The nurse stood aside to let the visitors enter, and then closed the door. Poor Mr Antrobus! He really was in a sad way, but he seemed to gather strength from somewhere to survive the terrible bouts of illness that he had to endure. He was very well known in town, and beyond. When he was up and dressed, he was a striking sort of man. He dressed well, nearly always in black, and he wore a close beard and moustache, which gave him a foreign appearance. Last year he’d solved the mystery of Sir Montague Wheeler’s death, and later the murder of Mr Littlemore of Hazelmere Castle.1
A hand-bell was rung urgently from somewhere along the corridor. The nurse left Antrobus to his visitors, and hurried away to answer the summons.
Sergeant Maxwell, thought Antrobus, looks as though he’s come to attend my funeral. His long black overcoat was buttoned up to the neck, and as usual, he clutched his bowler hat to his chest as though fearful that someone was going to steal it. Curiously enough, Joe Maxwell’s lugubrious figure cheered rather than depressed him.
‘Sir,’ said Maxwell, ‘I’ve glad to see you looking well. I don’t like these places, and the sooner you’re back with us in High Street the better.’ Maxwell was a small man with a loud voice, which held an edge of belligerence. He stood for a while chewing his straggling moustache, and looking at his superior officer lying motionless and strapped to his cot.
‘I’ve brought PC Morton with me, Guvnor,’ he said at last, ‘because there’s something he wants to tell you. He wants to ask your advice. Apparently, I’m not good enough. So come on, Morton. Tell the Inspector what’s on your mind.’
The young constable was looking in unconcealed horror at his inspector, flat on his back and tied with leather straps to his bed. What was the matter with him? Only lunatics were treated like that. Well, he’d better say what he’d come to say.
‘It’s about something that happened when I was on duty yesterday evening, sir, the fourth. I’d been patrolling the streets south of Carfax, when Sergeant Maxwell told me to go in search of a Mrs Jardine, who’d gone missing from her house in Culpeper Gardens, in Summertown. After a brief search, sir, I found her sitting on a wet bench near the Trap Grounds, talking to a man clad in a long gabardine, and wearing a flapped cap. This man got up and hurried off when he caught sight of me, but not before I’d heard some words that he addressed to this Mrs Jardine. Sir, it’s not right that you’ve been tied up like that. Do you want to undo those straps?’
‘It’s very kind of you, PC Morton,’ said Antrobus, ‘but those straps are all part of the treatment. They’ll be taking them off in half an hour. So these words that the man in the Trap Grounds said – what’s your problem?’
‘Sir, they were rather personal words, and I felt that the woman’s husband, Mr Jardine, should have been told them. I’ve recorded them in my notebook, and shown them to Mr Maxwell, but I still think the husband should be told.’
‘And these words, Constable, do you think I could be told them? Or are they something that would bring a blush to a young inspector’s cheek?’
‘No, sir. What he said was this. “This must be our last meeting, Dora. The risk has become too great.” And then she cried out, “Oh, Bruce! – yes, sir, she called him Bruce – “I can’t manage without you, you know that. And if we are careful, Anthony will never know.” It was then that the man turned away abruptly, and said, “No, it’s no good, I tell you! I am done with you. You must look for your gratification elsewhere.” ’
‘Well, Constable,’ said Antrobus, ‘your honesty does you credit. You want to know what to do. Well, Sergeant Maxwell will tell you.’
Still clutching his hat to his chest, Joseph Maxwell addressed the young constable with something approaching quiet ferocity. Beneath his moustache his lips were forming into something between a smile and a snarl.
‘PC Morton,’ he said, ‘those words will remain with us until Mr Antrobus there has examined them, and decided what they might portend. For my part, I think they point to something very sinister. A woman doesn’t rush out of her house into the rain on a dark night to meet a lover in a deserted park. It’s not very romantic, is it? So it’s mum’s the word, my lad, until someone authorizes you to open your mouth.’
3
Becket’s Bones
‘Oh, Jean, what am I to do? Bruce refuses to see me any more! He’d told me to meet him near the Trap Grounds last night at half past nine, and it’s not all that far from here, but the rain was so heavy, and I was so upset… And now Anthony suspects me of being disloyal! How can he? Bruce is just a friend—’
‘Well, can you blame him, Dora?’ asked Jean Hillier. ‘This “Bruce” – I’ve been with you in town when he has seen us, and raised his hat in greeting. He’s a well set up young man, very handsome, and obviously a gentleman, so it’s not surprising that Anthony has his suspicions.’
Jean’s quiet, matter-of-fact tones usually served to calm Dora’s nervous outbursts, but had little effect on her friend that morning. Dora collapsed into tears, and hid her face in her hands.
‘Who is this Bruce, Dora?’ Jean continued. ‘What is his surname? You’re behaving like a lovesick girl instead of a mature married woman with grown-up children. You won’t tell me who this man is, but you must confess all to your husband—’
‘No! No! He must never know. Promise me you won’t tell him about Bruce. I told him that a stranger had found me lost and wandering in the park, just before that policeman saw me and brought me home. For God’s sake, Jean, don’t tell Anthony. Bruce gave me… I shall be all right for a week. Will you promise? You’re my only real friend.’
‘Very well. But I don’t like it. You are making me privy to a lie, and I don’t relish being a liar, even for your sake. But there, lie back on the chaise-longue and rest your eyes for a while. Then we’ll ring for Betty to bring us some tea.’
Jean glanced at her friend, who now lay with her eyes closed. She looks older than her forty-three years, she thought. But then, since the children had gone away, she had had little to do but lounge about the house, and gorge herself on chocolates.
What was the matter with her? She had been such a lively young woman when she had first arrived in Oxford with her young husband in ’75. She and Dora had both come from a similar background. Dora had been a lady clerk at one of the colleges of London University. Jean, a native of Oxford, had worked in a solicitor’s office since leaving school. She had always lacked her friend’s earlier charm and vivacity, but she secretly rejoiced in her own steadiness of character. It was a virtue in her eyes not to stand out in a crowd. The two women had met at a church social, and had soon become close friends and confidantes.
Anthony Jardine had been offered a tutorship in Medieval and Renaissance History at St Gabriel’s in 1875, at a time when junior dons were not allowed to marry, and the young scholar had hit upon the subterfuge of pretending to be single so that he could accept the offer. It was a bold, daring thing to do, but it had succeeded. The young couple had taken a modest house in the village of Iffley, in a sheltered lane behind the ancient Norman church. They had lived there quite openly under their real names, and had started their family there. Anthony somehow contrived to stay at their Iffley home for long periods of time each month, and Dora had been quite content with the arrangement.
It was not long before Anthony’s colleagues at St Gabriel’s began to guess the truth, but no one ever gave the young couple away. In 1887, the University had finally seen sense, and all dons had been permitted to marry. Anthony had called at St Gabriel’s the day after the new rules came into force, accompanied by his wife and children. John, fourteen years old, had stood stoutly at his father’s side, while eleven-year-old Lucy, still very shy, had clung to her mother’s hand. Together, they had paraded triumphantly through the ancient quadrangles for all to see.
But now… She looked at her friend asleep on the chaise-longue, her face bloated, all her youthful beauty long
gone. This Bruce… She would start an investigation of her own, to see what she could discover about Dora’s friend. She knew him by sight, and when the occasion offered, she would take steps to find out who he was. She owed it to Dora, her friend, but she also had a duty to Anthony. She had watched him draw away from his wife over the past eighteen months, as though he had suspected her of straying from the narrow path. They were fast behaving like polite strangers rather than husband and wife. It was said that time was the great healer; but time, in their case, was leaving an open wound to fester.
Anthony, too, was already seeking consolation elsewhere. She had seen him taking tea in the Eastgate Hotel with Mrs Noble, the young wife of a fusty old antiquarian. She could see by the way he looked at her that she was something more than a mere acquaintance.
What would the future hold for them both? A separation would be bad enough; a divorce would be a disaster, bringing social ruin to both of them. She would go about her own business in the solicitor’s office where she worked, but spend some of her free time tracking down this man Bruce. Whoever he was, he must not be allowed to ruin Dora’s life.
*
Anthony Jardine watched as the two workmen used cold-chisels and hammers to loosen the alabaster image of a bishop from the heavy sandstone lid of the sarcophagus. They were strong working men, but they brought an unexpected delicacy to their task.
Anthony thought: If Dora’s silly gallivanting had led to something serious, I would not be here this morning, waiting to look upon the hallowed remains of Thomas à Becket, concealed here – by whom? – in this long-forgotten vault.
‘Gallivanting’? Why had that word come to his mind? No, there was more to it than that. She was seeing someone, creeping out on a wet night to see a man. God! How disgusting. How shaming…
The four Fellows stood in the dim chamber, himself, the Provost, old Professor Collingwood, and Frederick Stringer, Tutor in Natural Sciences. Bates and Lewis, tacitly co-opted by Dr Chalmers, made up the informal committee of enquiry.
Once the image was halfway across the lid, Bates, the older of the two men, asked for help in lifting it down on to the floor of the cellar. Anthony and young Frederick Stringer joined them, and with much grunting and gasping the four of them succeeded in lowering the heavy alabaster image to the floor.
‘Men,’ said Provost Chalmers, ‘you’ve done well. Go and have a break for refreshment, and then join us here again in half an hour.’
When the men had left the vault, Chalmers, hands on knees, peered down at the alabaster image. He’s showing his age, thought Anthony Jardine. He can’t crouch down, or kneel without enduring the indignity of being helped to his feet.
‘Collingwood,’ said the Provost, ‘would you care to give us your thoughts on this image? I confess that I am becoming confused. Becket belongs to the twelfth century, and Henry VIII to the sixteenth. But Jardine there thinks that this image of a bishop is fourteenth century.’
‘Well,’ said Collingwood, ‘Jardine is right. That is typical fourteenth century work. And, of course, it is the image of a bishop, whereas Becket was an archbishop. I can‘t imagine how, or why, it came to be in this cellar. I have no idea who this bishop is.’
Although it was only mid-morning, to Jardine it seemed to be night-time in the ancient cellar. Two flickering lamps afforded what illumination there was. On the floor lay the alabaster image of the unknown bishop. Still hidden in the sandstone tomb lay the venerable remains of Thomas à Becket.
What would Rachel make of their academic caution, which made them stop in their quest for Becket’s remains in order to start a learned discussion about fourteenth-century tomb furniture? She would have urged them to stop being silly – ‘silly’ was a favourite word of hers – and get on with the business in hand.
What would they see, once the massive slab of sandstone was removed? Jardine closed his eyes, and immediately there came to him a vision of a serene figure dressed in a golden chasuble, encrusted with precious stones. The hands, folded across the breast, were clad in crimson gloves, with a gold episcopal ring on the left hand. To the left of the body lay a thin crosier, also of gold. A saint, incorrupt, untouched by the ages. Where the face should have been, there was a mask of solid gold, the open eyes fashioned from sapphires…
The harsh sound of scraping awoke Jardine from his reverie. The young science don Frederick Stringer had been kneeling in front of the sandstone plaque at the front of the tomb. He had been scratching away with a small screwdriver at the dark surface of the single slab of stone constituting that side of the tomb-chest.
‘This sandstone,’ he said, ‘is almost certainly part of the Gault Formation, which runs right across Oxfordshire. A few simple tests in the laboratory will show that I’m right. It could have come from the old workings at Wallingford, in Berkshire, just over the county border.’
‘So,’ said the Provost, ‘an alabaster figure from Dorset, and a tomb-chest fashioned from local stone. It gives one to think… Ah! Here are the workmen. Let us now bring to light the contents of this tomb.’
By a common unspoken consent, no one spoke. Bates and Lewis hammered a heavy steel jemmy into a narrow crack between the tomb-chest and its massive stone lid, raised the whole mass by a couple of inches, and then quickly inserted a wooden wedge into the gap that they had created. They consulted together in low tones; the dons remained silent out of deference for these masters of their art.
Bates picked up one of the heavy steel rollers that the two men had brought into the vault, and carefully inserted it into the gap to one side of the wedge. Then together the two men slid it behind the wedge and across the dark cavern below the lid. After a few failed attempts, the end of the roller suddenly appeared at the far side of the tomb. Bates sighed with satisfaction.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘we can now insert the other three rollers in front of this one, and when they’re all in place, we can roll this stone lid down to the floor. It’ll come sliding down to where you’re standing, Dr Chalmers, sir, so you’d better move over here where I’m standing now. When the slab reaches the end of the rollers, sir, it’ll slide off and fall on to the tarpaulin. It may even break in two. But there’s no other way of getting into this tomb.’
They watched as the two workmen slid another roller into the space, and began to push the stone along. It moved surprisingly smoothly, especially when the remaining rollers were inserted. Then it seemed to gather pace with a threatening rumble, until it suddenly stood almost upright, and crashed down with a thunderous noise to the floor.
‘Stand back, gents!’ cried Bates. ‘It’s going to split!’ And as he spoke, the great stone slab parted in the midst, collapsed in on itself, and fell down on to the waiting tarpaulin. Their task had been successful.
‘Jardine,’ said the Provost, ‘I’m no longer lithe enough for this kind of work. Would you care to take a lantern and look inside?’
Anthony Jardine, his heart pounding with excitement, leaned over the edge of the tomb-chest, and lowered the lantern into the void. There was no revered corpse clad in gold, no crosier, no golden mask. At first, he saw nothing but masses of black cobwebs. Summoning up his courage, he handed the lantern to Bates, and tore aside the accretions of the centuries with his bare hands.
‘Is there anything there? It’s not empty, is it?’
‘No, Provost, it’s not empty. There seem to be two parcels lying at the bottom of the chest, two parcels wrapped in what looks like silk – here, Bates, let you and me lift these things out on to the floor. There doesn’t seem to be anything else deposited here.’
Jardine and Bates between them managed to retrieve the two parcels, which they placed on the floor beside the tomb. By the light of the lantern they could see that whatever they contained had been carefully wrapped in silk, once brightly coloured, no doubt, but now faded to a uniform grey. Each parcel was about four feet l
ong, and firmly tied in two places with leather thongs.
‘We should take these to my laboratory,’ said Stringer. ‘They can be properly examined there. The light’s too dim down here to see much.’
Professor Collingwood demurred.
‘Later, most certainly, Stringer,’ he said, ‘but let us open one of these parcels now. It’s more than vulgar curiosity. I’ve known ancient bodies, brought to the light of day after centuries, hold their form for just a few seconds before suddenly collapsing into dust. There is nothing sacrosanct about those leather thongs. Don’t you think I’m right?’
Anthony Jardine suddenly remembered where he had seen the remains of an ancient cleric, vested in a golden chasuble, the face covered with a mask of solid gold, the open eyes fashioned from sapphires. It had been at the opening of the Cathedral tombs in Flensburg, in ’85. The ancient body had held its form for a few seconds, and then suddenly collapsed into dust under the vestments. It had seemed like an act of sacrilege then.
Frederick Stringer produced a penknife from his pocket, and, kneeling down on the floor, he carefully cut through the thongs.
‘There are signs of heraldic leopards on this silk,’ he said. ‘Perhaps this fabric is a banner of England.’
Carefully and delicately, he folded back the silk, to reveal a set of human leg-bones, almost black with age, but undamaged, and complete. The young scientist picked them up, one by one, and held them near one of the lanterns. ‘Femur,’ he said, ‘tibia, fibula. Two of each, and two patellae. The left and right leg-bones of a man. Shall I open the second parcel?’
It was no surprise to find that the second parcel contained the complete bones of two arms, with their hands. How delicate those finger-bones looked! They had once been fleshed out by the consecrated hands of St Thomas of Canterbury.
‘Thus far, then, gentlemen,’ said Frederick Stringer, ‘we have ascertained that a substantial part of a human skeleton has been carefully preserved here. What we are missing are the skull, the ribs, the backbone and the bones of the feet.’
An Oxford Scandal Page 4