‘Do you know that Sir Montague left me a legacy of ten thousand pounds? It’s a fortune, Mr Antrobus. I never expected for one moment such generosity. But I must finish telling you my story.
‘Sir Montague and I “hit it off”, as they say, as soon as we met. I said my farewells to the Winterbournes, and attached myself completely to my employer. There began the happiest and most fulfilling thirteen years of my life. I always maintained a distant regard for the family, as became my position, but now that we know Sir Montague was cruelly poisoned, I have no scruple in telling you what I saw. You’ll draw your own conclusions as to what it may have signified.’
‘Do you like the Reverend Timothy Fowler?’
‘I respect him, but he has always been a rather distant, censorious man. I neither like nor dislike him.’
‘And the others? Mr John, and Miss Frances?’
‘Mr John is an open-hearted, kindly man; I have always liked him. Miss Frances is very clever, with her own laudable ambitions. She cultivates a hard and cynical exterior, but I have always found it impossible not to like her.’
Antrobus was satisfied. Henry Ballard had spoken frankly and fearlessly, and seemed to have no personal axe to grind – why should he, when he had received a legacy of £10,000?
It was time to investigate the Reverend Timothy Fowler. Ballard clearly had no idea that the blue packet had contained mercuric chloride. Why had Timothy Fowler hidden it beneath his father’s bed, and why had he slipped it into his pocket in order to carry it away?
He would seek answers to those questions that week, but not until Sergeant Maxwell had returned from the Radcliffe Infirmary. He had sent him there to interview the nurse who had attended Sir Montague in his last illness. It would be interesting to hear what she had to say.
Nurse Townley, a sprightly woman in her fifties, agreed to talk to Sergeant Maxwell during a break from her duties on the wards at Oxford’s Radcliffe Infirmary. Opened in 1770, it looked more like the grand country-seat of a duke or earl than a hospital. Nurse Townley led the sergeant into a small office near the entrance, and bade him sit down.
‘I’ve heard all about the post-mortem, Sergeant,’ she said, ‘and the finding of mercuric chloride in the viscera of the deceased. I can see how your mind must be working, so I’ve brought my case notes to consult. I always keep a running log of the progress or otherwise of private patients. So what is it you want to know?’
‘I want to know, Nurse, how often Sir Montague Fowler’s children visited their dying father, and whether they would have had access to the medicines present in the sick-room. By access, I mean were they allowed to administer any of the medicines to their father?’
‘No, Sergeant, that would have been quite improper. All medicines were prescribed by the doctors called in to the case, Dr Chambers and Dr Hope, and administered either by them, or by myself.’
Nurse Townley had produced a cardboard file, from which she took a number of sheets of paper filled with neat, small writing. She consulted these pages for a while before continuing.
‘Sir Montague took to his bed on 22 May, the day on which he had returned from a visit to friends. Dr Hope was called in, and immediately diagnosed gastroenteritis. Dr Chambers, brought in the next day, concurred. I arrived with him at St Michael’s, and could see immediately that their joint diagnoses were correct.’
Sergeant Maxwell looked at the woman who was talking to him. She was wearing the crisp linen dress and starched cuffs and collar that belonged to her profession, and her greying hair was crowned by a stiff cap. A small silver watch hung from a chain round her neck. There was something about her that suggested a knowledge and competence born of years of experience.
‘Sir Montague never left his bed for thirteen days, at the end of which period he died. The two doctors called daily. I myself was in constant attendance, and I was sometimes assisted by a pupil nurse. We, and we alone, administered medicines to the patient. Obviously, procedures such as gastric lavage – necessary in such cases – were carried out by us, the medical staff.’
‘And as to visitors… .’
‘Yes, I’m coming to that, Sergeant. I just wished to make clear to you that the administering of poison by introducing it into medicine-bottles, would have been impossible.’
‘How about introducing it into food? I expect the Warden’s meals came up from his own kitchen in the Lodgings.’
‘Food?’ For a moment Nurse Townley seemed taken aback. ‘Well, I suppose that could have been possible. The poison would have to have been introduced in the kitchen, or on the way upstairs, but – oh! It seems most unlikely, Mr Maxwell.’
‘But not impossible?’
‘No. But Sir Montague ate very little solid food, because of his condition. Brand’s Essence, and calf’s-foot jelly were the staple, and these were supplied by us – the medical staff. Now, here’s my log of family visitors. Miss Fowler, who lives in Oxford, called in almost daily, usually in the afternoon. She never stayed long, until Friday, 1 June, when it became evident that Sir Montague would not survive. She was almost constantly present for the last three days of Sir Montague’s life.
‘Mr John Fowler made four visits from London, on Thursday, 24 May, Monday, the 28th, Wednesday, the 30th, and Friday, 1st June. He, too, stayed in Oxford for the last three days. He spent most of his visits talking to the doctors, when they were present, though occasionally he would sit on the bed and chat to his father. I got the impression that Mr John Fowler expected his father to recover from his illness, though both doctors and myself knew that there was no possibility of this.’
‘And the Reverend Mr Timothy Fowler?’
‘Well, Sergeant, he was very assiduous, you know, very concerned. Although he lived a very long way off, in Hampshire, he came up to Oxford on five occasions, and stayed all day. He contrived to alternate his visits with those of his brother. He came on Wednesday, the 23 May, and then on the Friday and Saturday, staying at the Mitre. He came again on Tuesday, the 29th, and then on Thursday, the 31st. On that occasion, he stayed at the Mitre again, remaining there until after his father had died.’
Sergeant Maxwell had been writing rapidly in his notebook. He now closed it, and stood up.
‘Thank you very much, Nurse Townley,’ he said. ‘You’ve been a very great help. Before I go, can I ask you, in confidence, for your own views on the death of Sir Montague Fowler?’
‘Mr Maxwell, I’ve been a nurse for over thirty years. In my view, Sir Montague Fowler died of gastroenteritis, and all this talk of poison is a mare’s nest. And yet – the results of the autopsy showed conclusively that mercuric chloride was present in the organs of the deceased. So it’s a mystery, something that you and your colleagues are better able to solve than I.’
When Maxwell returned to 130 High Street, he found Inspector Antrobus reading a letter, which he put aside until the sergeant had finished his account of the meeting with Nurse Townley.
‘Most assiduous, was he, our Reverend Timothy? A devoted son, rushing up from Hampshire to visit his father, despite the distance and the inconvenience. Well, Sergeant, I received this letter by the noon post. It’s from a Mr de Neville, a gentleman living at Abbotsmead Manor, a mile or so out of Wolvercote. Read what he has to say.’
Dear Inspector Antrobus,
The newspapers have made mention recently of the suspicious death of Sir Montague Fowler, and there has been avid speculation about the role played in that tragedy by members of Sir Montague’s family and colleagues. If you will come to visit me, at a time that can be mutually arranged, I will tell you something about one member of that family that has been a close secret for many years. Murder has been committed, and if justice is to prevail, there are hidden facts which must now be brought into the light of day.
Sincerely yours,
Louis de Neville
‘One member of the family – do you think he means the Reverend Timothy, sir?’
‘He may well do, Sergeant; I really can’t se
e Miss Frances Fowler as the repository of close secrets, and Mr John Fowler, the elder brother, had no qualms in confessing to me how near he had come to ruin before he received his inheritance. So I’ll leave you here in High Street to hold the fort for a day or two while I seek out this Mr de Neville and hear what he has to say. Perhaps you could keep a benevolent eye on Miss Fowler while I’m away. See what she gets up to, if anything. And then, Sergeant, you and I will go down to Hampshire and beard the Reverend Timothy Fowler in his den.’
‘Why should this Mr de Neville write to you? We don’t know, him, do we? I’ve not heard that name crop up among the people who knew Sir Montague.’
‘Well, I’ll find out, won’t I, when I meet him. Maybe he’s impelled by a sense of public duty. Duty, “stern Daughter of the Voice of God”. Or maybe he’s holding an ancient grudge against the family, and wants to cause trouble. We’ll see.’
Abbotsmead Manor, the residence of Mr Louis de Neville, lay four miles to the north of Oxford, some way beyond the village of Wolvercote. It was a redbrick Tudor edifice of two storeys, and it still retained at its east end the gaunt, ivy-clad ruin of the monastery that had once occupied the site.
Inspector Antrobus was received by a butler, a slight, greying man wearing a black tailcoat. He led him into a long, dim library, where the morning sunlight filtered through a range of leaded windows. Sitting in a wheeled chair near one of the window embrasures was the owner of Abbotsmead Manor. The way he sat, as though he had become part of the chair that supported him, told Antrobus that Mr de Neville must have lost the use of his legs many years ago.
‘Sanders,’ said de Neville after Antrobus had been formally announced, ‘bring us coffee, will you? Antrobus, come and sit down here beside me.’ De Neville waited until the butler had left the room before he spoke again.
‘I have been in this condition, Inspector Antrobus,’ he said, ‘since I was a boy of thirteen. What is called infantile paralysis deprived me of the use of my legs, and I have been confined to a wheeled chair ever since.’
‘I am very sorry, sir.’
The man in the wheeled chair held up a hand as though to fend off the inspector’s commiseration.
‘I mention the fact not to elicit your sympathy, Mr Antrobus, but because my condition is an important part of the story that I am going to tell you.’
De Neville paused, and seemed for a moment to be absorbed in his own thoughts. How old was he? Surely no more than forty, but his face, creased and lined by years of frustration, made him look far older. His legs were covered by a plaid blanket, but even with that discreet disguise, Antrobus could see that they were wasted. His shoulders, though, and his chest, were those of a man born to be strong and vigorous. Nature’s cruel trick, that had robbed him of so much in his life, must have left Louis de Neville with a permanent sense of injustice.
‘I have read all the accounts of Sir Montague Fowler’s death that have appeared in the popular prints,’ said the crippled man, ‘and during the last couple of weeks I have noticed a lot of sinister speculation concerning Sir Montague’s son, the Reverend Timothy Fowler. There has been talk of poison, and this talk has been linked more or less directly to Timothy. It was that particular thread of gossip that determined me to send for you. I gather from the newspapers that you are the officer investigating the case?’
‘I am, sir.’
‘Well, I want you to listen to what I have to say concerning Timothy Fowler. I am going to impart to you a secret that I have kept hidden in my heart since the year 1887. I feel that it is my duty to share that secret with you now.
‘I am the younger son of the fourteenth Earl of Haddington, and I lived until comparatively recently at the family seat, Haddington Castle, in Buckinghamshire. You will understand that my condition precluded marriage, and I had no desire in those days to live away from our ancestral estates.
‘Well, in the castle grounds there stands what was once a dower house, a substantial dwelling, built in the late seventeenth century, and this house has long been used as a residence for retired colonial bishops. For many years it had been the home of the Right Reverend Colin Bates, a former Bishop of Gondwanaland, and a celebrated tutor for young gentlemen who had decided to read for Orders.’
Mr de Neville paused again, and seemed to lose sight of Antrobus. He was leading up to something, and it would be a mistake to let him wander away into withdrawal from the present moment.
‘And this Bishop Bates… .’
‘What? Yes, he was a very learned man – Latin, Greek, Hebrew, all that kind of thing. Well, Timothy Fowler graduated from Oriel College in 1884 – he’d have been twenty-one – and immediately came down to Haddington to read for Orders with Bishop Bates. There was another young man there, an attractive, athletic fellow called Adrian Fortescue, and the two of them became friends. Fowler was a renowned swimmer, and a celebrated cricketer, who had played for the varsity.
‘I was not as reclusive then as I am now, and I was often in the company of the two ordinands, who would come over to the castle to swim in the river that flowed through the estate. They dined with us, too. Father was not a very devout man, but he liked Fowler and Fortesque, because they were both examples of “muscular Christianity”, much given to physical pursuits.’
De Neville’s mouth twisted in a sudden spasm of what seemed like silent rage. So there had been envy as well as admiration, thought Antrobus. That was understandable, but if ever this gentleman came to the point, he would be on his guard against unconscious bias.
‘Now, in Haddington village there dwelt a physician called Doctor Edward Grace, a man very well regarded, and blessed with a wife and a beautiful young daughter, called Kate. She was only seventeen, and very inexperienced in the ways of the world, and was rather taken aback when both young men fell in love with her. They did, you know: it wasn’t just a case of flirtation. They fell for her, and as time went by it looked as though Adrian Fortesque would carry off the prize. This vexed Timothy Fowler, who knew that, in order to gain advancement in the Church, a fellow had to be married.’
There’s the envy, thought Antrobus. That cynical remark arose from this man’s physical incapacity. Who knows, he may have been in love with Kate himself.
‘Kate’s father was very fond of Timothy, but little Kate seemed to have a special affection for Adrian, and I remember my father saying that when all the reading was over, Adrian Fortescue would leave Haddington with Kate Grace on his arm.’
‘But he didn’t, sir, did he? So I assume something happened to prevent him.’
‘It did. In the summer of 1887, when both young men were twenty-four, they came to Haddington Castle to spend the day swimming in the river. I vividly recall that day: it was very hot, with not a breath of air stirring. It was a Friday, 29 July, just days before they were to finish their studies. One of the footmen wheeled me out into a grove of trees from which I could look down at the river bank. I recall that I took with me Mary Braddon’s Cut by the County, which had appeared the previous year.
‘From time to time, I glimpsed the two of them as they ran along the bank towards a little diving-station, and I’d heard the splashing and good-humoured shouting as they vied with each other to swim to the further bank. As I have said, they were both powerful swimmers, and from time to time, I’d look up from my book, watching them idly, and appreciating their skill.
‘After about an hour, they began to swim towards the bank. Fowler had just stepped up on to the wooden platform when Adrian Fortescue cried out that he was in difficulties. I was near enough to see the fear and distress in his eyes.’
The man in the wheeled chair treated Antrobus to a bitter smile.
‘I was in the same condition then as I am now, Inspector. There was nothing that I could do. But Fowler – he just stood there on the platform, his arms folded, watching his companion drown. Fortesque struggled for a while, and then disappeared from sight. It was only then that Fowler swam out to the spot where Fortesque had disappea
red. True, he dived twice, and was down for what seemed like an age on both occasions. But there was no doubt in my mind that he left Fortescue to drown. It was deliberate.’
‘What happened next?’
‘I stayed where I was, hidden from sight, hoping that my servant did not come for me while Fowler was there. I was terrified, you see. I was a witness to his moral dereliction, and had he seen me, he could easily have wheeled me to the margin, and tipped me into the river. In the end, he went away, and a quarter of an hour later my servant came to take me back to the house.’
The invalid writhed in his chair – it was a movement of impotent rage rather than pain.
‘He left him to drown! And he did that because he wanted to marry Kate Grace. Murder by omission. And now it is being said that he might have poisoned his own father, again in the pursuit of gain. Well, this time, Mr Antrobus, I’ll risk my life to make sure he is punished. I am at your service as a witness to that earlier crime – for crime it was.’
The invalid was lost in thought for a while. Then he spoke again.
‘Timothy Fowler was – is – a very talented man, with all the gifts that would advance a clergyman in his career. The following year, which was the year in which he was ordained deacon, Fowler married Kate, who had just turned eighteen, with her parents’ blessing. He never came to Adrian Fortescue’s funeral.’
Louis de Neville sat back in his chair with a sigh. It was as though he had relieved himself of a burden that had oppressed him for the last seven years.
‘I often wondered why he sought out an obscure country parish, when more than one London church was after him. Maybe Fortescue’s death was the reason. Obscurity can shield a man from the observation of those who know the dark side of character. That’s why I came here, you know, to Abbotsmead Manor. I wanted to hide from the sight of men. But at times like this I have to force myself to return to the world for a while.’
Inspector Antrobus rose. It was time to go.
‘Thank you for telling me this story, Mr de Neville,’ he said. ‘It would be as well to keep your own counsel until the whole matter has come to a conclusion. I’ll bid you good day, sir.’
An Oxford Tragedy Page 11