‘Yes. What made you sit up and wait for Miss Cattermole?’
Miss Briggs, who was wearing a woolly coat over her pyjamas, looked a little alarmed.
‘I had some work to do. I was sitting up in any case. Why?’
Harriet looked at the girl. She was short and sturdily built, with a plain, strong, sensible face. She appeared trustworthy.
‘If you’re a friend of Miss Cattermole’s,’ said Harriet, ‘you’d better come and help me upstairs with her. She’s down in the bathroom. I found her being helped over the wall by a young man, and she’s rather under the weather.’
‘Oh, dear!’ said Miss Briggs. ‘Tight?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘She is a fool,’ said Miss Briggs. ‘I knew there’d be trouble some day. All right, I’ll come.’
Between them they lugged Miss Cattermole up the noisy, polished stairs and dumped her upon her bed. In grim silence they undressed her and put her between the sheets.
‘She’ll sleep it off now,’ said Harriet. ‘I think, by the way, a little explanation wouldn’t be a bad idea. How about it?’
‘Come into my room,’ said Miss Briggs. ‘Would you like any hot milk or Ovaltine or coffee, or anything?’
Harriet accepted hot milk. Miss Briggs put a kettle on the ring in the pantry opposite, came in, stirred up the fire and sat down on a pouffe.
‘Please tell me,’ said Miss Briggs, ‘what has happened.’
Harriet told her, omitting the names of the gentlemen concerned. But Miss Briggs promptly supplied the omission.
‘That was Reggie Pomfret, of course,’ she observed. ‘Poor blighter. He always gets left with the baby. After all, what is the lad to do, if people go chasing him.’
‘It’s awkward,’ said Harriet. ‘I mean, you need some knowledge of the world to get out of it gracefully. Does the girl really care for him?’
‘No,’ said Miss Briggs. ‘Not really. She just wants somebody or something. You know. She got a nasty knock when her engagement was broken. You see, she and Lionel Farringdon had been childhood friends and so on, and it was all settled before she came up. Then Farringdon got collared by our Miss Flaxman, and there was a frightful bust-up. And there were complications. And Violet Cattermole has gone all unnerved.’
‘I know,’ said Harriet. ‘Sort of desperate feeling – I must have a man of my own – that kind of thing.’
‘Yes. Doesn’t matter who he is. I think it’s a sort of inferiority complex, or something. One must do idiotic things and assert one’s self. Am I making myself clear?’
‘Oh, yes. I understand that perfectly. It happens so often. One just has to make one’s self out no end of a little devil. . . . Has this kind of thing happened often?’
‘Well,’ confessed Miss Briggs, ‘more often than I like. I’ve tried to keep Violet reasonable, but what’s the good of preaching to people? When they get into that worked-up state you might as well talk to the man in the moon. And though it’s very tiresome for young Pomfret, he’s awfully decent and safe. If he were strong-minded, of course he’d get out of it. But I’m rather thankful he’s not, because, if it wasn’t for him it might be some frightful tick or other.’
‘Is anything likely to come of it?’
‘Marriage, do you mean? No-o. I think he has enough sense of self-protection to avoid that. And besides— Look here, Miss Vane, it really is an awful shame. Miss Flaxman simply cannot leave anybody alone, and she’s trying to get Pomfret away too, though she doesn’t want him. If only she’d leave poor Violet alone, the whole thing would probably work itself out quite quietly. Mind you, I’m very fond of Violet. She’s a decent sort, and she’d be absolutely all right with the right kind of man. She’s no business to be up at Oxford at all, really. A nice domestic life with a man to be devoted to is what she really wants. But he’d have to be a solid, decided kind of man, and frightfully affectionate in a firm kind of way. But not Reggie Pomfret, who is a chivalrous young idiot.’
Miss Briggs poked the fire savagely.
‘Well,’ said Harriet, ‘something has got to be done about all this. I don’t want to go to the Dean, but—’
‘Of course, something must be done,’ said Miss Briggs. ‘It’s extraordinarily lucky it should have been you who spotted it and not one of the dons. I’ve been almost wishing that something might happen. I’ve been frightfully worried about it. It isn’t the kind of thing I know how to cope with at all. But I had to stand by Violet more or less – otherwise I should simply have lost her confidence altogether and goodness knows what stupid thing she’d have done then.’
‘I think you’re quite right,’ said Harriet. ‘But now, perhaps I can have a word with her and tell her to mind her step. After all, she has got to give some guarantee of sensible behaviour if I’m not to report her to the Dean. A spot of benevolent blackmail is indicated, I fancy.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Miss Briggs. ‘You can do it. It’s exceedingly decent of you. I’ll be thankful to be relieved of the responsibility. It’s all rather wearing – and it does upset one’s work. After all, work’s what one’s here for. I’ve got Honour Mods next term, and it’s frightfully upsetting, never knowing what’s going to happen next.’
‘I expect Miss Cattermole relies on you a lot.’
‘Yes,’ said Miss Briggs, ‘but listening to people’s confidences does take such a time, and I’m not awfully good at wrestling with fits of temperament.’
‘The confidante has a very heavy and thankless task,’ said Harriet. ‘It’s not surprising if she goes mad in white linen. It’s more surprising if she keeps sane and sensible like you. But I agree that you ought to have the burden taken off your shoulders. Are you the only one?’
‘Pretty well. Poor old Violet lost a lot of friends over the uproar.’
‘And the business of the anonymous letters?’
‘Oh, you’ve heard about that? Well, of course, it wasn’t Violet. That’s ridiculous. But Flaxman spread the story all over the college, and once you’ve started an accusation like that, it takes a lot of killing.’
‘It does. Well, Miss Briggs, you and I had better go to bed. I’ll come along and see Miss Cattermole after breakfast. Don’t worry too much. I dare say this upset will be a blessing in disguise. Well, I’ll be going now. Can you lend me a strong knife?’
Miss Briggs, rather astonished, produced a stout pen-knife and said good-night. On her way over to Tudor, Harriet cut down the dangling dummy and carried it away with her for scrutiny and action at a later hour. She felt she badly needed to sleep on the situation.
She must have been weary, for she dropped off as soon as she was in bed, and dreamed neither of Peter Wimsey nor of anything else.
8
Tho marking him with melting eyes
A thrilling throbbe from her hart did aryse,
And interrupted all her other speache.
With some old sorowe that made a newe breache
Seeme shee sawe in the younglings face
The old lineaments of his fathers grace.
EDMUND SPENSER
‘The fact remains,’ said Miss Pyke, ‘that I have to lecture at nine. Can anybody lend me a gown?’
A number of the dons were breakfasting in the S.C.R. dining-room. Harriet entered in time to hear the request, formulated in a high and rather indignant tone.
‘Have you lost your gown, Miss Pyke?’
‘You could have mine with pleasure, Miss Pyke,’ said little Miss Chilperic, mildly, ‘but I’m afraid it wouldn’t be nearly long enough.’
‘It isn’t safe to leave anything in the S.C.R. cloakroom these days,’ said Miss Pyke. ‘I know it was there after dinner, because I saw it.’
‘You can have mine,’ suggested Miss Burrows, ‘if you can get it back to me by 10 o’clock.’
‘Ask Miss de Vine or Miss Barton,’ said the Dean. ‘They have no lectures. Or Miss Vane – hers would fit you.’
‘Certainly,’ said Harriet, carelessly. ‘Do you wa
nt a cap as well?’
‘The cap has gone as well,’ replied Miss Pyke. ‘I don’t need it for the lecture; but it would be convenient to know where my property has gone to.’
‘It’s surprising the way things disappear,’ said Harriet, helping herself to scrambled eggs. ‘People are very thoughtless. Who, by the way, owns a black semi-evening crêpe-de-chine, figured with bunches of red and green poppies, with a draped cross-over front, deep hip-yoke and flared skirt and sleeves about three years out of date?’
She looked round the dining-room, which was by now fairly well filled with dons. ‘Miss Shaw – you have a very good eye for a frock. Can you identify it?’
‘I might if I saw it,’ said Miss Shaw. ‘I don’t recollect one like it from your description.’
‘Have you found one?’ asked the Bursar.
‘Another chapter in the mystery?’ suggested Miss Barton.
‘I’m sure none of my students has one like it,’ said Miss Shaw. ‘They like to come and show me their frocks. I think it’s a good thing to take an interest in them.’
‘I don’t remember a frock like that in the Senior Common Room,’ said the Bursar.
‘Didn’t Miss Wrigley have a black figured crêpe-de-chine?’ asked Mrs. Goodwin.
‘Yes,’ said Miss Shaw. ‘But she’s left. And anyhow, hers had a square neck and no hip-yoke. I remember it very well.’
‘Can’t you tell us what the mystery is, Miss Vane?’ inquired Miss Lydgate. ‘Or is it better that you shouldn’t say anything?’
‘Well,’ said Harriet, ‘I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t tell you. When I came in last night after my dance I-er went the rounds a bit—’
‘Ah!’ said the Dean. ‘I thought I heard somebody going to and fro outside my window. And whispering.’
‘Yes – Emily came out and caught me. I think she thought I was the Practical Joker. Well – I happened to go into the Chapel.’
She told her story, omitting all mention of Mr. Pomfret, and merely saying that the culprit had apparently left by the vestry door.
‘And,’ she concluded, ‘as a matter of fact, the cap and gown were yours, Miss Pyke, and you can have them any time. The bread-knife was taken from the Hall, presumably, or from here. And the bolster – I can’t say where they got that.’
‘I think I can guess,’ said the Bursar. ‘Miss Trotman is away. She lives on the ground floor of Burleigh. It would be easy to nip in and bag her bolster.’
‘Why is Trotman away?’ asked Miss Shaw. ‘She never told me.’
‘Father taken ill,’ said the Dean. ‘She went off in a hurry yesterday afternoon.’
‘I can’t think why she shouldn’t have told me,’ said Miss Shaw. ‘My students always come to me with their troubles. It’s rather upsetting, when you think your pupils value your sympathy—’
‘But you were out to tea,’ said the Treasurer practically.
‘I put a note in your pigeon-hole,’ said the Dean.
‘Oh,’ said Miss Shaw. ‘Well, I didn’t see it. I knew nothing about it, It’s very odd that nobody should have mentioned it.’
‘Who did know it?’ asked Harriet.
There was a pause; during which everybody had time to think it strange and improbable that Miss Shaw should not have received the note or heard of Miss Trotman’s departure.
‘It was mentioned at the High last night, I think,’ said Miss Allison.
‘I was out to dinner,’ said Miss Shaw. ‘I shall go and see if that note’s there.’
Harriet followed her out; the note was there – a sheet of paper folded together and not sealed in an envelope.
‘Well,’ said Miss Shaw; ‘I never saw it.’
‘Anybody might have read that and put it back,’ said Harriet.
‘Yes – including myself, you mean.’
‘I didn’t say that, Miss Shaw. Anybody.’
They returned gloomily to the Common Room.
‘The-er-the joke was perpetrated between dinner-time, when Miss Pyke lost her gown, and about a quarter to one, when I found it out,’ said Harriet. ‘It would be convenient if anybody could produce a watertight alibi for the whole of that time. Particularly for the time after 11.15. I suppose I can find out whether any students had late leave till midnight. Anybody coming in then might have seen something.’
‘I have a list,’ said the Dean. ‘And the porter could show you the names of those who came in after nine.’
‘That will be a help.’
‘In the meantime,’ said Miss Pyke, pushing away her plate and rolling her napkin, ‘the ordinary duties of the day must be proceeded with. Could I have my gown – or a gown?’
She went over to Tudor with Harriet, who restored the gown and displayed the crêpe-de-chine frock.
‘I have never seen that dress to my knowledge before,’ said Miss Pyke; ‘but I cannot pretend to be observant in these matters. It appears to be made for a slender person of medium height.’
‘There’s no reason to suppose it belongs to the person who put it there,’ said Harriet, ‘any more than your gown.’
‘Of course not,’ said Miss Pyke; ‘no.’ She gave Harriet an odd, swift glance from her sharp, black eyes. ‘But the owner might provide some clue to the thief. Would it not – pardon me if I am trespassing upon your province – would it not be possible to draw some deduction from the name of the shop where it was bought?’
‘Obviously it would have been,’ said Harriet; ‘the tab has been removed.’
‘Oh,’ said Miss Pyke. ‘Well; I must go to my lecture. As soon as I can find leisure I will endeavour to provide you with a time-table of my movements last night. I fear, however, it will scarcely be illuminating. I was in my room after dinner and in bed by half-past ten.’
She stalked out, carrying her cap and gown. Harriet watched her go, and then took out a piece of paper from a drawer. The message upon it was pasted up in the usual way, and ran
tristius haud illis monstrum nec saevior ulla pestis et ira deum Stygiis sese extulit undis. Virginei volucrum vultus foedissima ventris proluvies uncaeque manus et pallida semper ora fame.
‘Harpies,’ said Harriet aloud. ‘Harpies. That seems to suggest a train of thought. But I’m afraid we can’t suspect Emily or any of the scouts of expressing their feelings in Virgilian hexameters.’
She frowned. Matters were looking rather bad for the Senior Common Room.
Harriet tapped on Miss Cattermole’s door, regardless of the fact that it bore a large notice: headache – do not disturb. It was opened by Miss Briggs, whose brow was anxious, but cleared when she saw who the visitor was.
‘I was afraid it might be the Dean,’ said Miss Briggs.
‘No,’ said Harriet, ‘so far I have held my hand. How is the patient?’
‘Not too good,’ said Miss Briggs.
‘Ah! “His lordship hath drunk his bath and gone to bed again.” That’s about it, I suppose.’ She strode across to the bed and looked down at Miss Cattermole, who opened her eyes with a groan. They were large, light, hazel eyes, set in a plump face that ought to have been of a pleasant rose-leaf pink. A quantity of fluffy brown hair tumbled damply about her brow, adding to the general impression of an Angora rabbit that had gone on the loose and was astonished at the result.
‘Feeling bloody?’ inquired Harriet, with sympathy.
‘Horrible,’ said Miss Cattermole.
‘Serve you right,’ said Harriet. ‘If you must take your drink like a man, the least you can do is to carry it like a gentleman. It’s a great thing to know your own limitations.’
Miss Cattermole looked so woebegone that Harriet began to laugh ‘You don’t seem to be a very practised hand at this kind of thing. Look here; I’ll get you something to pull you together and then I’m going to talk to you.’
She went out briskly and nearly fell over Mr. Pomfret in the outer doorway.
‘You here?’ said Harriet. ‘I told you, no visitors in the morning. It makes a noise in the
quad and is contrary to regulations.’
‘I’m not a visitor,’ said Mr. Pomfret, grinning, ‘I’ve been attending Miss Hillyard’s lecture on Constitutional Developments.’
‘God help you!’
‘And seeing you cross the quad in this direction, I turned in that direction like the needle to the North. Dark,’ said Mr. Pomfret, with animation, ‘and true and tender is the North. That’s a quotation. It’s very nearly the only one I know, so it’s a good thing it fits.’
‘It does not fit. I am not feeling tender.’
‘Oh! . . . how’s Miss Cattermole?’
‘Bad hang-over. As you might expect.’
‘Oh! . . . sorry . . . No row, I hope?’
‘No.’
‘Bless you!’ said Mr. Pomfret. ‘I was lucky too. Friend of mine has a dashed good window. All quiet on the Western Front. So – look here! I wish there was something I could do to—’
‘You shall,’ said Harriet. She twitched his lecture note-book from under his arm and scribbled in it.
‘Get that made up at the chemist’s and bring it back. I’m damned if I want to go myself and ask for a recipe for hobnailed liver.’
Mr. Pomfret looked at her with respect.
‘Where did you learn that one?’ said he.
‘Not at Oxford. I may say I have never had occasion to taste it; I hope it’s nasty. The quicker you can get it made up, the better, by the way.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Mr. Pomfret, disconsolately. ‘You’re fed up with the sight of me, and no wonder. But I do wish you’d come round some time and meet old Rogers. He’s incredibly penitent. Come and have tea. Or a drink or something. Come this afternoon. Do. Just to show there’s no ill-feeling.’
Harriet was opening her mouth to say No, when she looked at Mr. Pomfret, and her heart softened. He had the appeal of a very young dog of a very large breed – a kind of amiable absurdity.
‘All right,’ said Harriet. ‘I will. Thank you very much.’
Mr. Pomfret exhausted himself in expressions of delight, and, still vocal, allowed himself to be shepherded to the gate, where, almost in the act of stepping out, he had to step back to allow the entrance of a tall, dark student wheeling a bicycle.
Gaudy Night Page 17