An Oxford Tragedy

by Norman Russell

  ‘And Sir Montague Fowler would visit her?’

  ‘Yes, he came three or four times a year, on each occasion staying for a few days. I can see from your expression that you’re wondering why! Well, I’ve no idea. But the Oxford don and the farmer’s widow were close friends. Perhaps she’d been in service with the Fowlers at some time. They had an estate somewhere in the Home Counties. But I don’t know anything for certain.’

  ‘This tea is very good,’ said Sophia, ‘very sustaining, especially on a hot day like this. Did you wash out the stomachs as a last resort?’

  ‘Yes. As you know, it’s what you do when you see that there’s really no hope of recovery. It was, of course, a fatal nephritis.’

  ‘That’s what Sir Montague Fowler’s doctors did, you know: washed out his stomach with bicarbonate of soda. He, too, died of a terminal nephritis.’

  Ah! thought Antrobus. Clever! That’s the stuff!

  Dr Folliott put down his cup and saucer. He looked puzzled.

  ‘Well, of course, Dr Jex-Blake, that was before he was found to have been poisoned. I read in the paper that his organs were pervaded by mercuric chloride. So… .’

  ‘Dr Folliott,’ said Dr Jex-Blake, ‘please listen carefully to what I am going to say. When Sir Montague died, which was on the third of June, no one had heard even a hint of poison in the matter. The two doctors in attendance gave the cause of death as fatal nephritis consequent upon gastroenteritis. He was taken away by the funeral furnishers, and entombed on the twelfth. So he was laid to rest, Doctor, with his stomach quite empty, as it had been washed out as death was approaching. Rumours of poison came later.’

  The old doctor sighed, and shook his head. He looked at his guest with a kind of humorous vexation.

  ‘Well, that could not be so,’ he said. ‘For when he was taken from the tomb – I take it that samples were taken to a police mortuary? Yes, I thought so. When his body was opened, his organs were found to be full of mercuric chloride. So his stomach could not have been washed out before he died.’

  ‘But it was. So where does that fact lead us? Would you like some more tea?’

  ‘What? Yes, yes… . It leads us to an absurdity. An impossibility. Either his stomach was empty, or it wasn’t. The autopsy proves that it wasn’t. Wasn’t empty, I mean.’

  ‘There is a way,’ said Sophia, ‘in which one can re-think that absurdity to make it more than plausible. I’ve already thought about it, but I’d be delighted and reassured if you could work it out, too.’

  ‘But it’s nonsense!’ the old doctor cried. ‘If you insist that his stomach was empty when he was buried, then the only way… . The only way for mercuric chloride to be in his organs would be for someone to have put it there – put it in the samples, you know, that were brought back to the mortuary.’

  ‘Precisely! It’s an interesting speculation, Doctor. No doubt the police will come to the same conclusion, and set about solving the mystery. Well, we must bid you goodbye. Poor Marian! At least, now, she is at peace.’

  When they regained the hallway of the doctor’s house, Sophia laid her hand on the inspector’s arm.

  ‘That servant-woman, Bertha, wants to speak to me in private. Can you skulk in the garden until I’ve finished talking to her? I rather think that she’ll furnish us with the solution to the mystery of Sir Montague’s visits to Elm Rise.’

  ‘Now, ma’am,’ said Bertha, as Sophia came into the little kitchen at the rear of the house, ‘I thought it would be a good idea if you and I had a little chat before you leave. Mrs Hughes was well-esteemed in this village. She was a woman of substance, and very generous to anyone who was in difficulties. I’ve known her all my life: she and I were born in Elm Ridge, and never left it.

  ‘Now, in the year 1860, when she was twenty-six, but still single, having rejected a number of local suitors for one reason or another, she formed a liaison with a young gentleman from one of the Oxford colleges. I don’t know how they met, or where. Marian Ballard was a very pretty girl, and there’d been many a young man in these parts who hoped to win her heart. But she and this Oxford gentleman fell in love – they really did, you know; but he was already married, with a little boy, and they both knew that it would have to end.’

  ‘This young man from Oxford – you’re talking about Sir Montague Fowler, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am. So they parted, as was right and proper, and soon afterwards she found that she was with child. It was, of course, illegitimate. With Montague Fowler’s help it was put out to adoption, and he made certain that the child – it was a boy – received a sound education. He is now a grown man, and if you mention any of this to the Fowler family, they’ll soon realize who he is. All this was a profound secret. Lady Fowler never knew about it, and neither did any other member of the family. The boy himself will not know, though I expect he’ll have to be told. Marian married Tom Hughes a year later. He was a good man, who died before his time. After his death, Sir Montague began his regular visits.’

  ‘So Sir Montague never forgot Marian,’ said Sophia, ‘but when he was taken ill, they both knew it was imperative to avoid scandal for the sake of his family. That’s why he left. And that’s why he evidently never told his doctors or his servants where he had been, or how he had become ill. No one was to know, even when his own life was in peril. I find that rather touching.’

  ‘Maybe so, ma’am, but secrets of that kind tend to fester, and can break out into a lot of trouble. That’s why I’ve told you all this. You’re a lady, and will know what best to do, as, no doubt, will the gentleman standing in the garden. I don’t want my old master here to be burdened with all this suspicion and wickedness. But I know you’ll be discreet. I’m sorry for the family, and I wish them all well, but there have been too many secrets here in Elm Ridge. I expect they’re all clever enough and worldly enough to cope with an unpleasant truth.’

  Sophia Jex-Blake left the doctor’s house and, as she and Antrobus walked back to the White Lion, she told him Bertha’s story. Antrobus nodded, and turned aside for a moment. He brought out his handkerchief, and when he turned to look at her, she saw that a thin stream of blood was trickling from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘I think – I think… .’

  ‘Don’t try to talk, Inspector,’ she said. ‘Let’s get back to the inn. You must go to bed at once. We don’t need to worry old Dr Forrest. I’ve brought all that’s necessary in my luggage to treat you. No, no argument, please! Come, give me your arm.’

  Sophia Jex-Blake sat on a chair in Antrobus’s room over the stable, and looked at her new-found friend, who was lying in bed, propped up by pillows. As a doctor, she was neither intimidated nor frightened by illness. She had subjected the inspector to a thorough and rigid examination, despite his feeble protests, and had concluded that the bleeding from his lung would soon stop. Thankfully, it had not been arterial blood.

  She had administered a carbolic spray, and, despite the warm weather, had had a small fire lit in the grate, upon which she was burning a lavender shovel.

  ‘In fifteen minutes’ time, Mr Antrobus,’ she said, ‘I shall turn you on your right side so that you can clear your chest of phlegm. I’ve ordered a meal of scrambled eggs for you, followed by a dish of junket.’

  Inspector Antrobus groaned.

  ‘I’d rather have a steak, followed by a pint of porter,’ he whispered.

  ‘Well, you can’t. Not today, anyway. But you can have a small glass of brandy.

  ‘You’ll be quite recovered and fit to travel by tomorrow morning. We should be back in Oxford well before noon. Meanwhile, let us consider a few facts relating to the death of Sir Montague Fowler. Both doctors who attended the Warden in his last illness left Oxford almost immediately. One retired to the country, and the other took a berth as a ship’s doctor, and is somewhere half way across the world. So when the rumours began, and the packet of poison appeared in Sir Montague’s bedroom, neither physician was in England, so they could not be consulte
d on the matter. Had they been in Oxford, I’m sure they would have insisted that the Warden’s death was natural.’

  ‘But they weren’t,’ came a whisper from the bed, ‘and so an exhumation was inevitable.’

  ‘It was, and that was when some malevolent person gained access to the organs removed for analysis. And we know who that person is.’

  ‘Do we really? Pray enlighten me.’

  ‘We don’t know him by name – yet. What we do know is that it must be someone who works in the Oxford police mortuary. This was a natural death decked out to look like murder. Let us leave Sir Montague’s children alone for a while, and turn our attention to the denizens of St Michael’s College, and to Floyd’s Row Mortuary.’

  13

  Founder’s Day

  William Podmore surveyed himself in the full-length mirror attached to the wall of his dressing-room in the Lodgings. Really, he was an impressive sight! It would be wonderful when the undergraduates returned in October, and found him installed as Warden. He would watch their awed glances from the corner of his eye as they accosted him in the quadrangles, and when they raised their academic caps, he would raise his in reply, accompanying the action with a grave smile of acknowledgement.

  Today was Founder’s Day, which was celebrated each year on 21 July. In 1479 it had been a Sunday, but Lord Dorset, beset with many worries, had insisted on his new college being signed into existence on that day. A votive Mass of St Michael had been offered in the nearby church of St Michael at the North Gate.

  He had always looked well in full academic dress, with the scarlet gown and velvet bonnet of his doctorate in Civil Law. Today, he would be outshone only by the Vice-Chancellor, a man loaded with honours and gold braid. The college would be filled with guests for the day, and a number of old members would be staying overnight.

  There would be a champagne reception and buffet in the Common Room at lunchtime, ably arranged, as always, by Joe Steadman. It would be followed by a concert in hall, given by a talented local string quartet, followed by afternoon tea.

  At six o’clock, Latin vespers would be sung in the college chapel, an ancient tradition that had survived both the Reformation and the ejection by Cromwell’s men of the Warden and his chaplain, staunch Laudians both, and the installing of a Roundhead regime.

  And then would come the Founder’s Dinner in hall. He would sit in old Fowler’s tall-backed chair at the high table, flanked by the Vice-Chancellor and the Visitor, the Earl of Caernarvon. It would be splendid, and he would be at its centre.

  There had been three more of those hideous notes, two pushed under his door, and the third posted from Summertown. Their impact had been just as severe as the first note, the one that he had tried to burn in the flame of the candle. Would they ever stop?

  With a final straightening of his white tie, the Warden left the Lodgings, and passed through the arched entrance into the second quadrangle. A gaggle of guests had already assembled on the centre lawn. The champagne had been served, and everybody was clutching a glass, and engaging in animated conversation. There was Steadman, smiling broadly as he engaged an elderly clergyman in conversation.

  And there was Stanley Fitzmaurice, chatting to Templar. Fitzmaurice was too much attached to that fellow for his liking. He wanted Fitzmaurice as Bursar when he judged it right for Joe Steadman to go. Templar seemed to be running to seed. He was correctly dressed for once, but he still looked like a bundle of rags. What was the matter with him? He looked pale and drawn, and his eyes moved restlessly over the guests as though he were looking for a ghost.

  It was time for the buffet. The guests, as though alerted by a hidden signal, began to drift in the general direction of the senior common room.

  ‘Warden,’ said the Vice-Chancellor, the Reverend Henry Boyd, ‘do you think I could have a word with you in private?’

  The buffet was now just a pleasant memory. The concert in hall had been enjoyable in its own way, though perhaps a trifle too long. In a moment, when the Vice-Chancellor had left him, he would go and lie down in the Lodgings for an hour, before the chapel bell summoned them all to Latin Vespers – and then dinner!

  It was a lovely summer’s afternoon, with the perfume of wisteria in the air. The two men strolled out of the hall, and made their way through the throng of guests into the first quadrangle. The Vice-Chancellor pointed to the door of the Lodgings.

  ‘Perhaps you would invite me in to your cool hallway,’ he said. ‘What I have to tell you won’t take more than a couple of minutes, but it is rather hot out here.’

  The ground floor of the Lodgings had always been a gloomy part of the house. But it was pleasant enough to sit on the two upright Jacobean chairs flanking the hall fireplace.

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point, Podmore,’ said the Vice-Chancellor. ‘Your plagiarizing of another man’s work, and passing it off as your own, was a rascally thing to do. Quite frankly, I would not have believed it of you… .’

  ‘Sir, that is an outrageous thing to suggest… .’

  ‘Oh, it won’t do! I tell you I have proof positive of your chicanery, which somebody – never mind who – sent to me earlier this week. You have built your whole career on a lie and a cheat. For goodness sake, man, don’t go fainting on me! Your face alone betrays your guilt.’

  Podmore’s voice, little more than a whisper, came faint and tremulous.

  ‘Did Steadman tell you?’

  ‘Dr Steadman? Certainly not. What a bizarre idea!’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Do? You realize that I can’t keep silent about this business? To do so would make me an accessory to your act. When the Founder’s Dinner is over tonight, I will tell the Earl of Caernarvon. With luck, His Lordship will be persuaded that discretion in the matter would be preferable to a hideous scandal. You would be advised to resign immediately. Perhaps you could cite ill health as your reason. Yes, that must be your way out. And as for your ambition to succeed me as Vice-Chancellor, you will see that there is now no chance whatever of that. John Magrath will get it, and deservedly so.’

  The Vice-Chancellor rose to his feet. He looked at the crumpled figure sunk in the chair opposite. Surely he could find it in his heart to pity the man? Dash it all, no! He was a cad and a hypocrite. But he would help him to leave the college and the university away from the limelight, and as soon as was decent.

  When he reached the door, he turned to look at the Warden of St Michael’s College.

  ‘You may be able to join the Exchequer in a permanent post,’ he said. ‘But then again, I don’t suppose the Chancellor of the Exchequer will countenance it, once the story gets out. I will do what I can to protect the reputation of the college. Bear up, and face your misfortunes like a man. For you, and you alone, are the author of them.’

  At six o’clock, the chapel bell was rung by the porter, and those guests who had elected to attend the Latin Vespers made their way into the chapel. It occupied the same side of the first quadrangle as the Lodgings, and was, in its way, an impressive place. It had been thoroughly restored in the fifties, and some fine stained-glass had been installed. The congregation faced each other, as is the custom in collegiate chapels, and there were two return stalls, each curtained, one for the Warden, and the other for the Vice-Warden.

  There was an antechapel, above which stood the organ, and today an organ scholar, borrowed from Exeter College for the occasion, was playing some soft and subtle music. Those with a knowledge of such things recognized it as a work by William Byrd.

  Joseph Steadman rested his back on the panelling, and looked around him. Podmore had seemed very proud and happy, as well he might be on his first Founder’s Day as Warden. Hypocrite! He had still pretended to drink nothing but bottled spring water, but Steadman had seen the tell-tale tremor that showed he’d been secretly at the bottle.

  The Vice-Warden’s stall was still empty. When would Podmore make his choice? And would he have the sense to choose Stanley Fitzmaurice? He was an
able Senior Tutor, and a man whose modesty made one forget that he was a professor of Arabic.

  The organist reached the end of his repertoire. In a moment, no doubt, he’d start up again. Old Theodore Waynefleet was slumped in his stall in the sanctuary, thumbing through his prayer book. He did Latin well, in the old style, but he was getting too old for his office of chaplain. He was said to be eighty-five, and that could well be true.

  In a few moments it would be time for ‘swish-bang’. This was the ritual that began every service. The Warden by custom waited for the chapel to fill up before he made his entrance. When the bell stopped ringing, he would leave the Lodgings, enter the chapel, climb up into his stall, and close the curtain with an audible swish. This was a signal to the porter to slam the door, which in turn was a signal to the chaplain to begin the service.

  Swish-bang.

  But not this evening. The organist began to play something by Stainer. The congregation became restless, some going as far as to look at their watches. All eyes gradually turned to the Warden’s empty stall. A quarter of an hour passed. And then people began to whisper to each other. Steadman caught Fitzmaurice’s eye, and the Senior Tutor rose from his seat opposite and went into the antechapel. Steadman heard him say to the porter, ‘Reid, will you go into the Lodgings, and tell the Warden that we are waiting to begin the service.’

  Ten minutes passed. Somebody coughed nervously. The organist came down from the loft. Then the door was flung open without ceremony, and the porter gave them the news that death had once again visited the Lodgings.

  As the new town hall in St Aldate’s was not yet completed, the inquest on the body of Dr William Podmore, MA DCL, was held in a spacious room above the public bar in the King’s Arms, Holywell Street. It was the Monday following Founder’s Day, and the whole city was agog with the news of a second mysterious death at St Michael’s College. It was a very hot day, and the room was packed almost to suffocation. A boisterous knot of reporters stood on the steep staircase, notebooks at the ready.