Fanny walked slowly along the sweep of gravel that would take her to the front entrance of Old Hall. Was she right in bothering the distinguished Lady Principal with what was essentially a domestic matter? Would she lose face by showing Miss Wordsworth the weakness of her regard for Tim?
She mounted the steps under the heavy porch, and rang the bell. The door was opened immediately by a girl wearing the apron and ribboned cap of a parlour-maid.
‘Miss Fowler?’ she asked. ‘Please come this way. Madam Principal is expecting you.’
Elizabeth Wordsworth was sitting at a table in her crowded study, sifting through what appeared to be a pile of examination papers. A woven cane waste-paper basket beside the table was full of balls of crumpled-up paper. The study walls, papered in a heavily floral William Morris style, were covered in framed pictures and portraits.
The Lady Principal rose from the table and came forward to greet her visitor. She was wearing a long dress of some dark material, and her still fair hair was crowned with a somewhat old-fashioned cap of black and white lace. She was an impressive woman, with a firm jaw and piercing eyes that regarded Fanny from beneath dark eyebrows.
‘Sit down in that chair, Miss Fowler,’ she said, ‘and tell me what it is that ails you. You spoke of a “family matter”. You compose yourself well for so young a woman, but you cannot hide the desperation that I can see lurking in your eyes.’
‘Oh, dear Miss Wordsworth,’ Fanny cried, ‘it is my brother, the Reverend Timothy Fowler. He is suspected of having – having murdered his father, and I know he did no such thing! Inspector Antrobus will arrest him at any moment. What shall I do? I have no one to turn to… .’
Despite a heroic effort to remain calm, Frances Fowler suddenly burst into tears. It was evidently a much-needed catharsis, because she abandoned herself to a bout of prolonged weeping. Miss Wordsworth sat in silence, watching her. Eventually her young visitor gained her self-control.
‘You poor child,’ said Miss Wordsworth, ‘you have been much tried. I’ve heard all the rumours, of course, and I flatter myself that I’m not too proud to listen to them. And this police officer has settled upon your brother Timothy as the culprit. Just now, you said that you knew your brother had done no such thing – murdered his father. Do you know that as a fact? You don’t, do you? If you knew it as a fact, you could produce that fact as conclusive proof of his innocence.’
‘You are right, Miss Wordsworth. I don’t know for sure. I don’t know at all.’
Fanny sank back in her chair with a feeling of utter wretchedness. She had made a fool of herself for nothing. She must find an excuse to leave as soon as was decent.
Miss Wordsworth had picked up a pencil, and was drumming absently with it on the table. Then she seemed to make up her mind as to a course of action.
‘Come, Miss Fowler,’ she said, standing up. ‘I want you to meet someone who will be very interested to hear your story, someone who, I am sure, will be able to help you. Have you heard of Dr Sophia Jex-Blake?’
Fanny awoke abruptly from her bout of despair. ‘She is here?’ she cried.
‘She is. She and I are exact contemporaries, and we’ve both striven long and hard for equal opportunities for women. Her father was a lawyer, you know, a decent man enough, but of a narrow cast of mind. He did not approve much of women’s education, but Sophia persuaded him to let her go to the classes at Queen’s College for Women in Harley Street. That was in 1858. She was only eighteen. She was always a determined woman, undeterred by ridicule and obstruction – and there was plenty of that. Eventually, she qualified as a doctor at the Irish College of Physicians.’
‘And she will help me?’
‘She has an acute mind, Miss Fowler, and a penchant for logical thought. Her mind is far superior to mine. She’s here as my guest for a few weeks during the long vacation, so she’s plenty of time to spare. Tell her the whole story, beginning with the death of your poor father. Leave nothing out. She’s having a mid-morning break in the garden. Come, I will take you to her.’
On the few visits that Fanny had made to Lady Margaret Hall, she had felt immediately embraced by the ‘country house’ quality of the college buildings, and by the understated elegance of the gardens. The close-cropped lawns glowed in the sun, the beds of summer flowers close to the walls of Old and New Old Hall were a riot of colour. The gable end of Champneys’ Wren-like extension was covered with Virginia creeper and Wisteria.
Dr Sophia Jex-Blake was sitting in a cane chair drawn up to a cast-iron garden table, upon which some tea things had been set out. She was reading a newspaper, with the aid of small, round, gold-framed spectacles. She was dressed smartly but soberly in a businesslike costume dress. Her fair hair, parted in the middle, was uncovered. She had a round, pleasant face, and was blessed with a flawless complexion.
‘Sophia,’ said Elizabeth Wordsworth, ‘I want you to meet Miss Frances Fowler, Headmistress of Makin House School. She has an intriguing tale to tell. Let me leave you both for a while. If you agree together, we can all have luncheon at one o’clock.’
‘You have been crying, Miss Fowler,’ said Dr Jex-Blake. ‘This tea is still hot. Let me pour you out a cup, and when you’ve drunk it, you will tell me your story.’
She put her newspaper down on the grass, and sat watching Frances as she obediently sipped her cup of tea. Did this girl know how beautiful she was? Well, perhaps it was of no import. If she had founded a school, and then became its principal, beauty had only limited relevance. Miss Fowler had chosen her part… .
The lawn was bathed in the strong summer sunlight. Somnolent bees drifted past. And everywhere there was the scent of flowers. By the time she had finished her tea, Frances was in full control of herself.
Carefully and accurately, she told Sophia Jex-Blake the whole story of her father’s illness, his decline, his death, and the ugly rumours of murder, which had proved to be true. She told her about Inspector Antrobus, her personal regard for him, and his gathering of evidence against her brother. She omitted nothing: the damning letter from silly Kate, the packet of deadly poison and how it had been discovered, and her brother’s lame excuse for concealing it in his house.
When she had finished her story, Fanny sat in silence, watching her companion. What would Dr Jex-Blake make of it all? Would she be really interested in the troubles of a young woman whom she had only just met?
‘Oh, how I wish that I could see that mysterious packet!’ cried Sophia Jex-Blake. ‘I suppose this Inspector Antrobus has got it? But your brother picked it up… . Where is your brother, Miss Fowler?’
‘He’s staying with me at my school – Makin House.’
‘Staying?’
The single word was invested with a subtle mockery. Frances blushed.
‘Hiding. He’s avoiding the public eye, Miss Jex-Blake. But yes, as I told you, he had the packet in his possession.’
‘Hm… . Could you persuade your brother to come here, now? I can assure you that the Lady Principal won’t mind. I want to see him, and speak to him. But more than that, I want to hear about this pesky packet!’
‘You will see him? Oh, Miss Jex-Blake, how very kind of you!’
‘Nonsense. There’s nothing kind about it, girl. This whole business revolves around that packet, and your brother is one of the few people who have actually seen it. Get him to come here. Miss Wordsworth will send the porter to him with a message, and he can come over here by hackney carriage. It’s getting very hot out here. When he comes, we’ll find a quiet corner of Old Hall to have our confabulation.’
‘Miss Jex-Blake,’ cried the Reverend Timothy Fowler, ‘I swear… .’
‘“Swear not at all”, Mr Fowler,’ said Sophia Jex-Blake, ‘“neither by heaven, for it is God’s throne, nor by the earth, for it is his footstool; neither by Jerusalem, for it is the city of the great king.” Give me a simple yea or nay to this question: Did you murder your father?’
‘No.’
‘Well, then
, let us sit back calmly, and consider the position. Vain oaths and righteous outbursts will only cloud the issue. Drink a glass of barley water, and compose yourself.’
When Timothy had arrived at Lady Margaret Hall, he had blundered past the servant who had taken him to the common room, whence the two women had removed from the heat of the garden, and had begun to blurt out a protestation of innocence. Frances was deeply concerned for him, but could not refrain from smiling when her new friend had quoted St Matthew at him to quieten him down. Tim had actually blushed with mortification: it was usually he who quoted scripture for the edification of others.
‘Now, Mr Fowler – may I call you Timothy? And you, my dear, will you object if I call you Fanny? We are talking of intimate family matters here, which preclude too much formality. Now, Timothy: describe this packet of poison to me. You have actually seen it and held it. Inspector Antrobus has possession of it, I’m told, but I doubt if he’d show it to me without wanting to know the whys and wherefores. So: the packet.’
‘It was about five inches in length, and two inches wide. It was quite heavy, considering its size. It was made of stout blue paper, and sealed at each end with white gummed wafers. It had a printed label stuck to it, on which were written the words “Mercuric Chloride”.’
‘Excellent. I can see it now, in my mind’s eye. Was the name of the chemist written on it?’
‘It was printed on it, but I can’t recall the name. He practised in Kingston upon Thames – I remember seeing that much before I placed it into the pocket of my frock coat.’
‘Placed?’
‘Hid. I hid it away. I was horrified. I knew, of course, that I had not put it there, and assumed that—’
‘He assumed, Miss Jex-Blake,’ said Frances hotly, ‘that I had dropped it there, after having successfully poisoned my father for gain. He pretends that he suspected our elder brother, John, too; but he really thought that I had done it!’
‘Very well. Dear me, this is all most interesting! Now, supposing – just supposing – that Timothy had done it. Murdered his father, I mean. I am going to put myself into his place. How can I administer this poison without being suspected? Can I spoon it into his medicine during my visits to his sickroom? Most unlikely, because a nurse will be present, and it will be her duty to administer any medicines to the patient. Had you tried to do so, Timothy, the nurse would have said: “Excuse me, Mr Timothy, but why are you putting a spoonful of white powder into Sir Montague’s glass of medicine?” It wouldn’t do, you know.’
Miss Jex-Blake laughed at the absurdity of this notion.
‘So it would have to be in Sir Montague’s food. And here, we meet with the same difficulty. The substance that you have chosen to use is one of the cruellest and deadliest poisons known to man: salts of white mercury, known also as corrosive sublimate. How are you going to mix it into your father’s food, in full sight of doctors, nurses, and other attendants? I don’t know how you managed to do it. I don’t know how anyone could have managed to do it.’
It had become very quiet in the common room. The sun filtered through the tall window, and threw bright bars of light across the carpet. The only sound came from the rapid ticking of a little china clock on the mantelpiece. The brother and sister listened, fascinated, to their companion’s detached analysis of the crime.
‘So I don’t know how you did it, Timothy,’ she continued, ‘and I don’t understand what you did subsequently. But you were successful, despite the fact that your packet of poison seemed to have been sealed at both ends. Maybe you were able to peel one of the wafers back, and reseal it later. That would certainly be possible.
‘Your crime went undetected, despite the fact that you carelessly left behind your poison at the scene. “Ah!” you cried, “I have achieved my nefarious end. So I’ll just throw this packet of poison under the bed, and walk away. I can always come back and pick it up later.” No, it won’t do. It won’t do at all. Your crime, Timothy, for crime it was, was committed when you found that packet, and failed to hand it immediately to the police. But you did no murder, and neither did your excellent sister, here. We must look elsewhere. I wonder… .’
During Sophia’s analysis, Timothy Fowler had regained some of his old confidence. Colour was returning to his ravaged face.
‘I will seek out that man Antrobus, and repeat your arguments to him, Miss Jex-Blake. He will surely see, then, that I am innocent.’
‘Perhaps so. But then again, perhaps not. I suggest that you leave this Mr Antrobus to me. He should look more deeply into your late father’s colleagues at St Michael’s. After all, most of them are resident there, with far more opportunities for villainy than either of you. I shall call upon Mr Antrobus. I have the bit between my teeth, Timothy, and I am going to delve more deeply into this business. Now, I have another question to ask you both. Your father returned to Oxford from a visit, and immediately took to his bed. Whom had he been visiting?’
Brother and sister looked at each other.
‘We don’t know,’ said Fanny. ‘Father never told us.’
‘Did he tell you where he was going on other occasions?’
‘He would tell me, occasionally,’ said Fanny, ‘though usually he would keep his own counsel.’
‘Did he tell anyone in college where he had been? His doctors, you see, would want to know that, in case he had caught an infection elsewhere. Who are his doctors? I will call on them – remember, I am a doctor myself.’
‘He was attended by old Dr Hope, who had been his physician for all the time that he was at Oxford. When things took a turn for the worse, he called in a young man to assist him, a Dr Chambers.’
‘And can you furnish me with the addresses of these doctors?’
‘Unfortunately, no,’ said Fanny. ‘Dr Hope has retired, and gone to live elsewhere in the country. Dr Chambers has accepted a post as a ship’s doctor, and is now on the high seas somewhere.’
Miss Jex-Blake sprang from her chair. She clasped her hands together in a kind of spasm of concentration, and began to pace about the room.
‘On the high seas! Can it be?’ she muttered. ‘Can it possibly be? But surely… .’
She turned to face the brother and sister, and they saw that her eyes were shining.
‘You have seen something that we have not?’ asked Timothy. Both women heard the note of pleading in his voice.
‘I believe that I have, but I can’t even begin to hint at it yet. Everything now depends on Detective Inspector Antrobus. Will he receive me? Will he take me seriously, or dismiss me as just another female busybody? I should love to work with a professional police detective, but if he declines, then I’ll go my own way. You probably won’t see me for some time, but remember that I’m going about your business. We shall meet again, here, at Lady Margaret Hall, when my quest is accomplished. Pray God that I shall come then bringing good news.’
12
A Joint Venture
‘Terrible it was, ma’am,’ said the porter at Oxford Station, ‘such a civil gentleman he was, and very free with the gratuities, as we say. And then to be poisoned by his own son, and him a clergyman. It doesn’t bear thinking of.’
The porter narrowed his eyes and peered down the track. Then he glanced at the clock hanging over the platform. The 10.31 from Paddington would be arriving in four minutes’ time. Meanwhile, it was a nice change to be talking to a lady about the late Sir Montague Fowler.
‘I suppose he was always travelling up to London?’ asked Sophia Jex-Blake.
‘Fairly often, ma’am. But it wasn’t to London that he travelled the week before he was took ill. No, it was to – well, it were to somewhere else. Whenever he made those particular journeys, he’d give me half-a-crown. Yes, he was a lovely man.’
‘And where did he go to? I’m making enquiries on behalf of a friend of his.’
‘Well, ma’am, I don’t know as how I can tell you that. “Ponder,” he’d say – that’s my name, Alfred Ponder – “there’s
no need to tell people where I’m going if they ask you. A man in my position needs a bit of peace and quiet from time to time.” And then he’d slip me the half-crown.’
At that moment, the train from Paddington appeared in a haze of smoke and steam. Alfred Ponder excused himself, and joined a little knot of fellow porters in assisting the passengers to alight, and have their luggage carried out to the cab-stand. Then he rejoined Dr Jex-Blake.
‘You know, Mr Ponder,’ said Sophia, ‘this work of yours – this dashing around, and carrying heavy weights – must make you very thirsty. Would you be offended if I offered you a half-crown? You need to drink plenty of liquids on a hot day like this.’
‘Why, that’s very handsome of you, ma’am, thank you very much.’
‘So Sir Montague liked to escape from the burden of his work from time to time? I’m sure that his poor daughter would love to know where he went. She’s overcome with grief, you know. Won’t you tell me, for her sake? Actually, she was the friend I mentioned.’
‘Well, ma’am, I will, seeing as how Sir Montague’s dead. He used to go a few times a year to a little place called Elm Ridge, which is a village over the county border in Berkshire, about twenty-five miles on the down line. It’s just a few farmhouses, a little inn, and a church. Nobody goes there much. There’s a halt there, and you have to let the train driver know that you want to get off.’
‘I suppose he’d stay with friends there?’
‘Well, maybe so. He stayed at one of the bigger farmhouses, a place called Grange Farm. He mentioned the name to me once.’
‘If I decided to go to Elm Ridge, how frequent are the trains?’
‘Well, you’d need to catch a train from here to Abingdon – they run three minutes past the hour daily until eight o’clock. Change there for Sutton Wick, and change again at Sutton Wick for Elm Ridge. Ask the driver at Sutton Wick to stop the train at Elm Ridge Halt. If you come into the ticket office, ma’am, I’ll write all that down for you.’
An Oxford Tragedy Page 14