An Oxford Scandal

by Norman Russell

  They were all silent for a moment, considering the implications of what they had discovered. Then Provost Chalmers broke the silence.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘we have here a complex and subtle mystery, a challenging puzzle. Can you guess who I think should be brought here to solve it?’

  ‘I think I can guess, Provost,’ said Jardine. ‘You’re thinking of Count Raphael Savident, aren’t you? In matters of ancient secrets, Savident is a polymath. He will reconstruct the story behind these things. Epigraphist, chemist – alchemist, for all I know! – mortuary architect, and a man who’s investigated many of the darker byways of our history. We shall have to find out where he is, and bring him here.’

  ‘He was in Germany until last year,’ said the Provost, ‘engaged in some project initiated in the eighties by the late King of Bavaria. I know he’s back in England now. We’ll soon find him. In any case, once our discovery here is made public – and that’ll be very soon – I’ve no doubt he’ll come here, if I ask him.’

  Jardine glanced around the dimly-lit cellar, and looked at the shattered lid of the tomb chest. They had successfully violated the repose of centuries for what? To bring these pathetic bones to light. Dark bones, naked and bare… The magic had departed. He looked down once more into the dark pit of the tomb-chest. What was that? A gleam of metal…

  It was a thin sheet of beaten lead, and upon it were incised some words, this time in English. He had some training in epigraphy, and could read the crabbed writing.

  ‘There’s an inscription here, gentlemen, placed in with the bones. It reads: These be the bones of the Holie Martyr Thomas Becket. Placed here by me, JM 12 Aug. AD 1539. To my mind, that’s conclusive proof. We have indeed discovered the hallowed remains of Saint Thomas à Becket.’

  The young workman Lewis fell to his knees and crossed himself. The others heard him whisper, ‘Blessed Thomas, pray for us.’

  *

  That night, Anthony Jardine stood at the window of his dressing room and looked out at Culpeper Gardens, where the glow of the bonfire near the Monument could still be seen. It had been a very satisfactory firework display, every explosion, every ascent of rockets into the dark sky, greeted with cheers of delight from the neighbourhood’s children. There had been roast chestnuts, too. He recalled the days when he had taken his own excited children into the gardens to watch the fireworks, and to cheer when the mournful guy collapsed into the raging fire.

  Whenever he watched this particular bonfire, he recalled the Oxford Martyrs, bravely enduring their deaths by fire outside Baliol College, in the dark days of Mary Tudor. What a murderous dynasty that had been! And then, King James the First, not to be outdone by his Tudor predecessors, was given the satisfaction of offering Guy Fawkes as a holocaust pleasing to the Protestant Deity, thus proving that there was no good reason why Gunpowder Treason should ever be forgot.

  He had not gone out to watch the fireworks since the children had left. Professor and Mrs Gorringe went every year; he had once heard Betty tell Mrs Green that they had surreptitiously held hands, thinking that nobody would have seen them do so.

  Tomorrow, Provost Chalmers would set about running Count Raphael Savident to earth. Jardine remembered him from his days at University College, London. He had given a public lecture entitled ‘Tombs of the Byzantine Emperors’ at the Albert Hall, an enthralling experience as he ranged effortlessly among the disciplines of art and architecture, cryptology and folklore, illustrating his talk with countless hand-coloured lantern slides. He had been plain ‘Mister’ then; he must have acquired his exotic foreign title later in his career.

  Savident had dressed foppishly, rather like a Regency dandy living out of his time. He had sported a gold-rimmed monocle, and had spoken in a peculiarly high tenor voice, but none of this affectation could disguise the fact that he has a man of prodigious learning, with the gift of imparting it to others. At the end of the lecture, Jardine had caught sight of him in the vestibule, surrounded by fawning admirers, and had wanted to kick him downstairs.

  That morning, they had moved their finds from the vault to Stringer’s laboratory, which was conveniently situated on the ground floor of Staircase X. Bates had procured a long six-wheeled handcart from the college works yard, and the alabaster image had been conveyed on this, discreetly covered by tarpaulin, to the laboratory. The bundles of bones had been placed in a locked cupboard. Finally, Bates, accompanied by a stone mason friend, had chiselled out the inscribed panel from the front of the tomb-chest. All was now safe and secure in the science laboratory. It was the Provost’s task to run Count Savident to earth, and lure him to St Gabriel’s.

  *

  Provost Chalmers located Count Raphael Savident two days later. He was staying in a boarding house in Bayswater, having been summoned from Bavaria by the authorities of the Greek Cathedral of the Holy Wisdom in Moscow Road to settle a dispute over the authenticity of two of the paintings adorning the iconostasis.

  ‘That’s just the kind of thing Savident would be doing,’ said Anthony Jardine. ‘He’s such a precious fellow that more mundane activities would be beneath his notice.’

  The Provost had found Jardine in the Fellows’ Common Room, reading that day’s copy of Jackson’s Journal, Oxford’s local newspaper.

  ‘I wasn’t aware that you knew him,’ said Chalmers. ‘He’s more likely to have been one of Collingwood’s acquaintances.’

  Jardine put the paper aside, and gave his full attention to what the Provost was saying.

  ‘I don’t know him at all, Provost, but I saw him a few times during my youthful days in London. I once went to a lecture he gave in ’73, and I must give him his due, it was a memorable experience. Have you managed to entice him here?’

  ‘I have. He’s coming to Oxford on Monday. I offered to put him up here, but he said that he’d already secured the lease on a house at 13 Beaumont Street last month. Apparently, he’s been busy having it furnished, with the idea of moving to Oxford permanently.’

  ‘Dear God, spare us that imposition! A house in Beaumont Street? It probably belonged to one of his effete friends. St Gabriel’s would be too Spartan for Savident. Why did he tell you the number?’

  Provost Chalmers laughed.

  ‘He said that most people would be uneasy at living in a house numbered 13, but that he had always found it a lucky number. Does he have many effete friends? Considering that you don’t know the man, Jardine, you’re very down on him!’

  ‘I don’t like that kind of fellow, Provost. It’s bad enough when an ignoramus gives himself airs, dressing up in fancy clothes to mask his emptiness. But it’s worse when a really clever man does that kind of thing. That’s what Savident does. Confound him, and his lucky number!’

  ‘Well, like it or not, you’ll see him on Monday afternoon. Are you dining in tonight? Ah, no, of course. It’s one of your days out. Please give my compliments to Mrs Jardine.’

  *

  After leaving the Provost, Anthony Jardine walked down to St Aldate’s, and entered Boffin’s Restaurant and Confectioners, where Rachel Noble was waiting for him. Boffin’s was a dimly lit, old-fashioned shop, its atmosphere permeated by the sweet smell of freshly-baked cakes and well-brewed coffee. Rachel was sitting at a table at the back of the shop.

  ‘Why, Mrs Noble! How nice to see you. May I join you?’

  She was wearing a costume suit of grey-green tweed, and a little matching hat with a half veil. Her blond hair was drawn back from her brow and secured by a velvet bow.

  ‘Anthony,’ said Rachel when he had joined her at the table, ‘what is this I hear about you and Provost Chalmers discovering Becket’s bones? Is it true?’

  The restaurant was full of people, all busily chatting while they sampled Mr Boffin’s enticing fare. Anthony and Rachel could talk freely without being overheard.

  ‘It’s true enough,�
�� said Anthony. ‘We’re almost certain that they are the relics of St Thomas. We’ve an expert coming to examine our find next Monday.’

  They talked for nearly an hour, during which time the lamplighters had brought the gas standards in St Aldate’s to life. Rachel had shared his own excitement at the find, and his heart had lifted as he listened to her enthusiastic and intelligent comments.

  He would leave Boffin’s first, to maintain the fiction that they had met simply by chance. They had both contrived to leave all day Friday free from teaching commitments, and would spend one of their heady, happy days as Mr and Mrs Charles Jordan in the house off Cowley Road.

  He stepped out of the café into the keen November air. He watched the busy horse traffic clattering down St Aldate’s to Folly Bridge and the far suburbs. How exhilarated he felt! He had been spiritually and emotionally dead for years. Merely conversing with Rachel Noble gave him hope of some kind of rebirth. He was so preoccupied with these pleasant thoughts that he did not see Jean Hillier, who was walking with purposeful caution behind him.

  *

  Dora and he dined that evening on oxtail soup followed by shoulder of mutton, and finished with baked custard and stewed plums. Dora looked pale, and said little during the meal. Anthony watched her, thinking of the man whom she had met out at the Trap Grounds, and he had the uneasy feeling that Dora was watching him in return. What did she know? Or what did she suspect?

  *

  Dora took ill just before dawn, retching violently, her whole body convulsing in agony. Her cries woke Anthony and Mrs Green, who threw on some clothes and ran for Dr Maitland, who lived nearby. The old physician, an early riser, came within minutes. Anthony thought: I will not be able to stay with Rachel tomorrow after all. He was immediately overcome with remorse and self-disgust at his callousness. What was to become of him? What was to become of them all?

  His head was pounding again, and he mixed himself a dose of Citrate of Caffeine.

  Dr Maitland came to see Anthony in his dressing room. He was a tall, thin man, well into his seventies, with a full white moustache that covered his mouth, making it at times difficult to hear what he was saying. He sat down on Anthony’s bed, putting his doctor’s bag on the floor beside it.

  ‘Well, Mr Jardine,’ he said, ‘your wife is suffering from severe gastric inflammation, and it may be possible that she has developed a stomach ulcer. I have given her an injection of morphia to allay the pain, allowing her to sleep. I will call again at nine, and if she is no better, I’ll pump out the contents of her stomach, and then lave it with sterilized milk.’

  ‘Is she— Will she recover?’

  ‘Oh, yes. It’s not food poisoning, otherwise you, too, would have been affected. But it may take months for her to regain her strength. If I may talk to your cook, I’ll prescribe a diet for your wife. When I come at nine, I’ll bring a nurse with me.’

  Dr Maitland found Mrs Green in the cellar kitchen. She and Betty, who was clad in a dressing gown, were sharing a pot of tea.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Green,’ said Dr Maitland, ‘I thought I would come down to tell you what I should like Mrs Jardine to eat for the next week or so. No red meat, but boiled chicken, or galantine of chicken, or chicken lightly stewed in milk. White fish, served with boiled or mashed potatoes, and eggs, boiled, scrambled or poached, but not fried. Nothing fried. Oh, and no vegetables except cauliflower.’

  ‘Is Missus very ill, sir?’

  ‘No, Mrs Green, she’ll be better in a few weeks’ time if you can ensure that she perseveres with that diet. She has a badly upset stomach, but nothing to cause concern. Does she drink much wine, or spirits?’

  ‘Oh, no, sir. Mrs Jardine is teetotal.’

  ‘Well, that’s good. Very good. I’ll leave you now. I’ll be back at nine o’clock with a nurse. I’ve told Mr Jardine to send for me day or night if there is any kind of relapse.’ The old doctor smiled rather benignly at Mrs Green, and added, ‘But there won’t be, you know.’

  When Dr Maitland left them, Mrs Green and Betty looked at each other. Each knew what the other was thinking, so that words were unnecessary, but Betty had not yet fully mastered this form of communication.

  ‘Do you think—’

  ‘No, indeed I don’t, you wicked girl! What are you sitting there, for? We might as well get breakfast on the go. And then you can fill the copper with hot water, and sort out the Master’s shirts to boil. How could you even— Well, are you going to do what I’ve told you, or not?’

  Mrs Green watched young Betty as she hurried out of the kitchen and into the laundry. Poison? Certainly not. Dr Maitland had made it quite clear what the trouble was. Whatever Betty thought, Master was more sinned against than sinning.

  But it made you think. You heard of such terrible things…

  *

  Jean Hillier saw the man called Bruce again on the day following her friend Dora’s gastric attack. She had called early at the house in Culpeper Gardens to find a hospital nurse installed. The crisis seemed to have passed, and Dora was sleeping quietly. Jean was too practical a woman to linger where she could be of no use, and had set off back towards town, and her little house in Walton Street, in the shadow of the University Press.

  She had seen the man called Bruce walking towards her as she passed the buildings of the Society of Home Students in Woodstock Road, and she watched as he turned in through the gates of the Radcliffe Infirmary. Swiftly crossing the road, she entered the lodge, and was greeted by a porter, an elderly white-haired man, whose bright eyes regarded her from behind little steel-framed spectacles.

  ‘Yes, miss? What can I do for you?’ he asked.

  ‘The gentleman who came through the lodge just now – I fancied that he was a friend of mine, Mr George Potter, but I’m not quite sure. I didn’t know he was in Oxford…’

  It sounded very lame, and rather silly, but the porter seemed quite content to enlighten her.

  ‘Mr George Potter? No, miss, that was Dr Bruce Preston-Jones, one of our general physicians. I’m sorry to disappoint you.’

  She thanked him, walked back into Woodstock Road, then turned in to Little Clarendon Street, her short cut to home.

  So Dora’s mysterious friend was a doctor at the Radcliffe, Dr Bruce Preston-Jones. Well, she would make it her business to find out more about him. Whoever he was, and whatever he did, he was inimical to Dora’s safety.

  Jean was quietly pleased with her foray into detective work. Her mind turned to Rachel Noble, whom she had seen taking tea once again with Anthony. She was clearly unfaithful to her own husband, and was seemingly content to put Dora’s marriage in jeopardy. There must be ways of warning her off…

  She had reached her house in Walton Street, a little stone-faced brick cottage facing the great neoclassical entrance to the Oxford University Press building. She would do nothing about it this weekend, but on Monday afternoon, after she had finished her work at the solicitor’s, she would make a start on the task of mending Anthony and Dora’s disintegrating marriage.

  4

  The Sleeping and the Dead

  On Monday afternoon, 11 November, Count Raphael Savident arrived at St Gabriel’s College, having taken a cab from the stand in Beaumont Street. Provost Chalmers, with a touch of the puckish humour that he could reveal on occasion, had appointed Anthony Jardine to receive him.

  Savident came panting and puffing through the wicket gate, complaining in a high, lisping voice, that the whole gate should have been opened for him. Not everyone, he said, was a slender college youth.

  Jardine looked at him. Yes, of course he had changed in the twenty or more years since he had seen him. He had not exactly fallen into flesh, but he was gross and ungainly, and perhaps a little arthritic. He was dressed impeccably in a dark suit covered by a tailored frock coat. He wore one of the new tall, starched collars with a slim black
tie. He carried his silk hat in his hand.

  ‘Count Raphael Savident?’ said Anthony Jardine. ‘Welcome to St Gabriel’s. My name’s Jardine, and the Provost has deputed me to greet you.’

  ‘Has he? said the count, accepting the hand that Jardine proffered. ‘I suppose he thinks himself too grand a personage to come himself. Well, I must make do with you. Jardine, you say?’ The count looked keenly at him through half-closed eyelids. ‘I fancy I’ve seen you before. Were you in Constantinople last year?’

  ‘I was not, sir. Let me conduct you at once to the science laboratory, where the finds have been stored.’

  The count stopped, and held him by a button of his waistcoat, an annoying habit that Jardine thought had been superseded by newer unwelcome familiarities.

  ‘Look here, Jardine,’ said Count Savident, ‘I’ve been invited to dinner in hall tonight. Do I have to go back and change? It’ll be a confounded nuisance.’

  ‘Not at all, Count,’ said Jardine. ‘You will be most acceptable on high table as you are.’

  Savident uttered a sound halfway between a shout and a laugh.

  ‘ “Acceptable”… Last month I dined informally with the King of Bavaria, and last year sat in native robes at the table of the Negus of Abyssinia. “Acceptable” indeed! Well, I’d better look at these so-called relics. I expect it’s all a storm in a teacup.’

  Provost Chalmers and Professor Collingwood were waiting in the laboratory. Young Frederick Stringer hovered in the background, having determined to assume the mantle of a humble provider of scientific information if called upon to do so. After the due formalities had been observed, the St Gabriel’s men stood back, content to leave the stage to their visiting authority.