An Oxford Scandal

by Norman Russell

  ‘I did, and he was. Dear me, young man, you do snap a person’s head off! They were all Catholics. Converts, I suppose, from the old days in Poland. Is there anything else you want to know?’

  ‘Did you ever meet Rachel Greenwood? Did she come here?’

  ‘Miss Greenwood came here occasionally to call on Dora,’ said Miss Mauleverer, ‘but they were not really friends. They knew the same young men in the same set, and both of them were planning what I’d call congenial marriages. Miss Greenwood – Rachel – was a bit older than Dora. Somebody told me once that they fell out later. Miss Greenwood was a cleverer, more capable young woman than Dora. But there, you tell me that she, too, has been murdered. It’s a hard, cruel world. It always was.’

  Sergeant Maxwell suddenly burst into speech, and the old lady gave a start of surprise.

  ‘That’s a very beautiful portrait of Her Majesty that you have there, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I should think that you set great store by it.’

  Miss Mauleverer turned in her chair and looked at the framed picture on the wall.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant, I value it highly. It’s an engraving made from a photograph taken at Windsor in 1872. The lady standing with Her Majesty is Viscountess Castle Royal, who at that time was a Woman of the Bedchamber to the Queen.’

  The two detectives rose to take their leave. They had learned some things of interest, but nothing that furthered their investigation.

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Mauleverer, ‘I value that picture very much. I’m surprised that you didn’t ask me anything about her. She was the third girl in that little gaggle of potential brides. Melanie, Viscountess Castle Royal.’

  *

  They found Sergeant Tanner waiting for them in the hall.

  ‘I think it’s time we paid a visit to that repository of yours,’ said Antrobus. ‘The people in this house have given us a very good idea about what happened on that day in 1869, but the police report will flesh out all those names with the kind of details we need to get to the bottom of this business. Is it far from here?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Tanner cheerfully. ‘It’s just a few streets away. Follow me, if you please.’ He walked out of Dalcy Street and across Archer’s Pavement. The sky had become overcast, and a thin November rain had begun to fall.

  Sergeant Tanner’s idea of ‘a few streets away’ proved to be an understatement. He led them through a maze of black, cold streets, up a flight of steps leading to the graveyard of what appeared to be a burnt-out church, and then along the side of a deserted canal basin, half filled with black, oily water. The rain increased in intensity. ‘Not long now, gents!’ said the cheerful Tanner.

  ‘Joe,’ said Inspector Antrobus in a low voice, ‘I don’t feel well at all. It’s not just the lungs, there’s something the matter with my heart. When we get to this repository, you’d better go in with Sergeant Tanner. I’ll stay outside and smoke a cigarette.’

  Sergeant Maxwell looked at the pale, drawn face of his guvnor, and saw at once that something was gravely wrong. Antrobus was finding it difficult to walk, and when he spoke again it was all that Maxwell could do to hear what he was saying.

  ‘If anything happens to me, let Grace – my daughter – know. She lives in lodgings at 6 Battersea Park Road. That’s on this side of the river.’

  ‘Here we are, gentlemen,’ said Sergeant Tanner. They had followed him into a winding alley that seemed to be formed of the backs of tall warehouses. Half way along to the left they saw a flight of steps leading up to a solid iron-clad door. Tanner produced a key from his pocket. Evidently, Hooke Street Divisional Repository was unmanned.

  ‘Go in with him, Joe,’ said Antrobus. ‘I’ll sit on these steps and wait for you. See if there’s any mention in the records of the old man’s nephew. I suppose he inherited his estate. No, go on, do as I say. I’ll be all right here.’

  As Maxwell followed Sergeant Tanner into the repository, he glanced back at his guvnor, who was lighting one of his favourite Richmond ‘Gem’ cigarettes. Even after Tanner had closed and locked the door, Maxwell could hear the bursts of harsh, tearing coughs which inevitably followed Antrobus’s inhaling of cigarette smoke.

  The repository consisted of three interconnecting rooms on the ground floor of what was evidently a commercial warehouse. There were no windows, and Tanner struck a match in order to ignite a gas mantle curving out from the wall. There were racks of shelves, all holding dusty, decaying cardboard folders tied with blue tape.

  Tanner worked silently, taking down folder after folder, and glancing at their covers. Finally, he gave a little cry of satisfaction.

  ‘This is the one we want, Mr Maxwell,’ he said. ‘ “Jacob Fischbein. 5 August 1869. Murder of Mr Jacob Fischbein, discount broker, aged 74, at his lodgings in 4 Dalcy Street, SE. Per Inspector C.W. French and Sergeant B. Wolfson, ‘M’. Coroner’s Verdict Accepted. Status at 1 January 1870: Open.” ’

  He undid the blue ribbon, and spread the contents of the file on a dusty wooden table. There was a neatly written account of the discovery of Fischbein’s body, a list of the contents of his rifled desk, and a number of depositions from the residents in the house. There was a list of the stolen securities and other items taken from the desk, written by the dead man’s nephew. It was signed ‘R. Fischbein’, and written on private note paper from an address in North London.

  ‘Mr Tanner,’ said Sergeant Maxwell, ‘can we take this file away with us? There’s a lot of interesting stuff here that needs to be studied at leisure.’

  Sergeant Tanner produced a stoutly bound ledger from one of the shelves, and scribbled something in it with the black-lead provided, which hung on a length of string attached to a nail, closed and re-tied the folder, and handed it to Maxwell. It was time to rejoin Inspector Antrobus.

  As soon as they left the repository, they saw Antrobus lying spread-eagled on his back in the road. It was raining, but his eyes remained open and unblinking. Beside him was a handkerchief, soaked in blood, and a cigarette, which was still smouldering. Maxwell knelt in the road, and felt for signs of life. Antrobus’s heart was still beating, but with a faint and fitful rhythm. Maxwell turned to speak to Sergeant Tanner, but he had already gone to seek help.

  *

  They waited in a soulless white-painted room on the first floor of Guy’s Hospital, listening to the murmur of voices in the room beyond. Grace Antrobus, an attractive young woman in the grey cloak and bonnet of a pupil-teacher, had been summoned from the elementary school in Battersea where she worked. She sat patiently on an upright chair, awaiting the verdict on her stricken father.

  Sergeant Maxwell stood at the window, looking down into the front courtyard at the bronze statue of Thomas Guy, the hospital’s founder. If the Guvnor had to stay there, he’d take lodgings nearby, and give his full attention to the file of documents that he and Tanner had brought with them from the divisional repository. If the guvnor wasn’t up to it, he’d pursue the investigation himself, on his behalf, and in his name.

  For a man consumed by tuberculosis, Mr Antrobus had always shown remarkable powers of recovery. He’d been lucky, too, in making the acquaintance of Miss Sophia Jex-Blake, the lady physician who had twice brought him back from the brink. If there was a telegraph office near, he’d let her know what had happened to the Guvnor. And he’d alert Superintendent Fielding to the current state of things.

  The door opened, and a bearded doctor, wearing a white smock over his day clothes, came into the room. He looked a grave, kindly man; Maxwell judged him to be in his early sixties. He was accompanied by an older, balding gentleman, wearing a frock coat and pin-striped trousers.

  ‘Miss Antrobus,’ said the doctor, ‘and you, Mr Maxwell, you need to be advised that Mr Antrobus is very gravely ill. I have found evidence of pleural oedema, and bleeding from the lungs into the chest cavity. My name is Laidlaw. This gentleman standing besi
de me is Sir Seaton Whymper, the resident cardio-thoracic specialist here at Guy’s.’

  The older man spoke in quiet tones, as though long used to conveying evil tidings.

  ‘I have examined Mr Antrobus closely and thoroughly,’ he said, ‘and must tell you that he has suffered a most violent heart attack. I have administered intravenous stimulants, and he is now sleeping, but his whole system is undermined and ravaged by a combination of fatally weakened lungs and cardiac spasm, from which he is quite unable to rally. He may linger for twelve hours or so, but I am afraid that you must prepare for the worst.’

  11

  Recalled to Life

  On the bright morning of Friday, 29 November, Jean Hillier arrived at 7 Culpeper Gardens to sort through Dora Jardine’s private papers. Anthony, she thought, was looking pale and hollow eyed, a far cry from his usual ebullient self. It was easy to feel sorry for him, a man rendered a widower by violent means, a man who had endured the ignominy of being suspected, however briefly, of his wife’s murder.

  She had always dismissed her own feelings for him as both foolish and wicked, a potential betrayal of Dora, her oldest and dearest friend. But he was attractive, a handsome, rakish man with a fine intellect and a large measure of personal pride. Even in these days of constant anguish he contrived to dress smartly, and to carry himself in adversity as a gentleman should.

  But wait! Had he not betrayed Dora with that woman, Rachel Noble, furtively living in sin with her while Dora sank into her final and fatal melancholy? It was his neglect that had led indirectly to poor Dora’s murder…

  Jean had been admitted to the house by Mrs Green who, she knew, had set herself up as Anthony’s protectress. Whatever reputation he may have earned in the town as a blackguard and adulterer, such evil imputations stopped at his front door.

  He was waiting for her in Dora’s boudoir, and rather awkwardly shook hands with her.

  ‘Here are the keys to Dora’s desk, Jean,’ he said. ‘Please search there, and anywhere else, as you think fit. I intend to make you custodian of all Dora’s things. If you find anything that you think the police should see, give it to me, and I will see that it gets to Inspector Antrobus.’

  ‘Do you want to be present while I make my search? I shall quite understand if you do.’

  ‘No, Jean,’ Anthony replied. ‘I want you to stay here alone until you’ve finished. You were Dora’s confidante; it would be outrageous if I were to stay.’

  Jean felt suddenly moved by the honesty of these words.

  ‘How are you, Anthony?’ she asked. ‘How are you coping with all this grief and anxiety? I should have called to see you earlier.’

  ‘I am the most wretched of men,’ he replied quietly. ‘I am utterly bereft. Part of me wants to plunge back into academic work, particularly the business of Becket’s bones. I want to enjoy teaching my undergraduates – though God knows, the college may never allow me to do so again. That’s what my mind wants, Jean. But my soul – my spirit, call it what you will – just desires to atone for my neglect of Dora, and my appalling betrayal of her. And so, as I say, I am the most wretched of men.’

  Anthony Jardine looked at his wife’s friend, and saw the tears of compassion standing in her eyes. She was a good soul, and Gorringe had been right to suggest that she should go through Dora’s things; but while she would always succumb to his charms – damn it all, it wasn’t his fault that women liked him! – she would always see herself as his self-appointed voice of conscience.

  What quietly disapproving appraisal would she make of Elodie, if she were ever to meet her? For Madame Elodie Deschamps, he had learned, was a widow, as well as a European scholar of more than average repute. It was most unlikely that Jean Hillier would ever warm to Elodie, should he ever be successful in his recent determination to make Madame Deschamps his second wife.

  *

  When Anthony left the room, Jean sat for a few moments, looking around her. There was the chaise-longue, the plaid blanket still thrown carelessly across its back. The few books that Dora had been reading were still lying untouched on the table, but the half-consumed boxes of chocolates and Tunisian dates had long been removed. The room felt empty – no, that was the wrong word. Vacated, that was it. Dora had moved on elsewhere.

  Jean opened Dora’s desk, and carefully removed the contents of the drawers. There was a thick cardboard folder tied with faded pink ribbon; it still exuded a faint perfume of lavender. It contained all the letters that Anthony had written to Dora in the early seventies, together with a few old photographs of seaside piers and crumbling castles. She made no attempt to read any of these letters, and put them aside to give to Anthony.

  Beneath this folder in the top drawer she found a wedding album, containing a whole array of faded photographs of Anthony and Dora’s wedding in 1872, at the old London church of St Lawrence Jewry. The pages were stuck together by glue that had seeped from behind the photographs, and between some pages there lay the wizened little ghosts of small spiders. The book had not been opened for a lifetime.

  What curious things people kept! Here were a number of receipted bills from a chemist’s shop in Westminster, all for the supply of tincture of laudanum, and dating from 1876 and 1877. Of course! They were the years when she was suffering from a tumour on the spine, and those opiates had been the start of her addiction. Poor dear Dora!

  It took Jean an hour to sift through the contents of Dora’s desk. There were gossipy letters from old friends, postcards from resorts both in Britain and abroad, including a view of Munich, on which had been written the brief message: ‘I am always here when you feel the need of reassurance. R.’ Dora had written across these words a comment of her own: ‘Villain! How dare he write to me?’ This was probably one of those wretches who had supplied Dora with the drugs that she craved. Anthony, and the police, would be interested to see that card.

  Another letter, written on high quality cream paper, and bearing a noble crest at the top of each sheet, caused Jean to start in surprise. It was dated only days before Dora’s death, and more than hinted at a deadly danger facing Dora, some threatening ogre from the past. And Dora’s correspondent was a noblewoman! Why had she never mentioned her?

  17 Regent Gate, SW

  11 November 1895

  From the Viscountess Castle Royal.

  My dear Dora,

  It is a lifetime since I heard from you, and I thought all that business was long ago resolved. I know that you never wanted to approach Rachel Greenwood for private reasons of your own, but surely this is the time for you to do so? I thought that man long dead, consumed by one vice or another, but now he is once more on the rampage, so swallow your pride, Dora, ascertain that Rachel still has your sealed letter, and then let that fellow know that a word from you can send him to the gallows. Meanwhile, I have not forgotten your confiding in me that time at Cromer, so you can regard me as a second insurance.

  I am free from Court duties for a month, so His Lordship and I are going to Cannes on the twentieth, and will stay there for the winter. Try not to worry, my dear, maybe the viper’s fang has been drawn with the passage of time, and all will be well.

  With my kindest regards,

  Melanie.

  There could be no doubt that this letter had to be placed in the hands of the police. What was this dreadful secret that poor Dora had kept for so many years? And who was this person with the ‘viper’s fang’? Could it have been the man who had murdered poor Dora? Well, these were matters for the police.

  Dora had used a little writing case, bound in morocco leather, and secured with a clasp. Jean opened it, and found it contained a sheaf of blank writing paper, and a single letter, tucked into the front flap. It was written on the official stationery of the Radcliffe Infirmary, and a glance at the signature showed Jean that if was from the erring supplier of drugs, Dr Bruce Preston-Jones.

&nbs
p; Dear Mrs Jardine,

  I will see you on Monday, the 4th, as agreed, and will bring you a week’s supply of morphine sulphate solution and a fresh syringe. The cost will be £7. This must be the last occasion on which I supply you. Be assured that I will make no more drugs of this nature available to you. You must seek help from your own physician to break this habit, which, if continued, will ultimately lead to your death.

  I have stolen these drugs from the hospital pharmacy, in order to raise money to pay off a large gambling debt. I have betrayed myself and my profession in doing this. Further, I am the sole support of a crippled sister – our parents are dead – and if I am to go to prison, what will become of her?

  I am concerned for my own plight, but also for your ultimate well-being. I am already under suspicion, which is why I have chosen to meet you at a late hour, and in a remote place. Bring a companion if you wish; but let him stand apart, so that he does not see or hear me.

  Yours sincerely,

  Bruce Preston-Jones.

  So that wretched young man had warned Dora before their meeting at the Trap Grounds that he would no longer pander to her drug habit. He had told her that he was in dire straits, and the sole support of an invalid sister. And he was genuinely concerned for her welfare. He had even risked discovery by telling her that she could bring a companion to their rendezvous.

  What had become of him? She had been so self-satisfied with her detective work at the Infirmary that she had never given the young man a thought. Had he been dismissed? Would he be sent to gaol? Was there a soul to save there?

  Dora was in Heaven, and that part of Jean’s life that had taken her to Culpeper Gardens was over. She would take her leave of Anthony, give him those letters and cards that would be of interest to the police, and then make enquiries after Bruce Preston-Jones at the Radcliffe Infirmary.