Autumn in Oxford: A Novel

by Alex Rosenberg

  Then a thought struck him. I should have a look at that clothing she never wears at home but takes along on her business trips. Yes, I’ll do that. He was about to rise, but at that moment, Liz got up from the table and announced that she needed a hot bath. I’ll wait till she’s in the tub and can’t surprise me rummaging through her things in the bedroom. He looked up from his paper. “Good idea.” He turned to Olivia just entering the kitchen. “Clear away the tea things and wash the cups, dear.” Then back to his Sunday Express.

  When Trevor heard the water shut off in the bath, he went into the lounge, where Ian was playing with small toy cars on the carpet. “You can turn on the telly if you want.” It was a novelty Liz had provided and was strictly rationed. Now he wanted not to be disturbed, so he invited the children to watch.

  Climbing the stair as noiselessly as he could, Trevor recalled the startling discovery he had made about his wife many years ago in Canada. Just killing a morning poking through his mother-in-law’s desk drawers, he’d come upon the psychiatric reports on Liz. She’d never found out, of course, he was convinced. Surely she would have said something in all these years of bickering had she known. The thought that he had succeeded back then didn’t just embolden Trevor; it vindicated his decision to investigate, at least a little.

  He stood in the hallway, surveying the bedroom. Then he tiptoed back to the bathroom and listened. Liz was still sloshing round the tub. Quietly he retraced his steps until he stood before the rather plain bureau. Slowly he drew open the top drawer, taking care not to jam the sides against the frame. Then he drove his hands into the divided sections, panties on one side, bras on the other. Many more bras than he had imagined she would own. Finally he found himself examining a lacy black half bra, something he’d never seen but which immediately set a rush of arousal through his body. He could feel himself enlarged and hard against his trousers just fingering this lovely invitation to caress a woman’s pouting breasts. He just knew that there was something not right about all this. There was no reason in the world for such a thing to be in the bureau of a married woman with two children and a husband she wasn’t interested in sleeping with. Carefully he put the bra back beneath the others and turned to the other sections.

  He found nothing more until he withdrew a neatly folded short dressing gown in maroon from beneath the slips and half-slips. It was, he thought, silk. Examining the label confirmed this, and its place of manufacture, Paris. He carefully refolded it, and as he did so, he felt something thin and smooth in the side pocket. He lifted it out and immediately recognized what was in his hand. Something he had not seen since his days in the Canadian army. It was a neat little envelope, about one and a quarter inches square, a flap that came down over the opening, coloured in a light blue, and with no image or name he recognized. But still completely recognizable as only one thing. It was the envelope for a safe, a sheath, a condom, a prophylactic. If he could not recognize the brand, it was presumably French. From the raft of jokes, double entendres, and bawdy songs, he knew all the North American brands—Sheik, Ramses, Trojan. Had even seen them in the forces. But the only British brand he knew of was Durex. Suddenly he asked himself, Why did you have to do this? You want to spoil everything for yourself? Trevor crumpled the envelope and forced it down to the bottom of his trouser pocket, closed the drawer, and crept down the stair. As he reached the bottom, Liz came out of the bath. He needed to regain his composure, to think, to calculate, to decide.

  Of course Wrought was back in Oxford. Of course he was lecturing at the faculty of history—twentieth-century American history. Of course he was living in college, and so without his wife. By noon on Monday morning, Trevor had satisfied himself on all these points. How much danger was he in? What if Liz divorced him? Took the children away? Ceased to support him? Made him look a fool to everyone he knew? It was like realizing that one had a problem so serious—a cancer one could no longer pretend wasn’t there—that one had finally to consult a physician. And at the same time, like the suspicion of a cancer, it was a fear that you didn’t want to find out about at all. That way you could continue to pretend there was nothing wrong, it would go away, resolve itself, disappear one day, with no more explanation than when one first detected it.

  Trevor allowed it to gnaw at him for a day, two days. But by the end of that week, his anxiety had become all-consuming. He feared his way of life was hanging by a thread his wife could cut at any moment. He had to prepare for the worst. He had to protect himself. Where could he find a solicitor to advise him? There were one or two up the Banbury Road in Summertown, perhaps another in South Parade. But the thought of divulging secrets that close to home was as repulsive to him as disrobing in public. What if he later crossed paths with someone to whom he had revealed his situation? Even disclosure to a solicitor in St. Aldates or anywhere else in the city was too much for him to bear. It wasn’t the risk, he realized; it was the shame, the threat to his own self-image, his equanimity. It wasn’t just that he couldn’t bear meeting someone to whom he had confided shameful secrets. He couldn’t even bear to pass the offices where he had done so, the building or the street where such disclosures were made. He knew it was silly, but he surrendered to the emotion nevertheless. He had to find a London solicitor.

  When Trevor rose at ten on Friday morning, Liz was long gone, and the au pair had taken the children to school and was busy downstairs Hoovering the lounge carpet. Inconsiderate of her, Trevor thought, to wake him. Looking at the alarm clock, he realized that there were only two hours before the Oxford Library closed for lunch. There was a branch in Summertown, and all he needed was the telephone directory for London. But he just couldn’t bring himself to do any of what he had to do even that close to home. If he were to meet anyone he knew . . .

  An hour later, he was in the central library leafing through a commercial directory. There was no way to choose one London solicitor from another, or even to find those that specialized in domestic disputes. The only thing useful that he learned was that many of them had offices east of the Holborn tube stop, in Red Lion Square and onward towards the barristers’ chambers at Grey’s Inn. It was quiet in the library, and there was no one nearby. So Trevor neatly tore the page from the directory and stepped back out onto the high street. Monday he would simply take the train into London and go into the first office he encountered from the Holborn underground station. The resolve made him feel better.

  The interview was brief and much to Trevor’s liking.

  Matters had started out badly. Why, Trevor asked himself, did you go into the very first office you found on Red Lion Square? Walking into the office, he had not even read the name carefully. V. Mishcon. Only as he sat there trying to puzzle out why a solicitor would have a Spanish name did he realize he was in the office of someone of the Hebrew persuasion. These Jewish lawyers are well-known shysters. Just as he decided to quietly walk out, the receptionist was standing before him.

  “Mr. Mishcon has a few minutes now. He’ll be happy to speak to you briefly.” She led him into a wainscoted room with subdued lighting, walls decorated with eighteenth-century sporting prints. At the desk sat a grave man of about forty-five—with a long face with thinning hair, narrow lips, rather sunken cheeks—at work on a half-dozen files spread across the glass top of a large desk. He was wearing a beautiful bespoke pinstripe suit of impeccable tailoring, Trev noticed. The man looked up, smiled openly, and screwing the top on to his fountain pen, welcomed his guest. “Please sit down, Mr.”—he looked at a note—“Mr. Spencer. What can I do for you?”

  Trevor was so busy sizing the man up to his Semitic stereotype—largish nose, thinning hair, glasses—he did not respond immediately. But the beautiful cut of the man’s suit, his clubman’s tie, and even more, his reassuring smile brought Trevor back to his mission. Perhaps this interview would be alright, he thought.

  “I contemplate a divorce, and I need some advice on where I stand.”

  “Well, I can give you the broad outlines
of the law. But please tell me your situation.” Mishcon folded his hands in his lap and leaned back slightly in his chair. The gestures were calculated to invite Trevor to relax.

  Trevor was having trouble believing what he heard. The man was so smooth, so nice, and so confident, and the advice was so agreeable. Could the Yid really have it right?

  “Let me get this straight. If she is working and I am at home not employed, the law deems me to be the children’s caregiver, and she would have to continue to support me doing that in a divorce?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Who gets the property in a divorce?”

  “It depends, but as the children’s caregiver, you would have a fair claim on it. And if, as you say, this is a matter of adultery, the other party—your wife—would have no right of cohabitation.”

  “But she would have to continue to pay the rent?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Could she force us to move to cheaper digs?”

  “Well, you may be able to get a court order preventing any move, but in any case, she’d have to provide accommodation for you and the children elsewhere.” The solicitor thought for a moment and then went on, “And it would have to be in the same vicinity and of equivalent size.”

  “One last question. What if she gets wind of a divorce action? Could she just leave Britain and take the children with her?”

  “I am afraid so, unless there is a divorce proceeding in progress, in which case the court may issue an order forbidding removal of the children.”

  Trevor stood. “Thank you very much, Mr. Mishcon.” He reached into his jacket for a billfold. “What do I owe you for this advice?”

  “Oh, please, any competent attorney could have told you this. There’s no charge.”

  Well, that was not what he expected at all. Legal advice, gratis, from a Jew?

  If this man Mishcon was right, all he needed was proof of adultery. And that should not be so difficult to secure. Nice insurance against losing anything in a divorce. He had only to watch how his wife packed a bag for her business trips, or perhaps even how she chose her underthings on mornings she went into London.

  That same day Tom was in London, and again his path very nearly crossed Trevor Spencer’s. This time Tom was looking for a book instead of selling one—Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia. He could have found it at the Bodleian. But he’d never be able to withdraw it, still less write in the margins. Not even King Charles had ever contrived to take a book out of the Bodleian Library. Blackwell’s didn’t have it either. Tom’s search took him back to Marks and Co., the booksellers at 84 Charing Cross Road, and here happenstance turned into a little mystery.

  As Tom browsed the shelves, the shop’s front doorbell rang. A man entered, taking off his hat. Tom looked up and heard the clerk greet the customer. “Hello, Mr. Kroger.” But it wasn’t Mr. Kroger. It was Morris Cohen, husband of Lona Cohen, the woman whom he had mistakenly thought he’d recognized the very last time he had been in this very shop. Before Tom could say anything, Kroger—or Cohen, whoever he was—had taken a brief look at Tom, pulled his hat down over his face, and turned on his heels. Walking out of the shop, he called behind him, “In a hurry, Mr. Doel. Be back to collect my parcel tomorrow.”

  Can’t be happenstance! What are Lona and Morris Cohen doing in London, and why have they changed their names? Tom looked back at the clerk. “Is he married to an antiquarian bookdealer, what’s her name . . . ?”

  Before Tom could recall, the clerk supplied it. “Helen Kroger? Yes, that’s her husband, Peter Kroger. They own a shop together.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Trevor knew that for a divorce, he’d need witnesses to adultery. There were investigators often hired by the rich to witness and testify to adultery. He could not afford to engage such a service, either financially or emotionally. But for his purposes, it would be enough if he knew, and Liz knew that he knew.

  They were clearing up the dishes on a Wednesday evening in January when Liz turned to the au pair. “Ifegenia, I need to go to London in the morning and visit some midlands branches in the afternoon. I have to be gone till Friday evening. I know tomorrow’s your evening off. Do you mind changing it to Saturday evening?”

  “No,” the girl replied. “Saturday will suit me better, thank you.”

  So, Trevor calculated, she was going to spend Thursday night away. If only he could rouse himself early enough to see what she packed, he might test his worst fears.

  As he turned off the light that evening, he could feel a combination of excitement, dread, anticipation, and fear coursing through his body. Trevor was usually asleep five minutes after his head hit the pillow. That night he lay awake a long time, repeatedly looking up at the illuminated dial of the alarm clock, before sleep overtook him. When he finally slept, he would find himself suddenly awake and watching the hands on the clock creep along the path from midnight to daybreak. By 5:00 a.m. he was irrevocably awake. At five thirty Liz woke automatically. He had always wondered at her internal clock and her willpower to rise so early.

  Returning from the bathroom in the still pitch-darkness, Liz quietly turned on a small lamp at her bureau. Now lying on his stomach, Trevor opened his eyes just enough to watch. Liz sorted through her underclothes drawer and then chose: black bra, black panties, a matching garter belt, and dark stockings. She sat in a chair and drew them up each leg, clipping them to the garter belt and then examining the seam running up the back. With a quick adjustment they were both straight. Then she withdrew the short silk maroon robe, crumpled it, and put it in her attaché case. But, he noticed, she did not snap the case, perhaps concerned about noise. Then she put on a dark blouse, severe in its modesty, and stepped into the skirt of a woman’s suit.

  He closed his eyes. Trevor heard her descend the stairs. A few moments later, he could hear the Humber start. Surely it was Wrought she was going to meet. Where? Perhaps a phone call to her office at Abbey National would help.

  He had to wait till the office opened, so he decided to sleep till then.

  Trevor had not spoken to Liz’s personal assistant more than twice in four or five years. There would be no risk of her recognizing the voice. At the stroke of eight, he picked up the receiver, dialled the operator, and asked for a trunk call to London.

  He was surprised when the phone was answered that early in the morning. “Training, Mrs. Russell.”

  He’d have to chance that Liz had not already arrived. “Can I speak to Elizabeth Spencer?”

  “She’s seeing to branches and is expected this afternoon.” That was exactly the opposite of the schedule Liz had given the au pair.

  Trevor replied, “This is a trunk call. When can I call back?”

  After a moment came the answer. “Anytime after lunch. Who can I say called?”

  “The branch manager at—” He did not finish the sentence before ringing off precipitately. There would be plenty of time before he needed to leave if he was to follow Liz to a rendezvous after work. He began to think about how to dress for London. Recalling the elegance of the solicitor he’d consulted, he decided on his pinstriped double-breasted, the only bespoke suit he owned.

  Trevor Spencer was wearing his best suit when he died later that afternoon under the wheels of a Circle line underground train at the Paddington tube station. Death came to him as a complete and very briefly experienced surprise. One moment he was absorbed in his Telegraph; the next he was staring at Tom Wrought coming out on the platform behind him, and then he was hurtling onto the track.

  It was from that moment on for the next several minutes that Tom Wrought did everything wrong. Running after the assailant, he merely called attention to himself among the horror-stricken bystanders, who would afterwards misremember the events they’d witnessed. Moving back towards the platform from the escalators and then heading for the Hammersmith line instead, distraught and dishevelled, he’d given more people a chance to remember him. But once he’d left a message for Liz to g
o back to Oxford, Tom calmed down and went back into the mainline station to do the same thing himself.

  What Liz remembered most from that night wasn’t the message waiting for her at the Gresham or the journey back home. It was the interview with the two CID detectives, Bennett and Watkins. She could recall every detail: their certainty that it was murder, the description of the assailant, the questions about Trevor’s enemies, if any, his work, whether there was a private income. Then there was the odd question about the solicitor’s card, and finally the reticence about the prophylactic wrapper in his pocket, the possibility of another woman and an irate husband. The worst of it was the momentary fear that Tom really had done it. It was only his voice when she had called that quieted her worst imaginings.

  Sunday was spent with her children grieving. Liz grieved for them, so young to experience a loss so great. There were few words amidst the tears, but much holding of one another. At first it was hard to make the children really understand more than the words. But then their mother’s feelings broke through. Afterwards there was the very painful call to Trevor’s family in Birkenhead. Her brother-in-law, Keith, was a brick, listening to her and to the children, comforting, remembering, cushioning their pain.

  Monday morning Liz decided that she had to take action. She woke Ifegenia, and before seven thirty she was on a train for London. By ten o’clock she’d already seen Victor Mishcon and was sitting in Alice Silverstone’s tiny office, still slightly reeling from Silverstone’s directness. The solicitor had asked, rather theatrically it seemed to Liz, “Am I to understand, Mrs. Spencer, that your husband has been murdered, and you want me to defend the man the police suspect must have killed him?” When Liz answered, Silverstone smiled like a Cheshire cat. “Excellent!” was all she said.