‘So what will you do, Collingwood?’ asked the Provost. ‘Will you be present when we open that tomb?’
‘Present? Of course I’ll be present. At this moment, I don’t believe it’s Becket. But I’m quite prepared to be proved wrong!’
‘Very well, gentlemen,’ said the Provost. ‘I suggest that we meet tomorrow at ten o’clock to make a preliminary examination of the tomb. Myself, you, Collingwood, and Jardine there. Oh, and we’d better have you, Stringer, representing the Natural Sciences. It’s a pity that Paul Shepherd isn’t here this week; it would have been right for our Chaplain to be there. I very much look forward, as I’m sure you do, to seeing what tomorrow holds.’
*
Jardine stayed for half an hour in the Common Room, and then excused himself. It was nearing ten o’clock, time for him to get home to Culpeper Gardens. He made his way out of St Gabriel’s through a wicket gate, hurried across the Botanic Gardens and mounted the steps up into High Street. It was very dark, with a thin rain falling.
It was too late to bother with a slow tramcar. He crossed the road to the cab rank at the opening to Long Wall Street. The cabbie, who knew Jardine by name, greeted him, and climbed up on his seat behind the cab. His shift ended at ten-thirty, so he urged on the horse, and they travelled at a brisk pace through the dark wet night to the suburb of Summertown.
The cab turned into St Margaret’s Road and then into Hayfield Road. The wet pavements glinted in the light shed by the gas standards. It was as they clattered into Culpeper Gardens that the cabbie suddenly drew the horse to a halt, and opened the hatch in the roof, spraying Jardine with rain water. His pale face looked down at his passenger.
‘Mr Jardine, sir,’ he said, ‘there’s some kind of commotion going on outside your house.’ He closed the hatch, and urged the horse on to the far side of Culpeper Gardens.
The front door of Jardine’s house was wide open, revealing the gas-lit hall. Mrs Green, still in her kitchen apron, stood on the threshold, wringing her hands. Betty was sitting on one of the steps, sobbing. The cabbie asked for eightpence, and Jardine gave him a shilling. He touched his cap and climbed back on to his cab. Whatever was happening at Mr Jardine’s house was none of his business. Within a minute he had gone.
Had Dora died? Was that why his house stood open to the street?
‘Mrs Green!’ he demanded. ‘What has happened? What is it?’
‘Oh, sir, Missus went out over an hour ago, and hasn’t come back! She ate her dinner, and then said that she would go out for a little walk as far as Hayfield Road to get some fresh air. She was wearing that thin coat with the fur collar. She wouldn’t take the scarf I offered her, but she did agree to wear her brown felt hat—’
‘Why is the front door open? Let us all get back into the house. Come on, Betty. Get up off that step and come in.’
In a moment they had shut out the cold, wet night, and the act of coming back into the light and warmth seemed to calm the two servants down.
Evidently Dora had wandered off into the dark for no apparent reason. If only he had been there to avoid this appalling embarrassment! Dora was not obliged to give reasons for her actions to her servants, but had he been there, things would have been different.
Where had she gone? Where could she be now? Even as these thoughts passed through his mind, he was ashamed to realize that his reaction to Dora’s disappearance was one of anger and resentment rather than concern. What if she had contrived to make her way into Port Meadow? Was she even now stumbling in the dark through the heath land towards the river?
There came an authoritative knock on the door, and Jardine opened it himself.
Professor Gorringe, his next-door neighbour, stood on the top step. He had thrown a light cloak over his evening dress. He stepped uninvited into the hall. He was a stout, grey-haired man, a Fellow of St James’s College. His manner was brusque, but Jardine knew that it concealed a generous heart.
‘Look here, Jardine,’ he said, ‘my butler told me that Mrs Jardine has gone missing – I don’t know how he knew, but he did. Now as you know, I have an electric telephone installed in my house, so I took the liberty of ringing the police station in High Street. They have sent a police constable to search the area, and I told him to report here, to you, should he – should he, er, find anything, you know.’
‘That was enormously good of you, Gorringe,’ said Jardine. ‘I am much relieved.’ What time was it? Half past ten. ‘Will you come in for a drink?’
‘I’d better not, Jardine. I’ll leave you alone. I’m sure it will be all right, you know. Get your cook to make you a cup of strong coffee. Goodnight.’
There was nothing to do but wait. He went into the front parlour, and sat at a chair in the window. Presently, Mrs Green brought him a cup of coffee, and declared that she had sent Betty to bed. She herself would sit up in the cellar kitchen until Missus came back. Anthony Jardine sipped his coffee, and thought of himself and his household.
He lived with three women: a capable, sensible cook-general, a compassionate, well-trained maid-of-all-work – and Dora. What was happening to her? She lived a comfortable life, and he made sure that she lacked for nothing by way of housekeeping and dress allowance. They lived in a fine house in one of Oxford’s most sought-after areas. What had possessed her to wander off into the dark, purposeless and unprotected?
What would Gorringe think? He was ten years older than Jardine, Vice-President of St James’s College, and Regius Professor of Physick. Mrs Gorringe was a trim, quietly humorous woman, with a wide circle of acquaintances. They had had no children, and seemed to be unconditionally bound up with each other.
Gorringe and he maintained a half-humorous rivalry as householders. After Gorringe had had the electric light installed, Jardine had purchased a very impressive lawn mower from Ransome’s of Ipswich, much to Gorringe’s vexation. It amused both men – the gentle give-and-take of a couple of Oxford dons. And now his neighbour had felt obliged to contact the police because Dora had wandered off in the night. Confound her! He would never look at Jardine in the same way again.
Tomorrow morning Chalmers and the others would open Becket’s tomb. And he would not be there. He would hear everything at second-hand. ‘A pity you weren’t there, Jardine.’ He would never experience the thrill of embarking on the solution to a centuries-old mystery. It was insupportable.
Could it have anything to do with Dora’s tumour? Surely not. That had been in 1876, a tumour on the spine, which had caused her great pain. But an operation at University College Hospital in London had cured her, and she had never complained about it for nearly twenty years. Was she losing her mind? How else to account for her dramatic changes of mood, her bouts of tearful petulance, and her growing inability to take her place in normal, everyday society? This escapade of hers was the last straw. Something would have to be done…
When things were back to normal, he would tell Gorringe about the discovery. St James’s College had been founded in the reign of Queen Mary to train priests for the projected restoration of the Catholic religion. During Mary’s brief reign, there had been much commerce between St James’s and St Gabriel’s, another college with a secret Catholic heart – at least, until Oliver Cromwell’s day.
But there was no time to explore that avenue. He must sit in his chair, restless, angry and impotent, until his wife, at some ungodly hour of the morning, returned home. Amy Gorringe would never behave so irresponsibly. He could hear the rain hurling itself at the window. Oh God! Where was she?
His headache had returned, though it was not as severe as it had been. He became aware of the figure of a man standing near the window, a man who was regarding him with grave concern. It was a vile, shaming thing for an educated man to see spirits of the dead. The man near the window was his Uncle Edwin. He had always been a kindly man, generous with sixpences when Jardine was a small bo
y. He had died in 1868, which had been Jardine’s last year at Harrow.
He could tell no one that he had become a psychic, or medium, for fear of losing their regard. How could a scholar confess to his colleagues that he was a ghost-seer? Besides, it was an unsettling thing. At times he was terrified of what he saw with the inner eye. Thank God, the figure by the window had faded and disappeared.
There was a sudden commotion in the road outside, and in a moment the door bell was rung violently. Jardine reached the hall just as Mrs Green came hurrying up the cellar stairs. He flung open the door, and stood back as a police constable, his cloak shining in the light of the street lamp, all but hauled his wife across the threshold. Thinly clad for a wet November night, she was soaked through to the skin. He could hear her teeth chattering, and feel the chill emanating from her saturated clothing.
Mrs Green immediately took charge of the situation. Encircling Dora’s waist with an ample arm, she began to help her up the stairs. Anthony could see his cook’s lips set in a line of stern disapproval. Nevertheless, he knew that very soon his wife would have been put to bed with a stone hot water bottle and, despite the late hour, sustained with something nourishing to eat or drink. It was half past eleven.
The constable was a very young man, no more than twenty, as far as Jardine could judge. He took off his cloak, shook it out of the front door, and hung it on the hall stand.
‘Do you think we could have a word, sir?’ he asked. Jardine led him into the front sitting room, and bade him sit down. Despite the late hour and the inclement weather the young man looked smart and well turned out. He took a notebook from one of his pockets, and turned over a few pages before speaking.
‘Sir,’ he said, ‘I first need to ask you your name, so that we are not speaking at cross-purposes.’
‘My name is Anthony Jardine.’
‘And you are the husband of the lady who I’ve just brought home to this house?’
‘I am. That lady is my wife, Mrs Dora Jardine. Where did you find her, Officer? What had happened to her? Had she wandered into Port Meadow?’
‘No, sir, not as far as that. I found her in Burgess Mead, near the Trap Grounds. She was sitting on a bench, talking to a man, who rose when he saw me approaching with my lantern, and hurried off in the direction of Aristotle Lane.’
‘A man? What kind of a man? Was it a vagrant?’
‘No, sir. As far as I could judge from his dress, he was a gentleman. When I greeted Mrs Jardine, she seemed quite unable to speak. When I asked her who the gentleman was, she became confused and upset. All this is set down in my report, sir, and will have to be communicated to Sergeant Maxwell at High Street. That’s why I feel obliged to let you know in confidence.’
The Constable glanced at him, and Jardine saw the same scarcely-concealed pity in the young man’s expression that he saw every day in the eyes of his maid, Betty. It was warm in the front parlour, but Anthony Jardine felt a sudden chill pervade his body. A gentleman… Did this young policeman, little more than a boy, and his own servants, know something that he did not?
The Constable declared that he had to go back into the town to make his report. Bidding Jardine good night, he retrieved his cloak from the hall, and left the house.
Mrs Green came up into the hall from the cellar kitchen.
‘Mrs Jardine is settled now, sir,’ she said. ‘She’s none the worse for her ordeal. I’d send for Dr Maitland in the morning if I were you, just to be on the safe side, but she’ll be fine, sir. It’s after midnight, now, so I’ll retire to bed, if that’s all right with you.’
‘Of course, Mrs Green. And thank you for all your care and trouble. Do you think— Do you think I’ll be able to go into college tomorrow morning? Perhaps Miss Hillier could spend the day with her?’
‘I’m sure that would be in order, sir. There’s no cause for concern. I gave her a cup of Brand’s Essence, and when I left her, she was asleep. Why not wait until Dr Maitland has called, and then go into college?’
Some minutes later, Anthony Jardine went up to his bed in the dressing room. He and Dora had long ago pretended that it was more convenient to sleep apart. He lay in the dark, thinking of his wife going out alone in the rain to meet a man on the skirts of Port Meadow. He thought that he would lie awake all night, but very soon he had relapsed into a sound sleep.
*
Tuesday morning presented the residents of Summertown with a pink blush in the sky that promised a cheerful sunny day. In Culpeper Gardens the sweepers had begun to attack the carpet of golden autumn leaves covering the lawns and paths. It was the fifth of November, and that night a bonfire would be lit near the Culpeper Monument in the gardens, for the annual immolation of Guy Fawkes.
Jardine breakfasted alone. Perhaps to compensate for the terrors of the previous night, Mrs Green had cooked him a very large breakfast, which she had served to him personally. Betty, she explained, had been sent to Linnet Lane Telegraph Office, to send a cable to Miss Hillier at Walton Street, asking her if she would spend the day with Dora. Jardine, who was blessed with a voracious appetite, did full justice to his breakfast, and then went upstairs to visit his wife.
Dora, to his great relief, looked remarkably well. She was sitting up in bed, waiting for the tray that Mrs Green would bring up for her. He took her hand. She gave him a weak smile, but said nothing. Evidently, she was not prepared to give an explanation of her conduct. Well, she would not be allowed to take refuge in silence.
‘What happened to you last night, Dora?’ he asked. ‘I gather you went out for a walk. Did you suddenly take ill?’
‘I… I became confused, Anthony, and lost my way in the dark. I was very frightened, as there was no one about. I was so relieved when that young policeman found me and brought me home.’
‘You were seen talking to a man. Who was he? Why did he leave you so suddenly when the constable appeared?’
Dora’s face flushed red to the roots of her hair. Even as she stammered out that he was a stranger who had merely asked whether she was all right, her husband knew that she was lying. She had gone out in the rain and darkness to keep a tryst with someone. Tryst! What a silly, romantic word. ‘Assignation’ was better. It suggested something illicit, reprehensible.
He felt himself blush with shame. Hypocrite! Who was he, an adulterer, to sit in judgement on her?
‘Jean Hillier will come later this morning to stay with you,’ said Anthony. ‘Ask her to send for Dr Maitland to look at you. I’ll stay at home if you like—’
‘Oh, no, Anthony, there’s no need. I’m quite well, and I don’t need to see Dr Maitland. And I’ll never venture out alone at night again. I’ll be quite happy here with Jean. Here’s Mrs Green with my breakfast. Do go now, Anthony. I’m sure you’re needed at St Gabriel’s.’
Jardine went down to the hall and donned his hat and coat. Before leaving the house, he descended to the cellar, and left a half-sovereign on the kitchen table for Mrs Green to find.
*
Detective Inspector James Antrobus lay in his cot in one of the surgical wards of the Radcliffe Infirmary, and stared at the whitewashed ceiling. He longed to relieve the itch in his nose, but his arms were strapped to his sides. How much longer could he function as a serving police officer? Most of his energy these days was expended on battling the inroads of consumption, or tuberculosis, as they were calling it now.
Last year had been a severe trial. He had had several haemorrhages, the last of them so severe that he had been subjected to the process known as artificial pneumothorax. That had been at Chester, where he had been investigating the antecedents of an old crime. Here, at the Radcliffe, he was on home territory, so to speak.
He had been brought here at the end of October, for a second attempt to make his left lung function satisfactorily. His right lung, he knew, was virtually useless, but it could still maint
ain a sort of primitive breathing function. On the last day of the month, a surgeon had performed a second artificial pneumothorax, using the Forlanini method, involving the piercing of the pleural cavity with a long needle, and the administration of nitrogen. Just after dawn on the 4 November, the same surgeon had re-inflated his lung with air, administered from a special syringe. He was to remain strapped to the cot until nine o’clock.
He heard the door open, and turning his head he saw a young nurse, looking almost offensively healthy, come into the room. She had a brisk, no-nonsense manner about her that was curiously reassuring.
‘Good morning, Mr Antrobus,’ she said. ‘I’ve brought you a nice cup of beef tea. It’ll keep your strength up till lunch time, when you’re to have minced beef and mashed potato.’
She put an extra pillow behind his head, and held the spout of the little cup to his lips. What a humiliation! Fed like a baby by a girl of sixteen. Still, it was very tasty, considering it was just slop.
‘You’ve got visitors waiting outside,’ said the young nurse. ‘You can see them now, if you like. Sister will be in to change your dressing at ten. Is there anything you want?’
‘I want to get out of here, Nurse. I want to get back to the police station. When can I go?’
‘You’ll be discharged tomorrow, Mr Antrobus. Your landlady’s coming to fetch you at nine o’clock.’
‘Visitors? What visitors?’
‘It’s Mr Maxwell, your sergeant. And he’s brought a constable with him. Shall I send them in? I’ve told them that they mustn’t un-strap you. And you’re not to excite yourself.’
An Oxford Scandal Page 3