Later that day, PC Morton arrived in Culpeper Gardens to conduct a search of Dora’s boudoir. He soon found the hypodermic syringe, and other paraphernalia connected with drug addiction hidden behind the books on her bamboo bookshelf. It was not the servants’ place to mention these things; but surely her husband could have looked through her books occasionally, and discovered them? Evidently not. Sergeant Maxwell was of the opinion that Mr and Mrs Jardine had long led separate lives.
*
On the afternoon of the same day, Jardine encountered Provost Chalmers in Magdalen Street.
‘I’m glad I’ve caught you here, Jardine,’ said Chalmers. ‘Now that Lord Chertsey’s gone back to his ancestral home, I intend to take you out of quarantine. For goodness’ sake, man, stop hiding away in Summertown! Keep your terms and dine in hall. Will you do that? I thought you would.’
‘It’s very good of you, Provost. May I teach my men?’
‘No, you may not. Penrose of Magdalen is looking after them for the rest of this term. There’s only a few weeks before everyone goes down. You can resume teaching in Hilary Term.’
They were standing in the shadow of the Martyrs’ Memorial; across the road rose the majestic premises of the Randolph Hotel. Chalmers hauled a large silver watch from his waistcoat pocket.
‘It’s just gone three, Jardine. Would you care to come in to the Randolph for coffee and brandy? I want to tell you the latest news about Thomas à Becket and his clerical claimants.’
They sat at a table in a secluded corner of the lounge, and waited until they had been served with coffee in a tall silver jug, and brandy in the Randolph’s special bulbous crystal glasses. Anthony Jardine felt the first stirrings of a return to his old life.
‘I told you that I’d had a stiff and starchy letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury, didn’t I?’ said Provost Chalmers. ‘He said he wanted the bones back – they were his, he said, ex officio – so that he could hide them away from idolaters in some obscure country churchyard.’
‘Did he offer you any inducement? A Lambeth degree, perhaps?’
‘His letter ended, “With every blessing”, but contained no hint of a bribe. He’s sending the Bishop of Oxford to bully me, but he’s not been yet. Old Billy Stubbs was Regius Professor here for twenty years or more, and I don’t think he’ll relish being made Benson’s messenger boy.’
‘What are you going to do? I suppose they are his, you know. The bones, I mean.’
‘That depends on whether you believe he really is the Archbishop of Canterbury. There are some folk who believe the last Primate of All England was Cardinal Pole.’
‘You mean—’
‘I mean that I have been approached by the “other side”, by Cardinal Vaughan himself, in fact, and with a great deal more subtlety and flattery than Dr Benson could muster up. First of all, he said that I was sure to agree with him that the relics rightly belonged to the Papists. Then he said that he was equally sure I’d want to return them to him, and now I quote his exact words: : “with the generosity of spirit for which I believe you are renowned.” I quite warmed to the man when I read that.’
‘Any inducements, Provost?’
‘He said that one of his high-ranking priests would get in touch with me, to initiate some kind of pourparler. And then, yesterday morning I received a letter from the said high-ranking priest. His name is Monsignor the Honourable Piers Lucie, and his inducement is a dinner at his expense here at the Randolph. He will bring a guest, and we can furnish a small contingent of college men. I suggest myself, you, Freddy Stringer, and Paul Shepherd – it would be as well to have our own Chaplain here, as he wasn’t present at our dramatic excavation. Collingwood can’t come. So what do you think? It’s a shrewd move on the Cardinal’s part. Benson’s idea of bribery would be a cup of tea and some water biscuits at Lambeth Palace.’
‘That’s hardly fair, Provost.’ Jardine laughed in spite of himself.
‘Maybe not, but as you can see, Jardine, I’m an easy victim of the Cardinal’s machinations. I know my merits and my limitations, but I’ve always been open to insincere flattery.’
‘This monsignor—’
‘I’ve made enquiries. He’s one of the Lucies, you know, the old Crusader family with an ancient seat, Stoneaton Place, somewhere in Wiltshire. Very much persona grata in polite circles, but a rabid Ultramontanist. He parts company with the old recusants on that point. Will you come to this free dinner? It should be quite intriguing.’
‘Of course I’ll come. I suppose I’ll always be a Protestant, you know, but I’m not averse to a good dinner. And thank you for having me back!’
‘Rot! You haven’t been expelled, only suspended at the behest of the Visitor. I’ll let you know when this Lucullan banquet is to take place as soon as I hear again from the good Monsignor.’
*
‘Where is he?’
Sophia Jex-Blake erupted into the first-floor waiting room at Guy’s at mid-morning on the day following Antrobus’s seizure. On receiving a telegram from Sergeant Maxwell, she had thrown a few necessities into a valise and caught the last night-train to London. She looked pale and shocked, but very determined.
She had addressed her question to Sergeant Maxwell, who had been sitting disconsolately on a bench in the charmless room. He rose to greet her, and she saw that he was controlling a welling sorrow only with the greatest difficulty. Nevertheless, he was able to match her urgency with an instant answer.
‘They’ve put him in a room by himself just down the corridor from here. There are two doctors in attendance, ma’am.’
‘And what are they doing?’
‘They’re standing beside the bed, tut-tutting, and shaking their heads. He’s dying, Miss Jex-Blake.’ Maxwell produced a red-spotted handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed his eyes.
‘Don’t mourn for him, Sergeant,’ said Sophia, ‘he’s not dead yet. Take me to this room, so that I can see him.’
James Antrobus lay quite still on his bed. His face bore the waxen appearance of a corpse, and most laymen, looking at him, would have assumed that he was dead.
Dr Laidlaw and Sir Seaton Whymper looked up in surprise as the police sergeant came into the room, accompanied by a well-dressed lady. Another relative, perhaps? Ah, well. It would not be long before the poor man in the bed would quit this world.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Sergeant Maxwell in his normal hectoring voice, ‘this here lady is Dr Sophia Jex-Blake, and Inspector Antrobus is by way of being a patient of hers.’
Sir Seaton Whymper raised his eyebrows. Really, who was this woman? It was outrageous if all and sundry could come trooping into Guy’s without prior permission.
‘Madam,’ he said, ‘I must ask you to leave immediately. My colleague and I are watching over the last moments of a dying man—’
Dr Laidlaw raised a hand to silence his senior colleague.
‘I have heard of this lady, Whymper,’ he said. ‘She is indeed a physician and surgeon, and has practised both disciplines at the Royal Free Hospital and elsewhere.’
‘Indeed? Well, madam, I fear that there is nothing that you can do here. Mr Antrobus has held on quite remarkably, but he is dying. His heart is fatally damaged, and his system ravaged by consumption. But you are welcome to remain until the end. Laidlaw, will you stay? I am wanted elsewhere, as you know.’
As soon as Sir Seaton Whymper had left the room, Sophia Jex-Blake moved into action.
‘Doctor,’ she said to Laidlaw, ‘will you let me sound the patient’s heart? I’d like to hear for myself.’ Without making a reply, Dr Laidlaw handed her his stethoscope. Maxwell watched her as she leaned over Antrobus and applied the instrument to the area of his heart. He’d never seen a stethoscope before. It was a little wooden tube with an ear-piece at one end. She listened to his heart for over a minute, leaning o
ver her patient’s chest, and quite motionless. Neither man spoke, and the silence was palpable. Finally she straightened up, and handed the instrument back to Dr Laidlaw.
‘I cannot detect any activity in the sino-atrial node,’ she said. ‘What heart-beat there is, is too faint to characterize. Nothing can be done. Unless… Dr Laidlaw, this man will be dead within the hour. Will you let me try a quite desperate measure? It may succeed, or it may kill him. I’ve seen it succeed in two cases—’
‘And in how many cases did it result in death? I think I know what you have in mind, and I tell you now, Doctor, I would not dare to try it.’
‘Give me a piece of paper and a pencil, and I’ll write a waiver for Guy’s and for you personally. This man is – this man is very precious to me, and to Sergeant Maxwell there.’
‘Very well. As you say, there’s nothing to lose. But Mr Maxwell must leave the room. I will bring all things necessary, and will act as your nurse on this occasion.’
Sergeant Maxwell went out, and sat on a chair in the corridor. He hated these places, with their smell of disinfectant – or did he mean antiseptic? – the bare cream-painted walls, the starched, haughty nurses… And now Miss Jex-Blake was going to do something frightful to the Guvnor.
Minutes passed, and the ominous silence in the room at the end of the corridor remained uninterrupted. Then quite suddenly the door was flung open, and Sophia Jex-Blake appeared on the threshold. Her hands were clasped together, and tears rolled unheeded down her cheeks. Oh God! Had she killed him?
Dr Laidlaw appeared beside her, but he was smiling.
‘Doctor,’ he cried, ‘it’s a miracle! Not only is his heart-beat discernible now, but he’s opened his eyes! All honour to you, ma’am!’
Sergeant Maxwell rose from his chair, and throwing convention to the winds planted a respectful kiss on Sophia’s cheek. She did not seem to mind in the least.
‘You’ve done it again, ma’am,’ said Maxwell. ‘Saved his life, I mean. I can’t thank you enough. I don’t know what I’d do without him. Or you.’
‘Well, we’ll leave him here for a while in Dr Laidlaw’s care, while we go out to a little café on the corner that I spotted on the way in. I’ve had nothing to eat since yesterday, so a pot of tea and a couple of rounds of toast will be very welcome.’
*
They sat at a table in the little café on the corner, ate their toast, and drank their tea. Maxwell had long ago come to respect the Guvnor’s doctor friend, who had now saved his life three times. But sitting with her in the café, he felt a new bond of affinity with her. Fate seemed to have thrown the three of them together in a special kind of comradeship.
‘Is he going to live, ma’am?’ he asked.
‘Yes, he is, Mr Maxwell. But I think you’ll realize that his days as a police officer are over. He’ll be a bit of an invalid, not able to take part in the rough and tumble of your profession. But there are other things that he can do… Maybe we’ll talk about that when he’s a bit better.’
Sergeant Maxwell sighed. It looked as though the great days were over – and they still hadn’t solved the murders of Dora Jardine and Rachel Noble. But the Guvnor was going to live!
‘Ma’am,’ he said, ‘asking your pardon, but what did you do to him?’
Sophia Jex-Blake uttered a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob.
‘Oh, dear, Mr Maxwell, I might have killed him! I – I injected a syringeful of chloroform directly into his heart. You won’t find it in any of the medical text books, but I’ve seen it work in desperate cases.’
‘Injected chloroform! Dear me! That was very brave of you, ma’am.’
‘Brave? I was terrified. But it had to be done. When there’s a possibility of dragging a patient back from the brink of the grave, it’s as well to try it instead of sighing and wringing your hands.’
They had finished their celebration, and rose from the table.
‘Mr Maxwell,’ said Sophia Jex-Blake, ‘I have on occasion heard Mr Antrobus address you as “Joe”. Would you take offence if I were to do likewise?’
‘I’d be honoured, ma’am,’ said Joseph Maxwell. ‘Meanwhile, I must insist on paying the bill. Fourpence ha’penny, miss? Here’s a tanner. Keep the change!’
12
Monsignor Lucie’s Bribe
At half past six on the evening of Monday, 2 December, a hired cab called at 7 Culpeper Gardens to convey Anthony Jardine to the Randolph Hotel, as a guest of Cardinal Vaughan’s emissary, Monsignor the Honourable Piers Lucie. There was a touch of sparkling frost in the air, and the gas-lamps in Woodstock Road all bore a halo of pale light around their globes.
He was seen off at the door by Mrs Green, who had started to fuss around him like a mother-hen. Still, he preferred her kindly ministrations to Jean Hillier’s rather distant concern for his well-being.
It was now well over three weeks since Dora’s murder, and a fortnight since he had stumbled upon the remains of poor Rachel in Oliphant’s Yard. Why had the police made no progress? He had liked Antrobus, but he seemed to have made no headway at all. It was said that he had gone up to London, to make enquiries there.
This dinner tonight was presumably a bribe, to make Teddy Chalmers hand over Becket’s bones to the Catholics. Well, perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea. After all, the Catholics actually valued them, whereas Dr Benson didn’t, and wanted to bury them anonymously in some obscure country churchyard.
The great gas lamps on either side the door of the Randolph Hotel glowed their usual warm welcome, and it was pleasant to leave the cold cab and step into the warm cocoon of the well-lit foyer. He announced himself, and was bowed upstairs to a private dining room on the first floor. He glanced at himself in a mirror, and was satisfied with the cut of his evening dress. Mrs Green was good with starch, and had turned him out well. He had lost a little weight, he noticed, and his hair was showing more grey at the temples. He would ask Luigi to recommend a good hair dye.
The door was flung open, and the man who had brought him upstairs announced him, and withdrew. The room was brilliantly lit by gas chandeliers, as well as candelabra on the long dining table. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn against the dark, frosty evening.
He saw that he was the last guest to arrive. On one side of the table sat a stout, cheerful-looking man in clerical evening dress. He had close-cropped white hair, and a rather patrician aquiline nose. This, presumably, was their host, Monsignor Lucie. Next to him sat Teddy Chalmers, looking rather pleased with himself. And next to Chalmers – God! It was that bounder Savident, Mr Clever-Clogs himself; presumably he was Lucie’s guest. He was wearing a frilly shirt with his evening attire, and had got that appalling monocle screwed into his eye. Has he known that Savident had been invited, he wouldn’t have come.
Opposite them sat Freddy Stringer, looking rather bored, and beside him Paul Shepherd, who motioned to him to take the chair beside him. Monsignor Lucie treated him to a welcoming smile, and then raised a finger to attract the attention of one of two waiters hovering near the door.
This was a signal for the beginning of one of the most satisfying and sybaritic dinners that Jardine had ever experienced. It was to last for hours, and started with a vermicelli soup, made with tomato and onion, and enlivened with brandy. It was accompanied by chilled hock, poured into one of a nest of glasses placed beside each setting.
Jardine noticed that Lucie and Chalmers had their heads together, and were conversing in low tones. He caught a few words, and realized that they were talking about accessible collections of early Latin manuscripts. Lucie said that he could make certain items from the Vatican Library available. Nothing about bones so far.
Broiled salmon followed, served with a glass of Riesling. Throughout the whole meal, the waiters were busy filling the cluster of glasses beside each placing. By the time the salmon was consumed
, people were talking to each other without reserve across the table.
‘My dear Mr Shepherd,’ said Monsignor Lucie, ‘we shook hands at the door, as I remember, but we haven’t yet talked together as ministers of the Gospel. I rather think that each was waiting for the other to say grace? Well, God will forgive us both. As you have the cure of souls at St Gabriel’s, I’d like to hear your views on the subject of relics.’
The Reverend Paul Shepherd was by nature abstemious, and the hock and Riesling had rendered him rather diffuse. He felt intimidated by Lucie, who spoke in a pleasant, manly fashion, but whose seniority as a cleric was very obvious from his manner.
‘Well, my dear Lucie,’ said Shepherd, ‘as far as I know, relics are a medieval accretion to the Faith, one of those abuses, like the sale of indulgences, which the Reformation swept away. I cannot see why anyone in the nineteenth century should be interested in such things.’
Good for you, thought Jardine. But it was a mistake to address him as ‘my dear Lucie’. ‘Monsignor’ would have been better: it would have put him off his guard.
Monsignor Lucie smiled. He seemed in no way put out by the young chaplain’s remarks.
‘My dear Mr Shepherd,’ said Monsignor Lucie, ‘may I instance the bones of St Polycarp? He was martyred, as you will know, in AD 156, and extant texts record that his bones, described as being “more valuable then precious stones and finer than refined gold”, were laid in a special place, where they could be venerated on the anniversary of his birth. This Riesling is exceptionally good. I must ask them for details of their wine merchant.’
The Reverend Paul Shepherd felt that he was rapidly retreating into a fog of wine-fumes. But he couldn’t let this portly Roman cleric win the argument – at least, not entirely.
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