‘You’re most kind, and of course I’ll be happy to attend.’ I did not want to in the least, but how could I refuse when Mrs W-W had been so hospitable? ‘I hope I won’t be too much of a disappointment.’
‘You’ll meet some of the finest brains in the country,’ said Mrs W-W, with great satisfaction. ‘If we apply those brains to the question of the murder, we’ll have it solved before pudding, I daresay.’
This made me laugh; the fact was that during my sojourn under her roof I had grown rather fond of the Gorgon. Her household management was nothing short of brilliant, but she was also a fine scholar who taught her children Latin and Greek. What was more, she could inhabit both realms at the same time; I once saw her reading Homer with two of her sons at the kitchen table, whilst making beeswax polish for the furniture – now show me the man who could do this.
I was careful to be early downstairs, after an hour spent cleaning the hem of my hard-working black silk. My hostess had made lavish preparations; I caught a glimpse of the extended dining-room table laden with silver and flowers, glasses gleaming in the candlelight. The guests were shown into the drawing room, to shake hands with the Warden and his wife and to be introduced to me, after which they were given glasses of sherry.
‘I knew they’d all descend at once,’ said Mrs W-W. ‘Nobody is late in Oxford, because there’s never anything else to do.’
At least three-quarters of the guests were clergymen. They talked loudly, and with somewhat improper jollity, about poor Arthur’s death. Each man had his theory, and very little sense was spoken. I sipped sherry and nodded politely.
‘Mrs Rodd!’ Mrs Watts-Weston appeared at my side, firmly gripping the arm of a shy, rather colourless young woman. ‘Allow me to introduce my niece, Miss Isobel Drewitt, and her fiancé, Mr Rivers.’
She extracted from the nearest group of clergymen a short, broadly built young man with cropped dark hair and eyeglasses on a long gold chain; he looked vaguely familiar, and I was still trying to place him when Mrs W-W hauled her niece away to be introduced to a group of ladies.
‘We met at Swinford, Mrs Rodd.’ Mr Rivers spoke very softly, so that I strained to hear him. ‘I was the chap who opened the door to you.’
‘Oh, Mr Rivers, of course I remember you now.’
‘You wrote me a letter, to which I did not reply,’ murmured Mr Rivers (I had sent him a brief note requesting a meeting on the day after my visit). ‘I’m sorry for it now and would be grateful if you could spare me a few minutes.’
‘Yes, of course; I shall look for you after dinner.’ This was interesting. Had I not guessed that Mr Fogle was holding something back?
There was now a general surge towards the dining room, and I was claimed by the Warden, who was taking me into dinner. The food was excellent, the conversation pleasant and dull. Afterwards, when the gentlemen had finished their port and cigars and returned to the drawing room, and Mrs Watts-Weston was distracted by the task of making tea, Mr Rivers and I sat down on the window-seat. There was by now such a roar of conversation that it was easy to be confidential.
‘I left Swinford on the day after we met,’ said Mr Rivers. ‘And I haven’t been back since. The shock of it all made me ill.’
‘I’m not surprised to hear it,’ I said. ‘The discovery of a dead body is always a dreadful thing, and the sight of poor Arthur would have upset anyone.’
‘I had to give evidence at the inquest. And the policeman from London made me relive the experience at least fifty times.’
‘Mr Blackbeard is very thorough,’ I agreed.
‘I told no lies,’ said Mr Rivers, ‘but not the whole truth – which I now know to be as bad as lying.’
‘Mr Fogle told me of an argument between himself and Arthur, on the night before Arthur’s death.’
‘Oh yes, there was an argument.’ Mr Rivers was composed, and spoke rapidly, as if he had been preparing what to say to me. ‘I was sworn to silence and said nothing about it when I gave my account to the police. But I’ve been very uneasy, and now think I must confide in someone.’
‘If you know anything significant,’ I said, ‘you must confide in Scotland Yard.’
‘No, no, I can’t do that.’ His voice had shrunk to a cautious murmur.
‘Why not?’
‘Because it would cause such a scandal.’
‘Oh dear – what sort of scandal might that be, Mr Rivers?’
‘I told the police and so forth that I heard “raised voices”, but could not make out what they were saying.’
‘But you could.’
‘Yes, Mrs Rodd. And I was rather less than candid regarding my encounter with Somers on the day of his death.’
‘As I understand from the report of the inquest, you admitted to exchanging greetings with him,’ I said. ‘And to settling that you would meet next morning.’
‘Perfectly true,’ said Mr Rivers. ‘But there was more. I had been reading out in the garden. I came upon Somers whilst I was on my way back to the house – I'm not sure of the precise time; it was between five and six. He was sitting on a low wall, and he didn’t have a hat – which later struck me as odd.’
‘How did he seem to you? Had the poison started to affect him?’
‘His face was red, as if he had been running,’ said Mr Rivers. ‘When he saw me, he called out, “Oh, it’s Rivers – hello, Rivers! You have the air of a man whose mind is made up – is it to be Romance or Rome?”’
‘What did he mean?’
The young man looked pained. ‘He was referring to the conflict I was wrestling with at the time, between turning Catholic and proposing to Isobel. He saw that I was annoyed to hear it spoken of so lightly, and quickly gabbled, “Don’t mind me, I’ve spent this afternoon wrangling with someone who thinks Rome is a harlot and her sacraments so much moonshine!’
My interest intensified, for here at last was a clue to where Arthur had spent his last afternoon. ‘Did he tell you who it was?’
‘Not precisely,’ said Mr Rivers. ‘It was at this point that I asked if he felt unwell, for he appeared to be in pain. He said he had a headache. And then he asked, “Do you know Henry Barton?”’
This was a heavy blow, though I kept my face a mask of polite interest. ‘Was he saying he had just met with Mr Barton? Please think carefully, Mr Rivers; the police are searching for any evidence that places the two of them together on that day.’
‘I assumed that’s what he meant, Mrs Rodd. I said I did not know Barton. Whereupon he gave me a dazed sort of look, and said, “Henry upset me and we parted in anger.”’
‘But he didn’t say where or when they met?’
‘No. He was confused and he staggered as he stood up, and I’m afraid I thought he had been drinking.’ His prim, bespectacled face became warmer, and younger. ‘I feel awful about it now.’
‘Don’t reproach yourself too much,’ I said. ‘Even if you had known about the poison, there was nothing you could have done for him.’ I breathed more easily, for this new piece of evidence was starting to look decidedly flimsy. ‘Was it your idea to meet next morning?’
‘No, it was his,’ said Mr Rivers. ‘He wanted me to pray with him, before early communion.’ He stiffened irritably. ‘His exact words were – “Rivers, you’re a dim-witted prig with no sense of humour, but you have the pure soul of an angel.”’
I nearly laughed out loud, and with a stab of pain, for this was the authentic Arthur. ‘Dear me, how rude of him!’ I hastened to say. ‘That must have been the effect of the poison, for he would never have said such a thing in his right mind.’ (Not to your face, anyway, I mentally added: behind your back was another matter; I’m sure Arthur did a marvellous imitation of you and I wish I had seen it.) ‘You did not sleep in the stables that night, I understand.’
‘I did not,’ said Mr Rivers. ‘I had a cold; the cells are places of penitence and prayer. And to be frank – kindly don’t repeat this, Mrs Rodd – I was getting a little impatient with all the prayi
ng and so forth at Swinford. I slept in a room on the first floor of the house. That’s where I went that night, directly after a miserable supper of cabbage and boiled potatoes.’ He glanced across the room and suddenly smiled. ‘I had by this time fallen in love with Isobel, and the food was yet another reason not to embrace a monastic life. Anyway, I began to read a life of Thomas à Kempis, and for some reason fell asleep.’
‘Your cold made you drowsy,’ I suggested (swallowing another laugh at the ‘for some reason’ and wishing I could catch Arthur’s eye).
‘I woke to the sound of shouts and noises downstairs.’ Mr Rivers’s gaze dropped away from mine. ‘It was Father Fogle and Arthur Somers.’
‘Mr Fogle told me about it,’ I said. ‘Perhaps not willingly, but readily enough. He said they had a disagreement.’
He was uncomfortable. ‘In my statement I said I heard “raised voices”. Which is perfectly true, only it’s not quite strong enough.’
‘Can you tell me what you heard, Mr Rivers?’
‘I can’t repeat the exact words – certainly not here.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ I assured him. ‘Just give me a general idea, if you can.’
‘Well – both voices were loud, and Arthur was absolutely screeching. He was beside himself, Mrs Rodd, raving like a lunatic. I rushed downstairs; the door to the study stood open and when I went inside … he shouted certain unrepeatable epithets.’
‘Did he threaten you – how was his behaviour?’
‘He was angry,’ said Mr Rivers. ‘His face was flushed; he kept picking things up and dropping them. I know now that the poison was working its wickedness. At the time, however, I still thought – I should have been more … ’
‘How was Mr Fogle?’
‘I found him weeping. He begged Somers to “have mercy”. And then Somers said, “How dare you condemn me, you of all people? You’re ready enough to make excuses for yourself!”’
‘Were those his exact words?’
‘Yes, pretty much. And then the poor man lurched off towards the cells, and that was the last time I saw him alive.’ Mr Rivers sighed and lowered his voice. ‘I know that there was nothing I could have done to help him – but I could have stayed beside him, and given him the benefit of my prim, dim-witted prayers.’
There was a movement amongst the crowd in the room, in the direction of the piano.
‘Thank you, Mr Rivers,’ I said. ‘You have been very helpful.’
‘Could you keep my name out of it, as far as you can? I swore I would not speak of it.’
‘Mrs Rodd, you won’t hear a thing stuck in that corner!’ Mrs Watts-Weston was upon us, ablaze with the success of the evening. ‘Mr Rivers, dear Isobel has agreed to sing for us, and nobody accompanies her better than you do; the two of you are positively harmonious!’
Our interview was at an end; Mr Rivers was marched to the piano and I was kindly-but-firmly chivvied into a chair in the front row. Miss Drewitt had a very pleasing soprano, and sang for us Handel’s ‘How Beautiful Are the Feet’ most affectingly.
I had promised Mr Rivers I would keep his name out of it, but that was not going to stop me going back to Swinford.
Nineteen
I drove myself over to Swinford in Mrs W-W’s little chariot, directly after breakfast the following morning. The weather was warm, stuffy and grey, the September sun muffled behind a thick quilt of cloud. As I secured the horse on the scrap of green in front of the main house, I heard a dismal chanting from the direction of the old stables; a not-very-tuneful attempt at medieval plainsong. If they were in the middle of one of their peculiar services, I would have to wait to see Mr Fogle.
Never mind. This meant that I could wander about the place without anyone looking over my shoulder. The church itself was commonplace enough; like so many village churches at that time, it was a new construction, built on the site of the old one that had become too small. I stepped inside for a moment to say a brief prayer; I love the peace of an empty church.
When I emerged into the churchyard, I was surprised to see a thin, stooping, black-clad figure, in the shadow of a great yew that was older than the church by several centuries.
‘Mr Fogle!’ This was so providential that I approached him quite boldly. ‘I thought you would be in the chapel.’
‘Mrs Rodd.’ He turned those radiant, unsettling, tearful eyes towards me, not the least discomposed. ‘It’s not a service; the men in the chapel are at prayer.’
‘Oh.’
‘They are singing praises to the Queen of Heaven, this being the month of her nativity.’
‘Really.’
‘Your lip is curling, Mrs Rodd; I take it you don’t approve of such things.’
‘You are quite wrong, Mr Fogle,’ I said. ‘I have the highest respect for the Queen of Heaven; she has always struck me as a woman of excellent good sense.’ (I refer the reader to her intervention at the wedding in Cana.)
He surprised me by suddenly smiling, like sunshine through rain. ‘Indeed she was; I may use that as the motif for a sermon.’
‘This is Arthur’s grave, isn’t it?’ We were standing over a bare brown mound of earth.
‘Yes. There will be a tombstone in place eventually. I often come out here to pray; even in death he draws me to him.’
‘Mr Fogle, I would very much like to talk to you again about that night.’
‘Why?’ The man appeared to be genuinely puzzled. ‘I’m sure I’ve said everything I could possibly say on the subject.’
‘We can’t talk here. Is there somewhere—?’
‘Let us move to the garden.’
He led me through a door in the old wall of the churchyard, into a very pretty and sheltered little patch of garden, still bright with cottage flowers left over from the hot summer. He gestured to me to sit down upon a wooden bench while he chose to stand, his long white hands folded behind him.
‘I’m at your service, Mrs Rodd.’
‘Well—’ (Where to start? But I could not allow him to intimidate me.) ‘I was curious about the argument you had, you and Arthur.’
‘Oh, the argument,’ said Mr Fogle. ‘Oh, yes, yes, of course. You’ve been speaking to Edward Rivers.’
‘How did you—?’ I had not expected this, and was dismayed because I had made a promise to Mr Rivers that I could not keep.
‘I thought as much,’ he said mildly. ‘He was the only person who could possibly have overheard us. And I suspected that his conscience would lead him into telling someone. I hope he is well. It is some weeks now since I saw him.’
‘He is very well,’ I said. ‘And is engaged to be married.’
‘I wish him happiness,’ said Mr Fogle. ‘Not everyone is destined for the higher calling.’
I repeated, word for word, everything Mr Rivers had told me. Mr Fogle listened, with an air of what I can only describe as distant contempt, as at the footling concerns of lesser beings.
When I had finished, we fell into silence for a long moment.
‘It is all perfectly true,’ said Mr Fogle eventually. ‘Our meeting began as all our private meetings did, with prayer and confession. It was apparent to me at once that Arthur was not in his right mind. He lost his temper at my suggestion that Henry Barton had been a thoroughly bad influence on him.’
‘A bad influence? From what I observed, Mr Barton was if anything rather a good influence. I’m sure Arthur told you of the unfortunate matter of the blackmail, and how Mr Barton helped him.’
‘Indeed,’ Mr Fogle said coldly. ‘But Barton also betrayed him, by lusting after his wife. It was poor Arthur’s misfortune that he trusted the two of them.’
‘They did not betray him, Mr Fogle!’ I protested. ‘And kindly remember that Mrs Somers is a friend of mine.’
‘I don’t wish to offend you, Mrs Rodd, but I must speak plainly. Her licentious nature has been the ruin of two good men.’
‘That is shameful nonsense!’ I gasped indignantly.
‘I
do not condemn her. I pray every day for the redemption of her soul.’
My dear mother would have said, seeing that one of my outbursts was imminent, take a deep breath and count to ten; I did this now and managed not to shout at him, though I was very angry.
‘She wanted to pay for his monument here,’ said Mr Fogle. ‘Naturally I did not permit it. I warned Arthur against that marriage.’
It was painful to be reminded that I had done the exact opposite. ‘Mr Fogle, what did Arthur mean, when he accused you of “making excuses for yourself”?’
His grasshopper’s figure stretched into proud nobility. ‘It was my great love for Arthur that got me expelled from my college. The love that grew between us was very much misunderstood by the authorities. But it was a love of minds, of souls, without the slightest impurity – and not to be compared with Arthur’s highly unsuitable feelings for Henry Barton. I had said as much to him before; this time he flew off the handle. Dreadful things were said, threats were made.’
‘Did you have the impression that Arthur had seen Mr Barton that afternoon?’ I asked.
‘I did,’ said Mr Fogle.
‘I mean, did he tell you in so many words?’
‘Well—’ His eyes narrowed disdainfully. ‘I suppose I assumed it; Arthur spoke as if he had come fresh from an encounter with Barton. But he was not in his right mind; I shouldn’t set too much store by it. He spoke of his encounters with a number of people, including St John the Divine.’
‘Oh.’
‘You will understand why I did not tell the police, Mrs Rodd; these ravings would hardly be permissible in a court of law.’
‘No, they would not.’ This was a great relief to me; any solid evidence of a meeting between Arthur and Mr Barton, from a reliable witness, would have finished us.
‘I’ll admit that I was afraid,’ said Mr Fogle. ‘Not of physical harm, but of the consequences if he carried out the wild threats he was making. And God knows, the tragedy has already left its stain upon this place.’ He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft and feminine. ‘I built Swinford as a sweet, holy refuge from the sinful world. I don’t understand how or why we came to be mired in scandal. My only desire was the greater glorification of God. Would you mind if I sat down?’
Laetitia Rodd and the Case of the Wandering Scholar Page 14