“Detective Chief Inspector Marsh of Oxford CID,” a handsome, dark man in a trench coat said. This is Inspector Davies. “Would you mind telling me which one of you is Miss Tregowyn?”
Catherine stood. “I am. It was I who found the body. I can take you there now if you like.”
“Ready when you are,” said the policeman.
“It’s in the new chapel,” said Catherine.
Dr. Phillips accompanied her and the small troop of police, four in all, who made their way behind them to the college chapel.
Dr. Harry greeted them with obvious relief. “Good show,” he said. “You’re here.” He extended a hand to Detective Chief Inspector Marsh. “Dr. Harry Bascombe. Fellow of Christ Church. I was with Miss Tregowyn when she discovered the body.”
“Perhaps you could tell me how you two happened to be in the chapel enclosure this time of night,” said Marsh.
“We were looking for Dr. Chenowith,” said Catherine. “She had gone missing from a college event between cocktails and dinner.”
The warden took over and explained the details of the party and her concerns.
“So, you left the Senior Commons Room at eight o’clock for the Mitre, but Dr. Chenowith never made an appearance?” Marsh asked.
“That’s correct,” said Dr. Phillips. “But it wasn’t immediately evident that she was missing. There were quite a few of us.”
“Please give Inspector Davies a list of the attendees, if you would be so good. We can adjourn somewhere else while I finish my questions and leave my men here to do the forensic work.”
“Perhaps, under the circumstances, it would be best if we met in the Reading Room at the Hall,” said the warden. “I will ring the dean to see if she has returned from The Mitre yet, although I can’t imagine that she did not hear your arrival. Miss Tregowyn, perhaps you will show the police and Dr. Bascombe to the Reading Room.”
* * *
The dean arrived as Dr. Harry was being questioned in the corner of the Reading Room that was quite large as it was used for public receptions. Catherine went to Dr. Andrews immediately.
“I’m so sorry, Dean.”
“Who on earth would want to murder Agatha?” she asked softly, her chin wobbling a bit.
“I don’t know,” said Catherine. “However, this policeman seems the sort that will find out.”
“I hope so. It makes me feel our girls and our faculty are quite unsafe. And how could something like this happen in the new chapel of all places?”
“Maybe someone was in there who shouldn’t have been. A tramp or something. Maybe she caught him there,” said Catherine.
The dean thought this over. “How was the poor woman killed? Do they know?”
Catherine answered, “Not for certain.”
At that moment, the Detective Chief Inspector interrupted. He asked to speak to Catherine.
The questions were routine until he asked, “How well did you know Dr. Chenowith?”
“Actually she was one of my tutors when I was here as a student.”
“Did you have a personal relationship with her?”
“What exactly do you mean?”
“Did she mentor you or anything like that?”
“I suppose one could say that. I am a fledgling poet. She critiqued some of my verse for me when I was here. But I didn’t know her on a personal basis. I know very little about her, except that she is a significant modern English poet. She belongs to the Bloomsbury group if you’ve ever heard of that.”
“What did she think of your poetry?”
Catherine frowned. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“She didn’t like it, then?” Marsh raised an eyebrow.
Raising her chin, she decided to take the bait. “As a matter of fact, she gave my poetry excellent reviews.”
The policeman looked at her as though he were trying to see inside her mind. “Tell me, what is your relationship with Dr. Bascombe?”
He threw her off her stride. “Excuse me?”
“Dr. Bascombe. Your relationship.”
“There is nothing beyond a professional one. Not even that, really. He doesn’t like me much.”
“Now, why is that?” For some reason, the man smiled. Catherine knew it for a dangerous smile. He was playing some sort of game with her.
“He’s the sort of man who lives for his work. He doesn’t perceive me as being that dedicated, and yet I have won some accolades. It makes him angry.”
“I think you are mistaken in him. He sang your praises to me.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Catherine considered this surprising information and then drew herself up. “What possible bearing has this on Dr. Chenowith’s murder?”
“A surprising percentage of the time the murderer turns out to be the person who discovers the body. It’s part of the plan. Could it be that you and Dr. Bascombe were slightly inebriated following cocktails, and Dr. Chenowith caught you canoodling in the chapel on your way to The Mitre?”
Catherine felt anger flush through her. “Absolutely not! And even if it were true, why would we kill her?”
“It wouldn’t do Dr. Bascombe’s reputation any good, would it? What if she was a man-hater and she made threats?”
Alarms flashed. “How did you know Dr. Chenowith was a man-hater?”
He pounced. “Ah! So she was! It is often the case with these academic types.”
Catherine stood up. “You are baiting me. Your theory is absurd. There is someone really dangerous out there who did kill Dr. Chenowith. It’s your job to find him.”
The Detective Chief Inspector’s face hardened. “I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job, Miss Tregowyn.”
Turning on her heel, she walked away, her arms stiff at her side. It was obvious to her that she was going to have to look into this matter herself. She had overestimated the intelligence of the police. Canoodling, indeed!
To her surprise, Dr. Harry was still in the room, speaking with the dean.
“Excuse me, Dr. Bascombe. May I speak to you for a moment?”
Eyebrows raised, he looked her in the eye. “Shall we take a walk? Perhaps you would like to change your frock?”
“This will do,” she said, pulling her fur coat closed in the front.
They left the hall and began to walk the path around the quad. “Did you realize the policeman thinks Dr. Chenowith caught us—he said canoodling—in the chapel and threatened you with exposure, so you or I killed her?”
“You’re having me on.”
“Absolutely not. Apparently, you gave Marsh the idea that you liked me. And a large percentage of murders are committed by the people who supposedly find the body.”
“And so he jumped to a wholly unwarranted conclusion? Before interviewing anyone else?” Dr. Harry was even more incensed than she had been. “I never heard such tripe.”
“There’s nothing else for it, Professor. I think it may be up to us to prove our innocence. Are you game enough to find the real murderer?”
“As in the best type of detective fiction? Sorry. Don’t mean to sound casual. Count me in.”
“I’m glad you agree.” Catherine felt a small surge of triumph.
“Of course, I do. Marsh’s supposition is patently ridiculous. And an insult to you.”
They walked for a moment in silence. As sometimes happened in Oxford, a nightingale trilled. The sound brought Catherine back to reality. Had she lost her mind? Chasing a murderer with Dr. Harry?
He said, “For starters why don’t we pool our resources on the victim. The dean just told me Chenowith had been receiving anonymous threats on her life.”
“Threats? Like letters cut from the newspapers and pasted on?”
“Exactly. She didn’t take them serious
ly, apparently. What do you know about her?”
In for a penny, in for a pound.
“I was her student, not her colleague like you are. I only know the obvious. She traveled in exalted company. Virginia Woolf & Co. She had a sterling reputation as a poet. She has won numerous awards and was an asset to the college.”
“Did students like her?” he asked.
“She was very hard to please. Her standards were very high when it came to poetry. She could put you on the pathway to success or dead-end you. It was sometimes frightful because poetry is such a subjective thing. My friend lost a publishing contract because Dr. Chenowith sent a bad review to them.”
“Ah-ha! Now we’re getting somewhere! Who is your friend? Was she there tonight perhaps?”
Golly! I should have thought before I sacrificed poor Margery.
“You would probably find out before long. It’s well-known here. The former Margery Ackerman, now Lady Margery Wallinghouse. Her husband is the Sir Herbert Wallinghouse, Baronet. Heaps of money. He made a stink I can tell you. But the publishers wouldn’t budge, and neither would Dr. Chenowith. Now Margery’s poetry will never be published. It’s like the poor woman is cursed.”
“Is her stuff any good?” asked Dr. Harry.
“I don’t know if you would like it or not. It’s a bit old-fashioned. Sort of mid-Victorian. But that sort of thing sells better than the more modern stuff. People like it. It’s more accessible.”
“Hmm. Well then. There’s a motive. Revenge.”
“I won’t believe it of Margery. But that won’t stop the police. What do you know of Dr. Chenowith?” asked Catherine.
“She’s not fond of my sex, that much I know. Could be she was crossed in love at an early age; I’ve never heard. I don’t feel myself that she is anything beyond a mediocre poet.”
“You’re not serious! Mrs. Woolf admires her!”
“I haven’t got much time for her, either.”
Catherine stood still and put her hands on her hips. “Who do you like?”
“I prefer Rupert Brooke and the war poets. There’s meat there. Not the ramblings of an unbalanced mind.”
“Is that what you think my poetry is, as well?”
“We have strayed from the subject at hand.”
Catherine gathered herself together. He was right. But she knew one day she wanted to know what he found lacking in her verse.
“Do you know if either Dr. Stephenson or Dr. Williams had an animus against her for any reason?” she asked.
“Dr. Williams is not interested in anything modern. They got together over subjects like linguistics and the origins of English verse. He quite respects her scholarship. How are your feet doing in those shoes?”
As a matter of fact, Catherine’s feet were coming out in blisters, she was sure. But she said nothing about them. Instead, she asked, “What were her common interests with Dr. Stephenson?”
“I don’t know. He was more Dr. Sargent’s colleague. I assume that’s why he was at the dinner. He’s an expert on the Victorians. And, as you undoubtedly know, he published the definitive undergraduate text on studying poetry. I don’t know that Stephenson and Chenowith had that much to do with one another.”
“I’ll look into that,” she said. “I must read the advance reader copy of his latest book. He dropped it off some time ago.” Catherine shivered. “It’s getting very late. Why don’t we resume this tomorrow?”
“Ah! Your feet are hurting you!”
“Maybe a little,” she admitted. “But I can’t seem to get warm. I’ve been cold ever since I found Dr. Chenowith.”
To her discomfort, Dr. Harry put an arm around her shoulders. “Well, then. Let’s get you to your dormitory. Where is it?”
“This is the door, as a matter of fact.”
“How convenient.”
She held out her gloved hand. “Good evening.”
He shook her hand. “Don’t stay up all night fretting. Where and when should we meet tomorrow?”
“Let’s have a pub lunch. That’s the most convenient thing.”
“All right. The Bird and the Baby.”
“Lovely,” she said. “Noon. Goodnight, Dr. Bascombe.”
Chapter Four
Jennie and Dot were still awake and waiting in Catherine’s room.
“Miss Tregowyn! We heard about the terrible doings,” said Jenny. “The p’lice have been here. I had to show them your room! Is it true that Dr. Chenowith is dead? I mean, how was she done in?”
“Yes,” said Dot. “Do tell!”
“It is terrible. It happened down in the new chapel. I don’t really . . . The police have searched my room, you say?”
“Yes. They were here ever so long. But whatever it was they were after, they didn’t find it.”
“How about you, Dot? Did you see anything?”
“No. They searched my room, too. They went away empty-handed.”
“Of course, they did. We’ve got nothing to hide. I didn’t murder the poor woman, but I’m going to find out who did.”
“Are you, now?” said Jennie.
“Why do you want to do that?” asked Dot. “You’re no Miss Marple, Cat.”
“I’m a suspect with no faith in these policemen. Dr. Bascombe and I are working together, though I can’t like the man.”
“He’s ever so handsome, miss. Reminds me of Douglas Fairbanks at the pictures.”
“A suspect!” said Dot. “Is the copper serious?”
“I found the body. That makes me a suspect in his book.”
“You’ll ask me for any help you need, miss?” said the aging scout. “I have a passkey for all the rooms.”
“I would never ask you for such a thing, Jennie!”
“Never say never. Might come in handy, it might.”
“Well, thank you. Now, off to bed with you, Jennie. I know you’ve got to be up with the birds.”
With that, the scout left them.
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” said Dot. “Why are you investigating this with a man you don’t like?”
“The Detective Chief Inspector has a wild theory. He thinks Dr. Chenowith found us ‘canoodling’ in the new chapel and threatened Dr. Harry with exposure or something. It’s absurd.”
“It’s the only thing that’s happened tonight that’s funny,” said Dot.
Catherine took off her frock, put on her dressing-gown, and gathered her bath things. She was determined to get warm.
“I’m for a hot bath, Dot. How about if we talk about this in the morning? I’ve been freezing ever since I found that awful thing.”
“Understandable. I’ll see you tomorrow,” promised Dot. “I hope you can sleep.”
Going down the hall to the bathroom, Catherine wondered if the police had searched any of the other Old Girls’ rooms. She would have to remember to ask Jennie tomorrow.
She ran the water as hot as she could get it and submerged herself up to her chin in the Victorian tub. Finally, she started to relax and get warm. Lovely. She had dozed off when her chin slipped below the waterline jolting her awake. Feeling like a very old woman, she slowly climbed out of the tub and rubbed herself dry. She put on her silk pajamas and her dressing gown, gathered her sponge bag and towel, and went back to her room. Catherine got in bed and slept far more soundly than she expected to.
Jennie awakened her at 8:30. “You’re going to miss breakfast, miss, if you don’t get up!”
“I don’t want breakfast,” Catherine moaned. “Please leave me be.”
The scout left the room, and Catherine tried to go back to sleep. However, the image of the dead Dr. Chenowith was haunting her now.
In twenty minutes, she had dressed in her white linen suit with a navy blue polka-dot shirt. She breezed into the breakfast room for a cup of coffee
and a bun just as they were closing down. Taking the items upstairs, she passed Dot’s door. No one answered. Her friend had always been an early riser. She was already off somewhere.
Sitting at the desk in her own room, she made a list of things to do that day.
Catherine had two fixed appointments which she noted by their times in her diary. 12:00—meet Dr. Harry at pub. 8:00—concert at the music room with Dot. Chewing the end of the pencil, she thought about where she should start with her inquiries.
The dean. Surely, she would be the person who knew Dr. Chenowith best among the small crowd who had been there last night. Catherine didn’t know for certain that the attacker was among last night’s group, but it was clearly the best place to start. Closing her diary, she went down the hall to the telephone, rang the exchange, and asked for the dean’s office.
After making an appointment for ten o’clock, she went back to her room and packed her belongings. Maybe the dean would allow her to stay on here for the time she was involved in her investigations, but it was best to be prepared.
She drank her cold coffee and ate her bun, all the while thinking about Dr. Chenowith. She was quite well-known as a man-hater. When Catherine had been an undergraduate, it was rumored that her heart had been broken, and she had never gotten over it. She had refused to take men into account ever since. Catherine wondered if she needed to look into that ancient history. It couldn’t hurt. But she couldn’t quite picture herself asking the dean about it. Maybe Dr. Sargent would know. She needed to talk to her former tutor anyway.
She rang up Dr. Sargent’s office and found she wouldn’t be in for the rest of the day. Maybe Catherine should visit her at her cottage. She had a little place west of the University. Surely Dr. Harry had a motor?
Looking at her watch, she noted that she had better hurry if she was to be on time for the dean.
* * *
Dean Andrews’ office was as neat and tidy as the dean herself. She had ordered tea and the tray sat on the edge of her desk.
“How do you take your tea, Miss Tregowyn?”
“Milk and sugar,” said Catherine. “Thank you.”
As the dean was pouring out, Catherine reacquainted herself with the content of her walls. There were all her certificates of expertise in early Christian writings and her diplomas from Somerville. And a picture of the Warden—Dr. Phillips. But mostly she remembered the photographs. The dean was a great traveler. There were photos of her in Egypt, riding on a camel with the pyramids in the background, pictures of her before the Taj Mahal, several somewhere in the South Seas, and one of the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin.
An Oxford Murder Page 3