Armstrong removed the crepe cover, revealing the stomach, submerged in a preservative liquor. Inspector Antrobus leaned forward and surveyed it with interest. It was about twelve inches long and six inches wide, and had assumed a yellowish hue. It was hard to imagine that it had once been part of a living man.
‘Remind me, if you will, Doctor,’ said Antrobus. ‘You removed that stomach from Sir Montague’s body with the assistance of Dr Gerald Templar of St Michael’s?’
‘Yes, that’s right. We detached it from the duodenum and the oesophagus, and placed it in that jar. We did that in an old stable in the village of Lynham Hill, in Wiltshire, where Sir Montague was buried.’
‘And did you personally examine the contents of the stomach?’ asked Antrobus.
‘No. The stomach, and other organs, were conveyed back to Oxford, and examined here by Dr Templar, who was able to confirm the presence of large quantities of mercuric chloride in the rugae and mucus membrane. I have looked out his report for you, in case you would like to consult it.’
They had come straight from the Radcliffe Infirmary to the mortuary. Dr Armstrong knew nothing of the dramatic events of that morning.
‘When you removed the stomach at Lynham Hill,’ asked Sophia Jex-Blake, ‘did you notice that it was apparently empty? The attendant physicians had swilled out the stomach with bicarbonate of soda as a final measure before the patient died.’
‘You will understand, Dr Jex-Blake,’ said Armstrong somewhat testily, ‘that our purpose was to remove organs for careful examination in a laboratory. To both of us the stomach looked empty. It was, of course, immediately irrigated when we placed it in the formalin solution.’
Dr Evan Pincent came forward and placed a little shagreen case on the bench beside the jar. Without saying a word, he removed his coat and rolled back his shirtsleeves away from the wrists. Dragging a tall stool towards him, he sat down, broke the wax seal, and unscrewed the jar. A wide, deep enamel tray had been set out by the laboratory steward, and Antrobus winced as the doctor slid the stomach out of the jar. The smell of formalin filled the room. Pincent opened his little case, and removed some kind of metal probe, and what seemed to Antrobus to be a long, narrow brass telescope. He bent over the stomach, and began to use his probe.
They all watched in silence as he worked. Sometimes he peered through his telescope at a particular locus of tissue inside the grim mass, at other times he wielded a scalpel. After thirty minutes or so, he straightened up from the bench, and addressed himself to Sophia Jex-Blake. He spoke with a slightly belligerent London accent.
‘Miss Jex-Blake, it’s obvious that this stomach was empty at the time of Sir Montague’s death. There is no trace of any food or of any foreign body adhering to the rugae or in the pylorus. I have detected some traces of the sodium bicarbonate used to flush out the stomach: a very strong solution, virtually saturated in this case, had been used, and some particles have adhered to the stomach wall.’
He handed his telescope to Sophia, who examined the stomach wall, and nodded her agreement.
‘That adhesion should have been mentioned in Dr Templar’s report,’ she said. ‘I have read that report, and there is no mention of the fact. Pray continue, Doctor.’
‘When I looked more deeply beneath the surface, penetrating both the mucosa and the sub-mucosa, I found large quantities of mercuric chloride crystals pressed deeply into the tissue. Not lodged, but pressed. There are similar deposits virtually jammed into the opening of the oesophagus, and beyond the pylorus in the surgically severed part of the duodenum. In two places, the probe – probably the flat end of a chemical spatula – had actually pierced the serosa, the fibrous outer cover of the stomach wall.’
Dr Pincent looked at his audience. They were waiting for him to announce his conclusion.
‘When this man died, his stomach was empty. It remained in that state until it was brought back here to Oxford Mortuary. Once here, someone “doctored” it, if I may use that word, so that it looked as though the man had been poisoned. It is a crude physical attack on a dead organ, which any trained doctor would notice immediately. To find out who did it, you must question the doctor who examined this organ and produced the report detailing what he had discovered.’
Dr Armitage made no reply, but left the room, returning after a couple of minutes with a young man in a brown laboratory coat.
‘This is John Maitland,’ he said, ‘who is one of the technicians employed here in the mortuary. Maitland, I want you to cast your mind back to that day in July when the specimen organs of the late Sir Montague Fowler were brought here for examination. I want you to tell us what occurred here on that day.’
The young man cleared his throat nervously.
‘Sir,’ he said, ‘The specimens arrived here by railway courier late on the afternoon of 5 July, which was a Wednesday. They’d been sent straight here after the exhumation proceedings on the day before. Well, you know that, Dr Armitage, because you despatched them yourself.’
‘I did indeed, Maitland,’ said Armitage, a ghost of a smile playing round his lips. ‘And of what did this consignment consist?’
‘There were three sealed jars, sir. One contained the stomach, one held the liver, and the third the kidneys of the deceased subject. I brought them in here to the laboratory, and left them on that bench for Dr Templar.’
‘Did you unseal them, or remove the crepe masks?’
‘No, sir. I left them just as they were. I would not have touched them until Dr Templar arrived from St Michael’s College.’ The lad licked his lips. ‘I hope I did nothing wrong, sir. I followed the standard procedures as usual.’
‘And when did Dr Templar arrive?’
‘He came in quite late, sir, just after seven o’clock. It was getting dark, and when I heard his cab stopping outside I lit the gas mantle over the bench.’
‘What happened then?’
‘Dr Templar came in, and sat down at the bench. He’d brought his own doctor’s bag with him, which he placed beside the jars. Dr Templar seemed nervous and uneasy. He was very pale, and his brow was covered in sweat. I don’t think he was very well. He knew me, of course, because I’d worked with him before. But that night he said that he wished to work alone. He told me to go home, and as I left the laboratory I heard him lock the door behind me.’
‘What did you find when you came in on Friday morning? Was everything in order?’
‘Yes, sir. The jars were all properly signed and sealed, and Dr Templar’s written report was lying in a cardboard folder on the bench. He must have worked very late into the night to have completed it.’
‘Well, Maitland,’ said Dr Armitage, ‘I have one final question that I want to put to you. What did you think when Dr Templar told you to leave him alone and go home?’
‘Well, sir, I thought it was irregular, if you don’t mind me saying so. We’ve always had two or more medical staff present when these investigations are carried out. Yes, I thought it was most irregular.’
‘Antrobus,’ said Dr Armitage, when he had dismissed young Maitland, ‘what does this mean? Surely Dr Templar would not stoop to such wicked fabrication?’
Antrobus told him of the dramatic events of that morning at St Michael’s College, and of Templar’s hospital confession.
‘I’m shocked, Inspector,’ said Armitage, ‘shocked and horrified.’ He glanced at the row of jars arrayed on the shelf above the bench. ‘When time serves, I’ll examine Sir Montague’s liver and kidneys, for signs of similar contamination. But what we’ve seen here, in the stomach, is all you will need to confirm your suspicions.’
‘I must go now,’ said Antrobus, ‘to secure the necessary warrants. Templar may imagine that there was some justification for what he did, but the law will think otherwise, and he will most certainly have to serve a term of imprisonment. His days as a Fellow of St Michael’s College are over.’
The re-examination of the post-mortem specimens took place on Thursday, 26 July. By that wee
kend, the whole of Oxford had heard the sensational news, thanks to the assiduous reporters of Jackson’s Journal. The London papers took the matter up, and reports of what The Daily Telegraph described as ‘the villainy of an Oxford don’ ensured that Gerald Templar was firmly established as the villain of the piece. The Morning Post, noted for its even-handed reporting, printed as its third leader a persuasive summary of what had come to be known as ‘the St Michael’s College Affair’ in its issue of Monday, 30 July:
Since Thursday last we have all become familiar with the appalling villainy of Dr Gerald Templar, who, apparently out of mean jealousy, contrived to make the sad passing of Sir Montague Fowler, a victim of gastroenteritis, appear to have been murder. Then Templar, having discovered evidence of an unethical act committed by Dr William Podmore, Sir Montague Fowler’s successor as Warden of St Michael’s, proceeded to send that unfortunate gentleman a series of anonymous notes, so cruel and gloating in their import, presumably, as to drive Podmore to suicide.
St Michael’s College will have to cope with these tragedies as well as it may, and we have no doubt that, as an institution, it will survive this injurious epoch in its long history. It is to the family of the late Sir Montague Fowler that most harm has been done, harm that the wretched Templar can do nothing to alleviate. The dark shadow of suspicion – suspicion of parricide – has hung over Fowler’s three innocent children for too long. They must now be left in peace to resume their avocations with our hearty best wishes for their continued success. As for Gerald Templar, let the Law fall heavily upon him. A disgrace to his profession, he is not fit to form the minds of the young gentlemen who are entrusted to his care. Let the Law act. Let us hear no more of him.
‘Sergeant Maxwell,’ said Inspector Antrobus, ‘I’ve decided to let that business of the Reverend Mr Fowler’s concealing the packet of mercuric chloride to lie on the file. Or to put it more plainly, to forget about it. It was an innocent man’s blind panic that made him do it. But you’re dressed up for battle this morning, Joe, buttoned up like that, and with your best bowler on display. Are you going to tell me what you’re up to?’
‘Do you mind if I tell you when I’ve come back, sir?’ said Maxwell. ‘It’ll be a nice surprise for you. I’m going to St Michael’s College, to have a word with that scout, Haynes, the one who looked after poor Mr Podmore. I have a little theory about him.’
Maxwell found Haynes washing up cups and saucers in a sort of cupboard leading off the first-floor landing on Staircase IV. The man gave him a surly nod, but before he could ask why the sergeant had come to disturb him at his work, Maxwell attacked.
‘I’ll not beat about the bush, Haynes,’ he said, in his loud, intimidating voice. ‘I want to know why you forged this suicide note.’ From the inside pocket of his coat he took the half sheet of note paper that Antrobus had discovered in Podmore’s bedroom, and slammed it down on the drain-board. The cups and saucers rattled in protest.
‘What do you mean, forged? I never… .’
‘Why deny it? What’s the point? It’s a very good forgery of Mr Podmore’s handwriting, but forgery it is, my friend. You and your master were a precious pair, weren’t you? He was a plagiarist, by which we mean a copier of other people’s efforts, and you were a forger. Maybe you caught it from him. Forgery, I mean. So, listen. You can tell me here and now, here in this little cubby-hole, why you did it, or you can come down to the police station and—’
‘He was not my “master”, Mr Maxwell. This is a college, not a private residence. But then, you wouldn’t know that, would you? He was my gentleman, who lived on my staircase, and I looked after his needs. Why are you accusing me of forgery?’
‘Because of what it says in that note. Look at it! “It is all up with me. Boyd and Steadman have done for me. I cannot face the shame. Blame no one for my death.” Someone as learned as Dr Podmore wouldn’t write “Boyd and Steadman have done for me.” Done for me? Gentlemen don’t speak like that. He’d have used some fancy phrase or other.’
‘He said “Boyd and Steadman between them have secured my downfall.” I only remembered his exact words later. Yes, I wrote that note, because he never wrote one himself, and I wanted everyone to know who’d driven him to his death.’
Tears rose to the man’s eyes. He dashed them away angrily.
‘I’ll tell you what happened, and then you can do as you like. It was late in the afternoon of Founder’s Day. I’d been out to buy Dr Podmore a bottle of gin. He drank heavily, and so did I, though everybody here thought he was a total abstainer. He was very generous to me, but the dons here despised him. Curse them! What secrets were they concealing from the light of day?’
‘So you’d been out to buy him a bottle of gin? What happened next?’
‘Well, I’m telling you, aren’t I? I went into the Lodgings. He must have heard the door open, because he called down from upstairs. I found him in his bedroom, in a terrible state. He’d drunk a whole bottle of spirits, he told me, but it couldn’t drown his sorrows. He hadn’t changed for dinner, and was still in his day clothes. “In God’s name, what’s the matter, sir?” I cried. And then he gave me such a look as almost froze my blood in my veins. “Oh, Haynes,” he said, “Boyd and Steadman between them have secured my downfall.” I said a few soothing words, and left him.
‘Not long afterwards, the chapel bell was rung by Mr Reid, the Head Porter, and you know what happened then. It was after Mr Reid discovered the body, and before Inspector Antrobus arrived, that I slipped into the Lodgings and wrote that note. He’d not written one himself, you see, and I wanted everybody to know who’d driven him to his death. He was lying there, across the bed, and I knew that he’d poisoned himself. He’d talk about poison sometimes, when he was low, and under the influence. He was my gentleman! I wasn’t going to let him go to his grave with no one knowing who’d put him there. So what are you going to do about it?’
The man’s voice had become tremulous, and he had turned pale. Maxwell knew that he feared the loss of his livelihood.
‘I’m going to do nothing, Mr Haynes,’ said Maxwell. ‘I just wanted to satisfy my curiosity, that’s all. This note will go back into the case-file, and that’s the last anyone will hear of it. So dry those cups and saucers, and put your mind at rest.’
Frances Fowler stood on the pavement in Scrivener’s Court, a discreet little square between George Street and Friar’s Entry, and in the purlieus of Worcester College, looking up at a freshly painted sign above a bow-fronted shop:
Henry Ballard, University Stationer
The dark shadow of murder hanging over the family had lifted, but it would be quite wrong to leave Father’s secretary in the dark as to his parentage. Now was the time to let him know that he was their half-brother. It would be difficult for all concerned to adjust to the idea, but she and her brothers had always led independent lives, and no doubt Ballard would do the same. The approach that she had planned would probably save all four of them embarrassment.
She entered the shop, setting a bell jangling behind the door. The shelves were still not filled, and there was a pile of shavings left by a joiner at the side of the long mahogany counter. A neat stack of leaflets had been placed in a tray, announcing that Mr Henry Ballard sought the patronage of the colleges and institutions of Oxford University for the supplying of the highest quality stationery.
A door at the back of the shop opened, and Ballard appeared, carrying a pile of exercise books. His normally austere face was transformed by a smile of welcome.
‘Why, Miss Frances!’ he exclaimed. ‘How kind of you to look in! I wonder… . Have you come to favour me with an order for Makin House School?’
‘I will certainly do that, Ballard,’ she said. ‘The sign above the door reads “University Stationer”. Is that an official title?’
Henry Ballard smiled and shook his head.
‘No, miss, I fear I awarded it to myself. But I have many contacts among the colleges, and I’ve already been promised
large orders from Balliol and Trinity.’
‘You seem in your element here.’
‘I am, Miss Frances. I always hoped, if Sir Montague had dispensed with my services, that I could seek employment in this kind of business. Of course, it means that I am now in trade, but it’s a dignified, clean-handed business. And this shop is my own: I was even able to buy the lease. I open for business in two weeks’ time. Yes, I am very happy, miss. And it goes without saying that I am happy for the family, now that you have emerged from the shadow cast upon you by that appalling man.’
‘Ballard,’ said Frances, ‘I haven’t come here today to place an order, though you can be sure of my custom. I am here to tell you an intimate secret concerning my – concerning the late Sir Montague Fowler.’
She told him all that Inspector Antrobus and Miss Jex-Blake had discovered in their visit to Elm Ridge. While she spoke, Ballard did not raise his eyes from the counter. He stood perfectly still, though it was obvious that he was greatly agitated. It was only when she had finished speaking that he looked up and met her eyes. He had gone very pale, but there was a faint smile hovering about his lips.
‘So what do you think, Ballard?’ said Frances quickly, before he could reply. ‘That was the tale told to Inspector Antrobus and Miss Jex-Blake, by an old country doctor and his housekeeper. What do you think?’ she repeated.
Henry Ballard’s shoulders sagged in evident relief.
‘Well, Miss Frances,’ he said, ‘that is a very curious tale, not very – well, not very nice, if I may put it like that. Quite frankly, I don’t believe a word of it. Oh, I’m not doubting your word, miss – God forbid! I can understand my late dear employer having a friend in the country in whom he could confide. But all this suggestion of a child – well, that can only be speculation. Country folk, I believe, are often avid for sensation, living as they do such humdrum lives, and what won’t come to them by way of fact, they conjure up from their imagination.’
An Oxford Tragedy Page 19