‘Your newly-acquired castle is looking quite mournful today,’ observed Dr McArthur. ‘I expect it knows that its days are numbered.’
‘Once Aunt Arabella has left for France,’ said Oakshott, ‘I’ll have it razed to the ground. It was never a happy place, you know. The reason I’ve asked you to come up here this morning is to talk to Aunt about what medicines she should take with her to Nice. I know nothing of medicine, but I’ve heard that one has to be vaccinated in order to live there. As her physician, you’ll know what to advise.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Jeremy. Yes, I think she could benefit from a review of her present medication, among other things. And you’re going to give me lunch?’
‘I am. The two of us will be alone in that monstrous dining room. It will probably be the last time that you will be obliged to eat there!’
They were shown up to Arabella Cathcart’s suite of rooms by Albert, the young man who had been Uncle Ambrose’s valet. He looked sombre and stern, and there was in his manner a hint of truculence surprising to detect in a well-trained servant. He had obviously been devoted to his late master. Such were the unfathomable ways of servants.
Aunt Arabella was looking particularly well. Much of the gauntness brought on by past suffering had disappeared. She had, Jeremy knew, opened an account with Festa & Co, the renowned couturiers in Carlos Place, Mayfair. She was wearing one of their creations now, a dress of grosgrain trimmed with tulle, sewn in panels of beige and mauve, complemented with a string of fine seed pearls.
Miss Arabella Cathcart was clearly on the verge of launching herself into society. She was sitting at her dressing table, where her maid Adèle had just finished arranging her hair.
‘My dear Jeremy,’ she cried, ‘how nice to see you! And you, Dr McArthur. I gather that my nephew has prevailed upon you to come and talk medicine with me. I intend to leave for Nice at the end of the month.’
Jeremy produced the present that he had bought in London. It was a bottle of cologne from Penhaligon’s, the prestigious perfumer in Jermyn Street. It was contained in a bottle of orange crystal, and crowned with a silver cap.
‘My dear boy, how very kind! Look, Adèle, isn’t that marvellous? I will try some of this later. Now, Doctor, when you and Jeremy have had luncheon, you and I can discuss medicines together.’
As they left the room, Oakshott picked up Aunt Arabella’s blue glass bottle of cologne, and slipped it into his pocket.
‘Really, Oakshott,’ said Dr McArthur, ‘I would hardly have recognized Miss Cathcart today as the poor, confused woman who came here to Hazelmere Castle just a couple of months ago.’
‘Yes, it’s by way of being a miracle. I have no doubt in my mind that she is entirely cured of her mental trouble. I’m afraid she’ll always be slightly crippled, but it’s a small price to pay for a whole new life.’
The two men sat at luncheon in the cavernous dining chamber. They were served by a competent young woman whom McArthur had not seen before.
‘Aunt has retired Jevons with a small pension,’ said Oakshott, ‘and the other servants have found employment elsewhere. Albert, the valet, is staying on until the house is closed. The girl who’s just served us is one of a number of agency staff hired for the month.’
‘Is it true that you are to accompany Mrs Lestrange on her expedition to Syria next year? I’ve heard a rumour to that effect.’
‘No,’ said Jeremy shortly. ‘I had considered it, but there are more enticing prospects in Oxford at the moment. Keep it to yourself, McArthur, but there’s the prospect of a Fellowship of All Souls in the offing.’
‘Indeed? Well, I’ll save my congratulations until the prospect becomes a fact. Incidentally, your aunt’s man of business here tells me that she has begun to take a personal interest in those charities your late uncle was keen to support. Having been herself a female in distress, she feels that she can identify personally with the unfortunate women helped by those charities.’
They ate in silence for a while. Jeremy’s hand closed over the cologne bottle in his pocket. Aunt would assume that her maid Adèle had put it away somewhere, and would quite naturally turn to his present. With luck, she would not be able to resist trying the new cologne now, while he was at the table with a witness to that effect.
This was the solution to all his present problems. He would be able to repay old Hodge, the banker, and more importantly, he would be able to buy off ‘Captain’ McKerrow, the usurer of St Ebbe’s.
An unearthly scream shattered the silence of the half-empty castle. McArthur half rose from the table with a cry of alarm, but Oakshott restrained him. The scream was succeeded by a deadly calm, and then, from the passage outside the dining chamber, they both heard hurried footsteps approaching the door. It had been a mad gamble, but it had paid off. His miser uncle’s fortune was now his – all his, not a miserable pittance doled out to him by his aunt out of the goodness of her heart. He was now rich beyond his wildest dreams. He would pay that man Lombardo to seek out the Lestranges, and bring them back to England to face trial for forgery and deception. He would—
The door was pushed open, and Aunt Arabella, as pale as a ghost, staggered into the room. She was too shocked to speak in her normal tones, but the whisper that she managed to produce was all the more electrifying.
‘Adèle is dead. You villain! What did you put in that scent?’
McArthur had sprung to her aid. They stood together by the door, looking at him.
Oakshott felt himself trembling. He was alone again, alone, and in crippling debt. But there was still time to bluff it out.
‘Why, what do you mean, Aunt? Have you … have you taken leave of your senses?’
‘Poor girl, she could not resist opening it. As soon as she had unscrewed the lid, she dropped down dead at my feet.’
‘That is terrible news, Aunt, but it’s most unkind of you to point the finger at me. Why on earth should I wish to kill a servant-girl? Adèle must have had a weak heart. Come now, Aunt Arabella, don’t threaten your marvellous recovery by outrageous imaginings. If the girl is dead, then we must send for PC Roberts. Why on earth should I want to poison a bottle of scent? And if I had, would I be foolish enough to give it to you quite openly in front of witnesses?’
‘You know perfectly well why you poisoned that scent, Jeremy,’ said Vivien West. ‘As surely as I know that you cut my throat.’
Yes, Vivien was there, standing at the great dining table. She was wearing the sprig muslin dress that she had worn on the day that he had killed her in his blind rage of hatred. How beautiful she was! Another figure emerged from the shadows, Michael Sanders, young again, handsome and vigorous. They joined hands, and melted away.
Jeremy Oakshott sat down at the table, overcome by a shuddering that he was quite unable to control. McArthur was talking to him, but he heard not a word. He was thinking of the day of Vivien’s murder.
No one had seen him exact his revenge upon her, and he had returned in complete safety to the schoolhouse. He had washed the knife clean of Vivien’s blood, and returned it to the kitchen drawer.
And then, his heart bursting with remorse, he had sought out an old friend from childhood, a simple-minded girl called Margaret Meadows, and had blurted out his frantic confession. He had told her every detail, and she had listened with quiet sympathy, at times repeating his words as though committing them to memory. He had never forgotten what she had said to him.
‘You mustn’t tell anyone else, Jeremy. I’ve always loved you, because you never called me names and never laughed at me for being daft when we were children. Vivien has been punished for rejecting you. I will take on your burden of guilt. Yes, it was I who cut Vivien’s throat. Go your way, now, Jeremy. I did it, not you. They would never
hang me, you see, because I’m feeble-minded.’
Poor, loyal Margaret. If I survive this latest impasse unscathed, I will seek her out, and make sure she lacks for nothing… .
‘Are you listening to me, Oakshott? What’s the matter with you? You seem to be in a daze. Your aunt is naturally very upset, but I’m sure she’ll regret her wild words when she has recovered from the shock of seeing that poor girl suddenly drop dead in front of her.’
Together they left the dining chamber, and entered the great hall of the castle. Albert Stead, the late Ambrose Littlemore’s valet, was just opening the front door in response to a rather peremptory ring of the bell.
Jeremy Oakshott blenched with fear as he saw Inspector Antrobus, who was accompanied by Sergeant Maxwell and Sophia Jex-Blake. Albert Stead immediately took Maxwell aside, and after a brief conversation, the two men mounted the stairs to the first floor. On seeing Sophia, Aunt Arabella uttered a cry of glad surprise, and the two women retreated into the dining chamber. Dr McArthur remained by Jeremy’s side.
Another man had come in with Antrobus, a silver-haired elderly police officer in the frogged uniform and pillbox hat of a chief inspector.
‘This is Chief Inspector Hallett of the Herefordshire Constabulary,’ said Antrobus. ‘He has a communication to make to you. Mr Hallett, this is Dr Jeremy Oakshott.’
Who was this man? What did he want? He shuddered as Hallett formally placed a hand upon his arm. Then the man reached into an inner pocket of his uniform frock coat and produced a folded document.
‘You are Jeremy Oakshott,’ he said. ‘Now I show you this warrant of arrest, and say: Jeremy Oakshott, you are charged that, on 17 May, 1872, at Henning St Mary in the County of Hereford, you did cut the throat of one Vivien West, residing there, so that she died; and that you did murder her. You are not obliged to make answer to this charge now, but anything that you do say will be taken down in writing, and may be used as evidence against you.’
‘Before you attempt to wriggle out of this charge, Oakshott,’ said Inspector Antrobus, ‘I will inform you that your murder of this woman was witnessed by a child called George Potter. That child, now grown to man’s estate, is ready to testify against you in court.’
Sergeant Maxwell and Albert the valet joined them. Maxwell looked as though he was controlling a mounting anger with some difficulty.
‘Dr Oakshott,’ he said, ‘I intend to search you. Raise your hands above your head.’
‘This is an outrage!’ Oakshott heard the hysteria in his voice as he spoke. ‘Antrobus, can’t you stop this fellow from treating me in this way?’
‘Do as the officer says,’ Antrobus replied. ‘Raise your hands above your head.’
Jeremy complied. Sergeant Maxwell removed the blue cologne bottle from his pocket.
‘Albert Stead here saw the accused remove this bottle from Miss Cathcart’s dressing table,’ Maxwell said. ‘By doing so, he obliged her to use the bottle of cologne that he had bought for her as a present. Gentlemen, it’s time for me to bring in our retained expert.’
For Jeremy Oakshott, it was as though he were living in a parallel but entirely different world from that inhabited by these people. Why had the past returned in this way to interfere with the even tenor of his way? Really, it would be as well to bid them all good day, and make his way back to Jerusalem Hall.
PC Roberts went out to the porte-cochère, and returned with Jonathan Grigg, lecturer in Chemistry at Jerusalem Hall. His usually genial face was grave and accusatory.
‘I saw you take that phial of Dimethyl Mercury from my laboratory, Oakshott,’ he said. ‘I told you how lethal it was. You could only have taken it for some sinister purpose. A man has only to be exposed for one second to its fumes to die immediately.’
‘I took every precaution,’ said Jeremy. ‘I cobbled together a hood of sorts, before emptying out a portion of the cologne that I had bought and pouring in a quantity of the Dimethyl Mercury. I am so sorry for the young maid-servant. But then, she shouldn’t have interfered with her mistress’s possessions. I meant it for Aunt Arabella, as you no doubt realize. It’s no great crime, surely? You see, I was suddenly in urgent need of money, and couldn’t wait for her to die.’
‘Constable,’ said Chief Inspector Hallett, ‘manacle this man and take him out to the van. My work here is done. Whatever fresh enormities this man has committed, Antrobus, they’re for you to deal with. Meanwhile, he will be lodged in Hereford Gaol, until he faces trial for the murder of Vivien West.’
He was manacled, and led out from the house to the police van waiting on the drive. There were five witnesses to his disgrace standing far off on the pasture. Uncle Ambrose, clad in his customary black, his face expressionless. John Smith, recidivist and murderer, was beside him, his shattered leg still crimson with his own blood.
Michael Sanders stood beside the man who had killed him, his arms folded, and his throat cut. Adèle, bewildered and questioning, clung for support to a girl in a sprig muslin dress, a girl already surrounded by an aura of brilliant light.
As the rear door of the van was opened, the five witnesses turned their backs on him, and began to walk away. He could see the scissors protruding from his uncle’s back. And then the girl in the aura of light turned and looked at him, with fear and disbelief in her bright eyes, but no pity, and no concern.
Oh, Vivien, Vivien!
The door of the van slammed shut, and the felon was driven away from the house that he had inherited from the uncle whom he had murdered.
It was a month later, on a chill, autumn day, that Detective Inspector James Antrobus came again to Lady Margaret Hall. Dr Sophia Jex-Blake had agreed to give the Lady Principal’s protégées a lecture on medical jurisprudence. She and the Inspector sat on either side of the fireplace in Miss Wordsworth’s study. Antrobus noted the neat pile of students’ essays on the desk, and the carefully selected framed prints and portraits on the walls.
‘Well?’ said Sophia Jex-Blake.
‘He was hanged this morning, ma’am, at Birmingham Gaol. And so the blood of his five victims is avenged.’
‘You never thought that he might be mad?’
‘No, I didn’t. He was examined by an alienist while in custody in Hereford, and found to be sane. Fit to plead, you know. And so he had the grace – or sense – to plead guilty at his arraignment, so that the trial was soon over. He was as sane as you or me. And yet—’
‘You think that you can vindicate him?’
‘No, ma’am. I was going to say that, sane as he was, he was in reality a moral imbecile. He thought that everyone, and every thing, was created to do him service, to love and esteem him, and him alone. In that sense, I suppose, he was mad. But when brought to the bar of judgement in the real world, he was sane. Sane, and wicked.’
‘An anomaly, would you say? A man justly renowned for his learning, an ornament of Oxford society, and yet a man who cut a girl’s throat on the eve of her wedding, and a man who, decades later, had her fiancé butchered by that man – what was his name? John Smith. Scholar and murderer. An Oxford anomaly.’
They were silent for a while, listening to the ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece.
‘We found a letter from Lord Tennyson among Miss Cathcart’s papers,’ said Antrobus. ‘It appears that Oakshott had found it in his uncle’s desk, and had concealed it in his aunt’s sitting room. Tennyson had woven the story of Vivien’s death into a sonnet, ‘The Dappled Partridge’, evidently at Mr Littlemore’s request. Whether the Poet Laureate knew that the story was true is a moot point.
‘Ambrose Littlemore knew that his nephew had murdered Vivien, but chose to keep the fact to himself, probably out of misplaced family pride. Well, his reticence led to his own death. And today, his nephew suffered the supreme penalty.’
He half rose from his chair, then sat down again.
‘What has happened to Miss Cathcart, ma’am, do you know? She is utterly alone in the world now, despite her great riches. Sh
e was much attached to that girl Adèle. I am so very sorry for her.’
‘As a matter of fact, Mr Antrobus,’ said Sophia, ‘Miss Cathcart has made a second amazing recovery, thoroughly vindicating Dr Samuel Critchley’s assertion that she is fully cured of her early insanity. I have for some time been trying to place an excellent girl, an impecunious clergyman’s daughter, as nurse-companion to a suitable lady, and was able to effect an introduction. They liked each other immediately, and are now both settled in a villa in Nice. I have already received an invitation to visit Miss Cathcart after Christmas, and am very much inclined to do so.’
This time, they rose together. There was a world outside Miss Wordsworth’s study, waiting for their attention.
‘It’s been a pleasure to work with you once again, Mr Antrobus,’ said Sophia Jex-Blake, proffering her hand. ‘You have my card, and know where to find me if ever you feel in need of my attentions as a physician, or my assistance as a Special Constable.’
James Antrobus laughed. Not many, he thought, could have forged such a friendship with this formidable and brave woman, who had kept him alive to see Jeremy Oakshott to the gallows.
‘Goodbye, ma’am,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘Or perhaps I should say au revoir.’
James Antrobus left the study, and made his way through the autumnal grounds of Lady Margaret Hall and out into Norham Gardens.
Author’s Note
Sophia Jex-Blake (1840–1912) was one of a group of remarkable women who laboured for the right of their sex to become doctors. Two of her fellow students at Queen’s College, Harley Street in 1858 were Dorothea Beale, who became Head of Cheltenham Ladies’ College, and Frances May Buss, founder of the North London Collegiate School for Girls. Sophia’s elder brother, Thomas Jex-Blake, became Headmaster of Rugby in 1874. One of his daughters, Katharine, became Mistress of Girton College, Cambridge. Another, Henrietta, succeeded Elizabeth Wordsworth as principal of Lady Margaret Hall in 1909.
Endnotes
1. An Oxford Tragedy
2. The Establishment for Gentlewomen closed in 1948. The Ladies’ Samaritan Society still exists.
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