‘It was a private matter.’ Mr Fogle’s mild voice now had the faintest crackle of frost. ‘A religious matter, between two consecrated priests of God.’
‘Can you tell me about his mood? Was he cheerful – had the poison started to affect him?’
There was another spell of silence, during which Mr Fogle looked cagey and was clearly weighing up how much he should reveal to me. Eventually he shook his head and said, ‘I cannot betray the secrets of his inmost soul, but you may as well know, since everyone here must have heard – towards the end of our meeting, Arthur became very agitated. I could make nothing of it at the time. I have since learnt that atropine can work upon people in this way.’
‘At what time did he leave you?’
‘Just after eight o’clock,’ said Mr Fogle. ‘He – he wished me goodnight and went to his own room. It was the last time I saw him. I cannot bear to think that he suffered so much and died alone – in such a dreadful way!’
‘Yes, I’m afraid he must have suffered.’ My knowledge of poisons was limited, but atropine is derived from the common plant known as ‘deadly nightshade’ – and all country-bred people know those purple berries can bring a death that is truly agonizing. ‘But did no one hear him? I cannot believe he died without making a single sound!’
‘By a most unhappy chance, all the other rooms in the old stables were empty that night.’
Once again I had a strong sense that he was hiding something. Of course he was; the greater part of Arthur’s last day on earth was still unaccounted for. And before that, where had Arthur been between leaving Hardinsett and arriving at Swinford? But I decided not to press him and changed course.
‘You have been most kind to receive me, Mr Fogle. Before I leave you, I would very much like to see Arthur’s body.’
‘I would advise against it.’
‘You need not worry that I’ll faint or go into hysterics. I have no fear of the dead. His wife is in great distress because she could not pray beside him; I promised to do so on her behalf.’
‘You are on an errand of mercy,’ said Mr Fogle. ‘I cannot deny you. The poor woman must save her soul before she dies.’
He thought Rachel was guilty. I swallowed my anger, for I could not afford to argue with him now.
Meek and mild as ever, yet somehow still conveying unwillingness, Mr Fogle led me out of the house through a back door. I had seen a picture of the famous ‘retreat’ he had built here, and was prepared for the oddity of the place; the stableyard had been dug up and laid to lawn, and the stable building itself whitewashed, with a cross placed above the door, but there was still a lingering atmosphere of horse.
A young policeman stood at the door, which was wide open.
‘They are everywhere,’ Mr Fogle murmured to me, his face creased with pain. ‘My holy house has been violated.’
‘The police must be allowed to do their work,’ I could not help pointing out. ‘And you can’t blame them for violating your holy house – the murderer did that.’
‘Lord bless me!’ cried someone behind the door. ‘Is that Mrs Rodd?’
And out stepped the stiff, drab, soldierly figure of the best policeman in London (to give him his due), who had caused me a not little annoyance in several of my past cases.
‘Inspector Blackbeard!’
Fourteen
For a moment I had an unholy desire to laugh. Inspector Thomas Blackbeard’s hooded eyes had a kindly glint to them, which I recognized as humour.
‘Well, Mrs Rodd – I might have known you’d come into it somewhere!’
‘This is not one of my cases, Inspector,’ I said quickly, aware that Mr Fogle was frowning. ‘My involvement is personal.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear that, ma’am.’
‘Mr Somers was a dear friend of mine. I’m afraid you will want to speak to me, but first I wish to see him.’
‘Not a pretty sight,’ said Blackbeard, shaking his head solemnly. ‘But I know you’ve seen worse, Mrs Rodd. And you’re just in time, too – I was about to tell the undertaker’s man to put the lid on and nail him down.’
Mr Fogle winced at his bluntness. ‘I beg you, Inspector, to remember that this is a place of prayer.’
‘It’s a place of murder,’ said Blackbeard shortly. ‘I need to speak with you, Mr Fogle; I’d be obliged if you’d suggest a time.’ (He was of my mind, I noted, and would not address Fogle as ‘Father’.)
‘I shall be at your service, after I have shown Mrs Rodd into our chapel.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ The inspector gave us a stiff little bow. ‘And I shall be interested to hear anything you have to tell me, ma’am.’
Mr Fogle led me into the old stables. The stalls had been turned into tiny white ‘cells’, their open doors revealing each with a crucifix on the bare wall above the narrow bed, and a little high window.
‘This was the room he stayed in, when he was here.’ Mr Fogle opened the door at the end of the short passage.
I looked at the room. It was white and bare and exactly like all the others; the last place that poor Arthur had seen on earth.
‘It has been cleaned,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Fogle. ‘As I have explained to the police, at first we had no idea that this was the scene of a murder.’
‘But – what else could it have been?’ I tried not to snap at him. ‘Surely you did not assume he had taken his own life?’
‘Naturally it crossed my mind, Mrs Rodd, until I saw how unlikely it was that he – or indeed anyone – would have chosen a method so painful. I concluded in the end that it must have been a simple accident.’
Mr Fogle opened the door of the chapel, and startled me by suddenly dropping a curtsey and crossing himself.
After that I had no eyes for anything but Arthur.
His open coffin stood in the aisle of that small, bare chapel; I wept freely when I saw him.
The ingestion of poison does not improve the appearance of a corpse, and this one had been further disfigured by the passing of time. Mercifully, the ‘snarling’ expression of his features caused by the poison had faded, but I had to search for the man I knew in the fragments of his wrecked beauty.
I prayed beside Arthur for a long time, trying not to be distracted by the shouts and footsteps outside. I imagined my beloved Matt greeting him in the next world, as he had too often greeted him in this one: ‘Good grief, Somers, what daft thing have you done now?’
I had my chance to speak properly to the inspector when he accepted a ride in my carriage.
‘Thank you, ma’am; some of us ain’t as young as we were, and a ride back to Oxford would be most welcome.’ He climbed into the seat beside me. ‘Particularly now the rain’s stopped. It’s wetter than the rain we get in London, if you ask me.’
‘Very true,’ I said. ‘Did you speak to Mr Fogle?’
‘He put me off till after the funeral tomorrow,’ said Blackbeard. ‘And he wasn’t too pleased when I told him I was in no hurry. Rum sort of place, eh?’
‘To put it mildly, Inspector, I must admit that I’m rather glad to get away; there’s something oppressive in the atmosphere.’
‘As well there might be, ma’am, at the scene of a murder.’
‘The Coroner’s Court found that Arthur Somers merely died at Swinford,’ I reminded him. ‘And the actual murder took place elsewhere – somewhere between here and Hardinsett.’
‘With respect, Mrs Rodd, all we’ve got on that is the word of them vicars.’
‘Are you saying that you don’t believe them?’ I tried not to smile at ‘them vicars’, for this was important. ‘My dear Inspector, they’re clergymen!’
‘All I’m saying is that they could be wrong about the time of the victim’s arrival at Swinford, and that could make a difference. When did he run into Barton, and where? That’s what I need to know.’
It was all coming back to me now; the peculiar and contradictory nature of my feelings about this man, so spare and grey and
self-contained. Before he joined the Metropolitan Police, Blackbeard had been a sergeant in the army, and he still held himself like a soldier. In several of my cases he had infuriated me with his obstinacy, his dogged sticking to one line of thinking, his dismissal of anything in the shape of an instinct. But I had the greatest respect for his intelligence, and my heart sank a little, for if Blackbeard had made up his mind to send Rachel and Mr Barton to the gallows, I had a hard fight on my hands.
‘You seem to be assuming,’ I said carefully, ‘that they are guilty.’
‘I don’t assume anything,’ said Blackbeard. ‘But it does rather look that way.’
‘Appearances can be deceiving. I visited Mrs Somers this morning, and I’m as sure of her innocence as I am of my own!’
‘Hmm,’ said Blackbeard. ‘Who let you go a-visiting, ma’am? It’s the first I’ve heard of it.’
I began to explain my old acquaintance with Mr Martindale, but Blackbeard made a sound like two sheets of sandpaper being rubbed together, which I knew to be his version of laughter.
‘I should’ve guessed! Is there any vicar on earth you don’t know, Mrs Rodd? I just wish I had a shilling for every time you’ve gone behind my back because you know the vicar! Well, it won’t wash this time. In future nobody visits Mrs Somers unless they apply to me. And that goes for Mr Barton, too.’
‘I know Mr Barton. He’s a fine young man – and the last person on earth to commit a murder. I’m sure of it.’
‘Hmm,’ said Blackbeard (oh, that ‘hmm’ of his, how it annoyed me!). ‘Here we go.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You’re going to tell me about your instincts and your feelings. And then you’ll get up on your high horse when I ask for some proper evidence.’
‘You and I are on the same side, Mr Blackbeard,’ I said firmly. ‘We both want to find the person or persons who murdered Arthur Somers. My friends are victims of a terrible injustice.’
‘Well, I hope you’re right, ma’am; I don’t like to think of hanging ladies and clergymen. But even ladies and clergyman need decent alibis, and they ain’t got one.’
‘I haven’t been able to examine all the reports; where do they both claim to have been, on the afternoon of the murder?’
Blackbeard did not reply for a moment, but looked at me with the faintest hint of a smile. ‘Here you go, firing out questions! But the boot’s on the other foot this time. You could be a witness.’
‘A witness? Nonsense.’
‘It may be that I have to ask you about certain events that occurred during your visit.’
‘Mr Blackbeard, you have my solemn promise that I will tell you absolutely everything – but I know in my very bones that they are innocent.’
‘You and your bones won’t hold up in court, ma’am. Find me someone who saw them. Mrs Somers says she was sleeping; Barton says he went a-walking in the woods, and never met a living soul.’
‘That’s possible, surely.’
‘Lots of things are possible,’ said Mr Blackbeard. ‘As things stand, however, I have two good reasons for thinking Barton’s guilty. The first being the testimony of Mr Daniel Arden.’
‘I know Mr Arden. He is a very good man; how can he be involved?’
‘He made the poison.’
‘Oh.’ I had not heard this detail.
‘He’s something of a chemist and he distilled some deadly nightshade as part of an old recipe for eyedrops,’ said Mr Blackbeard. ‘He saw Barton put the bottle into his pocket, allegedly to keep it away from the little boys.’
‘Oh.’ This was bad. ‘And what is your second reason?’
‘Well, it’s a rule I follow in all cases of murder.’ Blackbeard’s dry voice was matter-of-fact, but he was very serious. ‘When you boil it down, there’s only three reasons why people do it – love, money and the fear of being found out. If I have a suspect who’s driven by one of those three, it’s ten to one he – or she – is my killer.’
I wanted to argue, but could not; the truth was that most murders could be made to fit into this crude model, and it was only too obvious what drove Rachel and Mr Barton. I was suddenly horribly aware that anything I told Mr Blackbeard could send them to the gallows.
Fifteen
At the exact hour of Arthur’s burial at Swinford the following morning, I knelt in the empty chapel at Gabriel and read through the service in the prayer book. The great and all-too-familiar words brought me, for the first time in many days, a sense of peace. I had no doubt that dear Arthur was now in the Celestial City – no matter who had sent him there.
Afterwards, not quite ready to face Mrs Watts-Weston, I went wandering through the college gardens. The sun was warm, yet the air had a smoky tang of approaching autumn. Though the official start of the new term was several weeks away, Oxford had begun to shake itself awake. Young voices echoed in the stairwells and cloisters, and the narrow streets were absolutely black with clergymen.
‘Mrs Rodd! This is a bit of luck; I was on my way to call on you.’
It was Mr Jennings, who trotted along the path to catch me up.
‘Mr Jennings, how nice to see you.’ We shook hands.
‘I wanted to say how sorry I was about Arthur Somers; I know he was a friend of yours.’
‘Yes, I was very fond of him – which made the brutal manner of his death yet more distressing.’
‘I didn’t know him well,’ said Mr Jennings. ‘But he was a good man, with a pure heart.’
He looked very well, as I belatedly noticed; his plump, fresh face had lost its harried expression and he wore a fine new suit of clothes.
‘You have been away,’ I said.
‘Yes, Mrs Rodd,’ said Mr Jennings. ‘I spent the past month down in Sussex, with my mother. I knew nothing of the murder until I saw the newspapers at the railway station. But I wanted to talk to you about something else.’
‘Oh?’
‘Let’s just walk a little further along the path – out of range of the parlour window.’ He led me into the shelter of a great weeping willow tree beside the river, where only the swans could see us. ‘I wondered if you had heard the news about Joshua Welland.’
‘I have heard nothing.’ The truth was that, thanks to chickenpox and then murder, I had not even thought of my wandering scholar for weeks.
‘I’m very sorry to tell you that he has died.’
‘Good heavens!’ I was so shocked that for a long moment I could not speak. ‘When did this happen? How?’
‘In July, some weeks after you had left Hardinsett.’
‘He feared for his life. I wish we had listened!’
‘There was no crime involved,’ said Mr Jennings sadly. ‘The poor chap died of pneumonia. He sent for me at the end; I thank God that I had not yet left town and was there to tend to him.’
It made a melancholy postscript to the story, though I was glad the man had not been murdered after all. ‘Was he able to speak to you?’
Mr Jennings nodded. ‘He was very weak, yet he had all his wits about him. He wanted to give me certain instructions about his burial. He had purchased a plot for himself at—’
‘Shotton Barrow,’ I could not help interrupting. ‘Next to the grave of Hannah Laurie.’
‘Yes.’ He was startled that I knew this.
‘And I assume you performed the burial.’
‘I did, and it was an odd sort of affair,’ said Mr Jennings. ‘I was rather taken aback by the crowd of people in the churchyard. They came from miles around. Even the charcoal burners came.’
For a few minutes we were quiet.
‘I am most grateful to you for telling me,’ I said. ‘I take it his brother was informed.’
‘I wrote to him and his doctor sent a reply, saying he had relayed the news, but didn’t know if Jacob had understood.’
‘Jacob must have gone himself by now, God rest his soul.’
‘Amen,’ said Mr Jennings.
‘I’m afraid I have no idea when he die
d; he was very close to it when I last saw him.’
‘They’re together now, at any rate.’ His eyes glazed with tears; he muttered, ‘Please excuse me,’ pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and loudly blew his nose.
‘You were a true friend to Joshua, Mr Jennings,’ I said. ‘I’m glad to know that you were with him at the end.’
‘Thank you,’ he said shakily. ‘I did my duty as a clergyman, but it was a sorrowful duty. I couldn’t help regretting all that wasted promise. And I don’t even have those papers of his to remember him by, because the servant threw them away. Now every trace of his existence has vanished.’
‘He stood on the very brink of inheriting his brother’s fortune,’ I said, wondering who would get it now. ‘I do wish I had managed to help that story to a happier outcome!’
Mr Jennings gave me a watery smile. ‘Joshua left me one more surprise. When I arrived at my mother’s house, a few days after the funeral, there was a letter waiting for me. It contained a bundle of banknotes, and an unsigned message: “For God’s sake man, buy some new clothes!”’
‘I see that you obeyed him,’ I said, smiling at Joshua’s final piece of impudence, and touched by his final act of generosity. ‘You are most elegant.’
‘Thank you,’ he said earnestly. ‘I know a better man would have given the money to the poor – but my mother and I are poor, and it came as an absolute boon. I was getting awfully shabby, and certain Gorgons had started to make public complaints about my frayed shirt-cuffs. Joshua’s bequest has turned me respectable again.’
We left our tent of green willow branches to resume our walk beside the river.
Mr Jennings broke the silence. ‘I wish I could be more useful to you in the matter of Arthur Somers.’
‘You were not in Oxford at the time,’ I said. ‘Or I would have asked you if you’d happened to see him on the day of his death.’
‘We were never close friends,’ said Mr Jennings, ‘yet I have the clearest memory of our last encounter. It has quite haunted me.’
‘When was this?’
‘A week or so after the end of last term. We met in a lane near Freshley St Johns. There was a sudden shower of rain; we took shelter together in the porch of the church.’
Laetitia Rodd and the Case of the Wandering Scholar Page 11