“Lemon, no sugar,” he said.
“Would you care for a sandwich? And some apricot chutney?”
“Please.”
She thought she saw the edge of his mouth twitch as though he were hiding a smile. He was enjoying this! Glaring at him, she passed his tea. From that moment, she ceased to care about what he thought and relaxed.
“I suppose you know about the events of this morning?” Dr. Harry said.
Rafe scowled. “What events?”
“The break-in,” Harry said lightly, sipping his tea.
“What’s this?” Rafe demanded, accepting his cup from Catherine. “Is this what you were going to tell me?”
“Partly. I had a visitor last night. Don’t worry. Nothing was taken, and I didn’t even know it happened until I woke this morning,” she said.
“What was your first clue?” Rafe asked, sarcasm edging his voice.
“My safe door was hanging open, and there were papers strewn about. I have no idea what they were looking for.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve called the police?”
“Of course, I have. They’re going to cooperate with the Oxford police. This obviously has to do with our investigation.”
Rafe looked as though he had tasted something bad. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.” He set down his cup on the refurbished old sea chest that functioned as her tea table.
“You don’t want a sandwich?” she said.
“You weren’t expecting me,” he said, rising.
“Dot was the one who called Dr. Harry,” she found herself protesting.
Dr. Harry grinned, shamelessly.
Rafe just shook his head and made for the door. “I’ll check with you in a day or two.”
“Don’t sulk for heaven’s sake,” Catherine said. “It doesn’t become you.”
“Huh!” he remarked cryptically on the way out.
When the door had shut, Dr. Harry said, “Sorry to upset the apple cart.” He didn’t sound sorry at all.
“As I said, nothing’s been decided yet.” She poured her own tea and spooned some chutney onto a plate. Its burst of flavor restored her good humor. “You did rather egg him on, you know.”
“He was sickeningly proprietary. I don’t like that in any man. Now have you deduced anything from this break-in? You can take your hat off now. Mr. St. John isn’t here to see the bandage you haven’t told him about.”
“You purposely gave him the wrong impression,” she said.
He grinned.
Exasperated, she changed gears. “Look here. Someone must be pretty desperate to have carried this out while I was home. And that desperation is recent. After all, I’ve been out of the flat for over a week. That would have been a safer opportunity.”
Catherine took a sandwich and ate it with absent-minded enjoyment. “Now that you’re here, it might be a good time to talk to Chenowith’s friends in the Bloomsbury group. Maybe she hinted that something was amiss.”
“Do you know any of them?”
“There is one lady in the group that I know somewhat. We share the same publisher. We’ve met at receptions. I could call on her, I suppose. If you came with me, it wouldn’t seem that I was after gossip, but that I meant business. You said you knew Lytton Strachey. You probably have a reputation in that group. She might be willing to talk if we were together.”
“Shall we go this afternoon? I’m assuming you know where she lives?”
“I can find out from my editor,” she said, eager to try this new lead. What side of herself did Agatha Chenowith show to her Bloomsbury friends?
Chapter Eighteen
Rosemary Siddons had welcomed Catherine’s desire to visit her that afternoon. Catherine and Dr. Harry arrived just after two, and Miss Siddons greeted them with a welcoming smile. A short, round woman, she had a pleasing face, unlike the long, thin, almost horsey-faced Virginia Woolf. Sensibly dressed, Miss Siddons did not betray in any way the fact that she had a brutally incisive mind.
Her flat was medium-sized and sparsely decorated with mismatched furniture and primary colors. It faced west and enjoyed an abundance of whatever sunlight there was to be had.
Catherine introduced Dr. Harry as “a colleague from Oxford.”
“I hope this doesn’t prove to be a waste of your time,” she said once they were seated. “We are here to talk about Agatha Chenowith. It was our misfortune to have discovered her body.”
“Oh! How awful for you,” said the little woman.
“Well, the police did rather suspect us at first, which made us decide we should look into the matter ourselves and try to find out things the police might not be aware of.”
“How enterprising of you! I certainly applaud your efforts.”
Catherine went on, “I know she was a member of your literary circle, and you are the only one I know myself. That’s why we’ve come to you.”
“I knew her quite well as it happens,” Miss Siddons said. “I am so glad you are looking into this. The police aren’t aware of this part of her life, apparently. None of us have heard anything from them.”
Catherine was relieved. They had been right to come. “Naturally, we won’t share anything with them that doesn’t have a bearing on the case. I think she had more friends here in London than she did at Oxford.”
“Yes. Agatha was quite a devotee of our little group. We were fond of her and tremendously shaken by her death. I was sad that they didn’t have a memorial service for her. But I suppose it’s because she hadn’t any people. No family to speak of.”
“We didn’t realize that,” said Dr. Harry.
“I have her ashes,” Miss Siddons said. “No one else claimed them. I shall scatter them in Wales. She used to love to take hiking holidays in Snowdonia, though she hadn’t gone there for the last couple of years.”
“I never knew that about her,” said Catherine. “I’m so glad she had such a good friend in you.”
They had taken seats in front of the empty hearth, and now their hostess offered them tea.
Thinking perhaps it might put the lady at ease, Catherine accepted. A servant appeared, and Miss Siddons ordered.
Dr. Harry fired the opening volley. “We believe Dr. Chenowith may have been murdered because of something she knew.”
“Are you a poet, Dr. Bascombe? I feel sure Agatha has mentioned you.”
“She didn’t think much of my work,” he said with a grin. Catherine wondered suddenly if he was as unaffected by Chenowith’s criticism as he appeared.
“Very strict tastes, Agatha had. She preferred women’s poetry, in any case,” said Miss Siddons.
“So I had gathered,” he said. “I’m certain she told you about Dr. Stephenson and his plagiarism. He has an alibi for the murder, so we are looking for other motives.”
They spent a moment listening to the lady’s invective against plagiarism. “Agatha was very disturbed,” she concluded.
“Can you think of any other things she might have known that would have been as dangerous to her as Dr. Stephenson’s plagiarism?” asked Catherine.
Tea was brought in, and while watching her pour, Catherine was certain that the woman was pondering what she should tell them.
“Milk?” Miss Siddons asked her. “Sugar?”
“Both, please,” said Catherine.
“I’ll just have lemon, if you don’t mind,” said Dr. Harry.
When they were all served, she said, “There was something quite weighty on her mind the last time I saw her. She was exceedingly perturbed. I’m sure you know she was very protective of Somerville, and I got the sense that this involved someone at the college.”
“Oh, golly,” said Catherine, taken aback. She was so startled, she set her teacup down on the table, afraid she might drop it. What had Dr. Chenowith been involved in?
“That�
��s why she wouldn’t tell you,” said Dr. Harry. “You aren’t a Somervillian.”
“Yes. That’s what I believe.” Miss Siddons’s brow furrowed in distress and tears formed in her eyes. “Her loyalty could have cost her life.” She took a handkerchief from the sleeve of her cardigan and blew her nose.
“On the other hand,” said Dr. Harry, his voice bracing. “We have another suspect. Were you aware of her affair with Sir Herbert Wallinghouse?”
Miss Siddons perked up at once, obviously glad to change the subject. “Oh, yes. She felt horribly rejected by his choice of wife.” Catherine secretly applauded Dr. Harry for confirming his suspicion about the affair.
Miss Siddons continued, “She and Sir Herbert had a very cerebral type of relationship. Not to say it wasn’t physical as well. And then he goes and falls head over heels for an empty-headed deb. A marked beauty. Fifteen years his junior. It almost destroyed Agatha. He never offered her marriage, you see.”
Catherine kept her temper at this description of the brilliant Margery. “Were you aware that Lady Margery was a guest at the sherry party the night of her death?”
“While that might have bothered Agatha, it wouldn’t have mattered to Lady Margery. She knew nothing about the affair. Sir Herbert made sure of that.”
“What do you mean?” asked Catherine.
“He paid Agatha to keep quiet. It was demeaning, and I didn’t think she should have accepted the money, but she was always hard up. Lately, though, since Lady Margery’s pathetic attempt at poetry, she was very tempted to tell her. I’m sorry to say, Agatha did have a horribly jealous streak. She wanted to really wound the woman with that review she wrote and sent to the publisher.”
The idea of Dr. Chenowith harboring such hatred for Margery made Catherine feel ill. She doubted very much that the payment arrangements would have been Sir Herbert’s idea. It was much more likely that the don had blackmailed him out of her bitterness. “It sounds as though Sir Herbert may have had a motive, even if Lady Margery didn’t.”
“I thought of him right away for the role of murderer, I am sorry to say,” said Miss Siddons. “I did like him at one time.”
Catherine tried to quell her worries over Margery’s family and said, “You are quite helpful, Miss Siddons. We are most terribly grateful.”
“This whole business is shocking,” said Dr. Harry. “Did you ever hear that she had received death threats?”
“Yes. She laid them squarely at Lord Carroway’s door. That’s the father of one of Agatha’s students. Agatha had criticized her, and Lady Rachel went into a decline over the incident, apparently. She’s in some kind of home. The whole thing was absurd.”
“Patently,” agreed Dr. Harry.
Catherine could only think of the poor man she and Dot had visited, old before his time, wheezing out his words.
Dr. Harry said, “It occurs to me that you might be able to shed some light on one more thing. There’s this don, Dr. Christopher Waddell. He was caught impersonating a police officer in this case, and now he’s gone and disappeared. He was at St. John’s College. Did Dr. Chenowith ever make mention of him?”
The little woman puckered her brow. “Dr. Waddell. St. John’s.” She took a sip of tea. “No. I don’t think I ever heard the name. Is he a poet?”
“No. The only thing remarkable about him is that he’s a bit of a fascist.”
“Well, Agatha certainly had no time for Hitler. That I can tell you. But I never heard her mention him, that I can recall. She used to unburden herself to me, you know. College communities are so inbred. It is almost impossible to keep one’s personal life private. I was completely removed from Oxford, so she felt she could talk to me.”
Though her feelings about Miss Siddons were mixed at best, Catherine said, “I’m glad she had a friend like you.”
“She quite liked your poetry, you know,” said the woman.
“She was very kind to me,” said Catherine, trying to sound sincere. It was hard to feel any liking for the woman who had so hated Margery. Had Sir Herbert killed the woman? Was it the shadowy Dr. Waddell? Or even the dean? Catherine had more questions now than before they had arrived.
She switched the topic to whether or not “dear Agatha” had been composing another work before her death.
“Oh, yes. She was always composing. I am her literary executor. I’m working with her publisher now to publish her last poems.”
“I know her collections always had an overall theme,” said Catherine. “What was she writing about when she died?”
“All her latest poems were about betrayal in one form or another. Quite heated. Bitter.”
“Huh,” pronounced Dr. Harry. “To be quite crass, they will probably sell well in light of her murder.”
Miss Siddons nodded her head sadly. “True.”
“Tell us about your own work,” invited Dr. Harry.
“Oh, I’m an essayist. No poetry. I write under an assumed name. You would be quite shocked to know who I am, but I’m not going to tell you. Only Agatha knew.” She smiled serenely.
They stayed on another half an hour discussing the various accomplishments of members of the Bloomsbury set. Miss Siddons seemed to take great pride in all their accomplishments. Catherine deduced that she was a lonely woman.
As the clock on the mantel struck four, they finally took their leave.
* * *
In the cab back to Mayfair, Dr. Harry said, “Our victim was one bitter woman. It’s a wonder she had any friends, but Miss Siddons seems to have been quite enmeshed in her life.”
“Perhaps the lady doesn’t have any other friends. Her identity as an essayist isn’t as private as she thinks it is. And her work is the kind that makes many enemies.”
“Now you have me curious!” the professor said.
“You won’t hear anything from me. I’m in my publisher’s confidence.”
When they got back to Catherine’s flat, she found that Rafe had called and left a bouquet of red roses for her with Cherry. The card said simply, “Remember me.”
Rafe wasn’t the hearts and flowers type, so the offering was a surprise. From the startled look on his face, she could tell the gesture was a bit disturbing to her companion. She imagined it was not often Dr. Harry came up against competition in the arena of romantic relationships.
“Cherry, could you put these in that crystal vase and place them in my bedroom on the chest?”
“Yes, miss.”
“We shall have to talk about him eventually,” he said.
“I don’t see why,” Catherine said. In a brusque tone, she said, “Rafe’s really none of your business. Now let’s go into the sitting room. What else haven’t you told me about your visit to the police? Did you ask if they found any love letters in Dr. Chenowith’s rooms? And what about Dr. Waddell?”
Dr. Harry sat on her leather sofa. “There were some old letters, but the envelopes were gone, so they couldn’t tell who they were from. They were all signed, ‘H.’ At this point, I decided not to enlighten them. I knew you wouldn’t want your friend, Margery, involved before we determined whether it was warranted or not.
“As far as Dr. Waddell, nothing on his whereabouts. Nothing in his rooms that might help. Today I was going to start at St. John’s talking to people to see if I could find anything out that might help us. But,” he paused and looked into her eyes. “Obviously your safety comes first.”
Catherine was touched by his concern, and lest he see it, she looked away.
“I wonder what there was that was so disturbing her—something to do with Somerville? I wonder whether it had to do with the dean?” Catherine mused. “I agree with Miss Siddons. Her loyalty could have cost Dr. Chenowith her life.”
Her telephone rang, Cherry answered. The maid told her, “It’s Lady Margery on the telephone, miss.”
Catherine t
ook the receiver from her maid’s hand, “Margery! You got my letter?”
“Yes, Cat. I’m all agog to hear the latest with your Rafe and offer what advice I can. Although I must say, I’m hardly an authority on marriage.”
She wondered at her friend’s qualification. “Oh, I so appreciate it. I’m completely at sea over this.”
“I can take the train up to London tomorrow if you can give me a bed for the night.”
“Fabulous! Of course, I will.”
“Good. I should arrive in time for luncheon. I’ll take a cab to your flat, deposit my belongings, and we can be off to the Savoy.”
“Sounds wonderful. I do look forward to having a proper gabfest.”
“Yes! Cheerio until tomorrow, darling.”
“Bye,” said Catherine.
After she rang off, she reported the news to Dr. Harry.
“So, she knows you want to question her about Dr. Chenowith?”
“Of course not. Sir Herbert may have killed to cover up his affair. We are going to discuss something altogether different. Before her marriage, she was my main confidante. I was even closer to her than to Dot.”
A knowing glint came into his eye, but he kept his peace. Did he think he might come up in their conversation?
Just in case, she decided to puncture his conceit. “She knows Rafe rather well.”
His brow contracted in annoyance.
“But I confess, I’m trying to get an alibi for Sir Herbert for the murder.”
“I think we have to concentrate on him and Waddell. I think the dean is out of it,” said Dr. Harry. We have to remember the way Chenowith died. The dean is smaller and older than she was,” mused Dr. Harry. “I doubt she could have mustered the strength to strangle her.”
“True,” said Catherine. “Maybe the dean is only upset with me about the investigation because it reflects poorly on Somerville.”
“That makes sense.”
She longed to get into the murdered woman’s rooms. Finally, she said, “The only thing I can think of is asking Jennie to make a thorough search of Dr. Chenowith’s room. Maybe there’s something the police missed.”
An Oxford Murder Page 16