An Oxford Scandal

by Norman Russell

  ‘Poor Rachel used to come over here nearly every day,’ said Mrs Palance, ‘and we’d enjoy a gossip. She was a lovely woman, always smart and well-dressed, and with a very sharp intellect. She was more intelligent than poor Gregory, who got stuck in a rut years ago, and couldn’t get out of it. She’d kept her figure, too. Not like me – I’ve never been exactly svelte, you know, and that’s why I wear these tent-like black dresses. They’re a form of disguise.’ She treated them to a good-humoured laugh.

  ‘And Mrs Noble had rooms here?’ said Antrobus.

  ‘Yes, and I’ll take you both upstairs to look at them in a minute. You know that she had a gentleman friend out at Cowley? Yes, I see you do, so I’ll say no more. De mortuis nil nisi bunkum.’ Her cheerful, full-throated laugh filled the room. ‘Come on, I’ll take you both upstairs.’

  Here, at last, they found themselves in what would have been Rachel Noble’s unique ambiance if she had ever won control of her own house across the court. There was a neat bedroom, the bed covered with a check counterpane, a dressing table with a set of standing mirrors, a tallboy, and a wardrobe.

  At Antrobus’s request, Mrs Palance remained while they looked through the drawers and examined the contents of the wardrobe. Everything was neat and tidy, and all the clothes of good quality. Neither man relished this particular task: it seemed to rob the dead woman of a very special level of privacy.

  The second room had served as a study and sitting room. A substantial bookcase held a selection of critical works on English literature, and John Richard Green’s A Short History of the English People. Below this were the stout volumes of Macaulay’s History of England, and an array of neat file boxes containing historical pamphlets. On a desk nearby stood a japanned metal deed box, its hinged lid open, and its key lying beside it. The table cloth had been gathered up on one side as though the box had been hastily put on the table and quickly opened.

  ‘Mrs Noble was in a great hurry when she brought this box out of – where? – that cupboard over there, most likely,’ said Antrobus. ‘I see her as hastily obeying a summons from the man in the trilby hat to bring him a certain document, which, presumably, she did.’

  ‘Perhaps he asked her for it while he was still talking to her in the kitchen of her own house, and so she rushed over here to get it,’ said Maxwell.

  ‘Yes, and what does that suggest to you? The hurrying, I mean. A tidy, meticulous woman couldn’t spare the time closing and locking the box.’

  ‘It means, sir,’ said Maxwell, ‘that she was convinced that handing over that document was going to bring to an end some enduring threat. It would all be over in minutes, and the man in the trilby hat would vanish from her life.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I think, too, Sergeant. But then, like Macbeth, he decided to “make assurance doubly sure”, and killed her. Let us see what other documents remain in this box.’

  There were letters concerning her academic appointments, receipted tailors’ bills, and other documents to do with the business of daily living. There were a number of little till receipts from Boffin’s Restaurant and Confectioners in St Aldate’s, fastened together with a clip. They were all receipts for afternoon tea for two. That, thought Antrobus, was a rather moving little memento of her illicit love affair with Anthony Jardine.

  And now an old, faded envelope bulging with equally faded letters. Antrobus carefully extracted them, and arrayed them on the surface of the desk. There were also three small carte-de-visite photographs, much faded, which he examined first.

  One showed a tall, four-storeyed house, blackened with grime. Near the front door stood a coffee seller’s stall, with its owner standing proudly to attention beside it. On the back someone had written: ‘My lodgings in Dalcy Street, Rotherhithe, June 1868.’ A second photograph had evidently been taken in a studio, and showed two smiling young women in the fashions of the late sixties. The same hand had written on the back: ‘Me with Melanie, August 68’. The third photograph— Antrobus gave a start of surprise, making Sergeant Maxwell look up from his perusal of the letters.

  ‘Look at that old photograph, Joe. Who do you see?’

  It was another studio portrait, showing an elegant young man and a very pretty girl standing beside a potted palm, and against a backcloth purporting to be a Tuscan villa. Surely he knew those two? They looked enormously pleased with each other! Maxwell turned the photograph over, and read: ‘Anthony and me, to celebrate our betrothal. January 1870.’ Of course! The girl in the photograph was Dora Jardine.

  ‘It was Dora who sent those three photographs to Rachel Noble, Sergeant,’ said Antrobus. ‘They must have been friends, and yet seventeen years later, Rachel is Jardine’s mistress, and there was never a hint that the two women even knew each other.’

  ‘Maybe they didn’t,’ said Maxwell. ‘Girlish friendships don’t always endure, and people go their own ways. Then, of course, young women get married, and so change their names. I rather think, sir, that London beckons. We need to find the maiden names of Dora and Rachel, which is very easily done; and then find out who “Melanie” is. Or was. There’s light appearing at the end of the tunnel, sir, and more of it’ll be shed once we’ve examined these letters.’

  *

  At first glance, the letters were merely keepsakes, communications from old friends concerning holidays, budding romances, or shopping trips to the West End. All her correspondents seemed to have been Londoners. One letter, an invitation to a dance from a man called Lionel, was still in its envelope, which was addressed: To Miss Rachel Greenwood. By hand.’ Here, then, was the first of the maiden names posited by Joe Maxwell. Rachel Greenwood… She seemed to have been part of a coterie of young women, all contemplating marriage, and looking more or less confidently to the future.

  But then Maxwell found a letter that held more than a little interest. It was signed ‘Melanie’, one of the two smiling young women in the sixties photograph, the friend and companion of Dora. It was dated 7 August, 1869.

  Dear Rachel (it ran),

  You are not to tell anybody about this, which must remain a secret between us. Two days ago, on Thursday, Dora Spencer witnessed the violent murder of an elderly gentleman who lived in the same lodging house as herself. The poor old man was knocked to the floor (it was in his rooms at the lodging house) and then stabbed in the chest. Dora had been going upstairs, and saw the murder through a half-open door.

  She was absolutely terrified – after all, she is only seventeen – and her terror increased when she recognized the assailant. At first, she thought that she had not been seen, but yesterday this man accosted her in the street, and made it clear to her that he had seen her on the stairs. He told her to say nothing, threatening to kill her, too, if she ever mentioned the matter to anyone. She agreed, of course, but determined to write an account of what she had seen, naming the old man and his murderous assailant, and lodge the account with a friend, in case the killer tried to threaten her again.

  Dora has now written the account, and has sealed it in an envelope, upon which she has written: ‘To be opened after my death.’ Rachel, will you agree to be the holder of this letter? You will remain quite anonymous, and the knowledge that she can use that letter to ward off any danger to herself will give her such welcome relief. If all goes well, Anthony Jardine will propose to her next year, and her future will be assured.

  Please say that you will do her this favour, Rachel. In anticipation of your kindness, I enclose Dora’s sealed envelope.

  With love and best wishes,

  Melanie

  There was another letter, addressed by hand to Miss Rachel Greenwood. It was from Dora, thanking her for her kindness in agreeing to hold her account of the murder as a means of securing her safety should the murderer decide to pursue her further.

  ‘It’s a great pity, Sergeant,’ said Antrobus, ‘that Rachel discarded the envelopes. We’ve n
o idea where she was living when this “Melanie” wrote to her. As you say, the answer to this mystery lies somewhere in London, and the best place to visit first will be that lodging house in Rotherhithe. We’ll not be there to learn more about Mrs Dora Jardine and Mrs Rachel Noble. This time we’ll be following the misfortunes of three lively girls with their way to make in the world – Miss Dora Spencer, Miss Rachel Greenwood, and the elusive Melanie.’

  *

  In the many alehouses and hostelries of Oxford the terrible discovery of Rachel Noble’s body was discussed with relish, and was subject to the homespun wisdom of seasoned drinkers over pints of Morrell’s best bitter. She’d been stabbed to death with one of them Italian stilettos, like that lady in the tramcar. No; someone told me that she’d been smothered with a cushion. Well, a man I know who lives near Pembroke College told me that she’d been poisoned. Terrible, it was. She’d swollen up to twice her size, and had turned black. When the policeman arrived, he had to be given a glass of brandy to stop him fainting.

  No, it was the old husband who did it. A lot of those college gentlemen are crackpots: all that reading turns their minds. Another pint? Well, thank you very much. They took the husband off to the Lunatic Asylum at Headington. He’d gone raving mad, and was singing Roman Catholic songs and playing the violin at the same time.

  Well, what about that Mr Jardine? He was there, you know. That police sergeant saw him staggering out of old Mr Noble’s house, with him gone mad, and her lying dead in the parlour. And he was there out at Cowley, loitering around in the rain just yards away from his murdered wife. You can draw your own conclusions, friends, but it seems pretty clear to me. Jardine’s another very learned man, you know. Another crackpot. It doesn’t bear thinking of…

  *

  The Right Honourable the Marquess of Chertsey, Hereditary Visitor to St Gabriel’s College, put down his glass of Madeira, and sighed. He did not relish his task, but had no option but to carry it out. The Provost, Dr Chalmers, looked wretched and ill-at-ease, which was understandable. Anthony Jardine was a man with a fine academic reputation, and was a deservedly popular Fellow of the college, and there would be much indignation about his being suspended.

  Lord Chertsey, a slim, ascetic man in his fifties, was sitting with Provost Chalmers in the latter’s great parlour, part of the sixteenth-century Lodgings built into the east range of the first quadrangle. A cheerful log fire was burning in the grate, but the atmosphere that morning was anything but cheerful.

  ‘You do see, don’t you, Provost, that he cannot be allowed to continue his work here until the business of his wife’s murder, and the cause of death of his friend Mrs Noble, has been cleared up? His presence in the vicinity of both deaths, and his agitated manner in both cases, is very suspicious.’

  ‘But don’t you think—’

  ‘I don’t allow myself the luxury of thinking anything, Chalmers. I have only the interests of the college at heart. That is my function as Visitor. I have already spoken to the local Police Superintendent, a most superior person, and he has expressed grave doubts about the wisdom of leaving Jardine at liberty. He has been persuaded to do so by the inspector in charge of the case, a man called James Antrobus.’

  ‘Antrobus has a very high reputation as an investigator, Chertsey. Only last year he brought to a triumphant conclusion his investigation of that business at St Michael’s, and the appalling affair at Jerusalem Hall.3 But there: we are not here to discuss police procedure. What do you want me to do about Jardine?’

  ‘I want you to suspend him from all duties concerned with St Gabriel’s College until further notice. He is not being dismissed, you understand, but he cannot be allowed to mingle with the young men entrusted to our charge here. We are responsible for their education. We are responsible, too, for their moral welfare. It is Friday today; Jardine must have gone by Monday morning.’

  *

  Arthur Gorringe accepted a cigar, and used the cutter to good effect. There followed the enjoyable ritual of lighting up. When the cigar was burning nicely, he puffed away in silence for a while. He sat in one of the cane-backed chairs in Anthony Jardine’s study on the second floor on Number 7, Culpeper Gardens, observing his beleaguered neighbour with a kind of grave affection.

  Jardine had been brought home in a state of collapse on Wednesday. He had come in a cab, accompanied by a plain-clothed police officer, and had been immediately taken in charge by the loyal and capable Mrs Green, and the now fully devoted maid, Betty. Gorringe mused wryly that the more of a scapegrace his neighbour appeared to be, the more fiercely loyal Betty became. With a great deal of cosseting, and the provision of nourishing meals accompanied by reviving liquors, Jardine had recovered from the physical shock of his experience in Oliphant’s Yard. He was adept at keeping up appearances, and he was still dressed meticulously in frock coat and lined waistcoat. But he could not conceal the dark shadows beneath his heavy-lidded eyes, or the skittish nervousness of his hands. He was a man, thought Gorringe, perilously near to a nervous breakdown.

  ‘Well, Jardine,’ said Gorringe, ‘this is a tangled skein if ever there was one. I think Lord Chertsey has behaved very high-handedly in rusticating you, if that’s the right term here. But to put it plainly, you have been a bit of a scamp, you know, so now is the time to atone for your sins.’

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘I think you should allow me to advise you. I am a man very much older than you are, and to some extent I can stand back from your predicament and survey it with a dispassionate eye. So let me ask you a question. Have you yet gone through Dora’s papers? She must surely have kept various letters and so forth that were of value to her. You see, if you don’t do that, the police will do it for you. So far, they have left Dora’s effects alone. But now that you’ve been associated with poor Rachel Noble, they will start to look more closely for evidence here, in your house.’

  ‘Go through her things? God! What a violation that would be… Poor dear Dora, first robbed of her life, and now to have her private affairs pored over and made public—’

  ‘If you don’t want to do it yourself, then ask that friend of hers to do it for you. They were very close, weren’t they? Jean Hillier. Ask her to come, Jardine, and look through Dora’s things before the police arrive.’

  ‘I will, Gorringe. What a brilliant idea! She was Dora’s friend, but I sensed that she never liked me.’ He suddenly blushed crimson with shame. ‘And she suspected that I was – that I was engaged in intimate commerce with Rachel. She will surely hate me for that.’

  Professor Gorringe chuckled.

  ‘Do you think she will forgo the chance of reading through another woman’s intimate correspondence? I think not. But when I made that suggestion, I had in mind Jean’s finding documents that might throw some light on Dora’s past – I mean in the days before she ever met you. Amy and I were thinking only yesterday that both Dora and Rachel must have had experiences before their marriages. Dora came from London didn’t she? Where did Rachel come from? She married an Oxford don, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that she came from Oxford.’

  ‘Their pasts… You know, Gorringe, I had not thought of that at all. It is a bitter blow to have lost Dora, but to have her murderer still at large is an even greater burden. I will do as you say, and write to Jean Hillier immediately. Now that I have unwanted time on my hands, I can make myself useful by offering what help I can to Inspector Antrobus. If anything that seems to have a bearing on the case turns up from Jean’s search, I will hand it over to him.’

  *

  The post mortem conducted on the body of Rachel Noble showed that she had been drugged with chloral hydrate, probably administered in wine, and then stabbed to the heart with a long-bladed knife.

  10

  The House in Dalcy Street

  Inspector Antrobus and Sergeant Maxwell arrived at the Euston Square terminus of the L
ondon and North Western Railway just after nine o’clock on the morning of Thursday, 28 November. There followed two wearisome journeys by horse omnibus, the second of which took them across London Bridge and into the Borough. It rained the whole time, and while they were lucky to secure seats inside the crowded vehicles, they could see nothing of the nation’s capital, as all the windows were steamed up.

  Eventually they reached their destination, the headquarters of ‘M’ Division of the Metropolitan Police in Blackman Street, Borough. Antrobus’s own superior officer in Oxford, Superintendent Fielding, had sent a telegraph message on the previous day to Divisional Superintendent Neylan, asking him to allow his two detectives to work in his Division, and to afford them any help they might need.

  They were received by the desk sergeant, who consulted a ledger on the counter in the charge room, and then led them to a little office at the end of a corridor. The stone floor was wet with boot-prints, and the whole place smelt of rain-soaked serge. As they entered the office, a uniformed inspector greeted them. He was a busy-looking man in his thirties, with a healthy face and a trim moustache. He was dressed for outdoors in a black gabardine cloak. He was quite clearly desperate to get out of the police station on business of his own; evidently Mr Neylan had told him to welcome their provincial visitors, leaving him free to go about his own business.