The Secret Intelligence Service was almost hidden in the great sprawl of buildings known as Whitehall. By the time they found the correct direction for the office, it was half-past ten. A receptionist greeted them in a beige room without a touch of color. Behind her was a set of double oak doors, closed like a vault.
“How may I help you?”
Dr. Harry said, “I am Dr. Harold Bascombe from Christ Church College, Oxford. This is Miss Catherine Tregowyn, a graduate of Somerville College. We have information about the murder of the man who was found last night in the East End. We know who he was and believe his death may be tied to an underground group of Nazis operating at Oxford.”
Stated baldly, Catherine thought the story sounded wildly improbable. Evidently, the receptionist agreed.
“Have you been to the police? Cases of this sort are normally passed along to us by the police if they think it concerns the Secret Intelligence Service.”
Dr. Harry flushed deeply.
“We thought only to save time,” Catherine said. “But of course we can go to the police.”
Something of her reasonableness must have appeared to the woman, for she said, “If there is a connection to our concerns, you will be given immediate access to one of our people.”
“Thank you,” Catherine said. She took Dr. Harry’s arm, and they left.
Taking a taxi, they went to New Scotland Yard where they asked for the detective handling the East End murder of the unknown man.
“He is known to us,” said Dr. Harry. “And he is involved in another murder investigation in Oxford.”
They had a short wait. When they were shown to the office of Detective Inspector Michael Underbridge, Catherine left the reporting to Dr. Harry.
“The dead man is known to us and to St. John’s College, Oxford, where he was employed as Dr. Christopher Waddell. If you ring Detective Chief Inspector Marsh at Oxford Police Station, you will find that he was a suspect in the murder of a Somerville College don, Dr. Agatha Chenowith. Miss Tregowyn and I discovered her body and have been involved in the investigation. Dr. Waddell disappeared immediately after he was caught by Miss Tregowyn impersonating a police officer in the room of one of the suspects at Somerville College.”
“Thank you, Dr. Bascombe. That is very clear.”
Catherine guessed that Dr. Harry was a bit anxious about bringing up the Nazi connection, so she said, “Dr. Waddell was a known fascist. We don’t know, of course, whether this had anything to do with his death or not. Just as we don’t know what his connection was to Dr. Chenowith. However, you should be aware that there is an underground cult of Nazi students and professors at Oxford. Dr. Bascombe uncovered information about it on Sunday night.”
Thus prompted, Dr. Harry told his story about the New College student he had collared. He finished his tale with, “The student was literally in fear for his life if he withdrew from the organization. Considering that Dr. Waddell was found murdered, we thought you should know about this organization . . .”
Chief Inspector Underbridge interrupted him. “We don’t make it a habit of indulging amateur sleuths in our department. Please, facts only, and spare us your conclusions.”
Dr. Harry stood. “Very well, then. Good day to you.”
Catherine followed him out of the office. “What a gaggle of fools our government employs,” she said. “You’ll have to go back up to Oxford and see if Detective Chief Inspector Marsh will listen to your warning about that blasted cult.”
“I feel like the Chicken Little crying that the ‘sky is falling.’ As soon as you mention Nazi, no one wants to listen. I wonder how many closet fascists there are in the government.”
Catherine thought for a moment. “It’s not so much that they’re fascists as that no one wants another war. So many are still getting past the last war, they won’t even consider the prospect of another. No one wants to pay the price of standing up to Hitler. Look at poor Winston Churchill. Everyone thinks he’s a scaremonger, so they ridicule him.”
“You’re right, of course. My pride’s hurt.” He hailed a cab. “Let’s get you back to your flat. I’ll go see Marsh. Those kids were breaking the law if nothing else. And I need to check on my New College friend.”
Catherine gave Dr. Harry credit for overcoming his wounded pride. She had learned in her life that it could be a very difficult thing for a man to do.
Chapter Twenty
Catherine’s first impression of Margery was that her friend looked fragile. Her skin was practically transparent.
“Oh, Cat! It’s so good to see you! It’s been ages since I’ve been in your flat!”
“It’s exactly the same,” she said. “Here, let me take your case. Cherry has put you in the Rosebud Room—my old bedroom. It’s the only feminine room in the place.”
She set Margery’s case just inside the doorway of the bedroom. “Take your time and freshen up. I always feel so grimy when I come down from the train. Cherry can unpack for you while we’re out to lunch.”
The Savoy was crowded, but Lady Margery was well-known there, and they were seated without a wait at a choice table a little way away from the string orchestra. They both paused on the way to their table to say hello to their many acquaintances. By the time they were seated, Catherine could tell that her friend was all nerves.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” she said as they studied the heavy leather-backed menus they were given. “You seem overly fraught.”
“I am all right, Cat. I promise. Just a little tired from the train ride.”
Catherine knew better than to believe her friend but decided to let the matter rest for the time being.
They both ordered Sole Meunier with fried potatoes and French beans. When the waiter had departed, Margery said, “So when did Rafe appear? I understand he’s been in Kenya. I read his stories in the Times.”
“He’s been back almost a week, but I’ve hardly seen him. He’s been busy with his father doing business things. Evidently, his father has decided to hand over several companies up North to Rafe.”
“I’m amazed!” said Margery. “I thought his father disparaged Rafe’s business acumen.”
“Well, Rafe will inherit everything, so I imagine his thinking is that it is better to have him set sail while Papa is still alive to keep his son from drowning.”
“So,” her friend said, leaning toward her with a confidential air, “How did it feel to see him?”
“Wonderful, of course. He’s asked me to marry him again. I put him on a six-month trial.”
“Darling, if you can’t marry him after all these years, what difference is six months going to make?”
Catherine gave a gusty sigh. “He’s just not stable, Marge. At least he hasn’t been in the past. I hope every time we go through this that things are going to be different this time, but they never are. I need a certain level of reliability in my life.”
“Then, your answer should be no.”
The waiter brought their luncheon. Though not hungry, Catherine began to eat, as though it would stay the inevitable.
“I keep hoping that if I handle things differently, things will stay smooth and we will stay close,” she said.
“His choices are not your fault. The same thing happens again and again. Do you honestly believe that you are in any way responsible?”
“He doesn’t get violent or anything.”
“Darling, you have to face the fact that he’s not an adolescent anymore. And his choices are his responsibility, not yours.”
Catherine felt a pain in her breast that was all too familiar. “I love him so. I want to smooth out the way for him. Maybe if we’re married . . .”
“Marriage only magnifies problems, Cat. Take it from me. It doesn’t solve anything.”
Her friend’s words were like the lash of a whip. Catherine put down her utensils.
“Marge! Whatever is wrong?”
To her surprise, her friend began to tear up. She raised her napkin to her eyes and carefully dabbed them so as not to smear her kohl makeup.
“I’m so dreadfully afraid,” her friend said. “You were right, Cat. I am fraught.”
“You’re afraid of Sir Herbert?”
“No. He would never hurt me. But he had some kind of problem with Agatha Chenowith. He absolutely hated her. I’m terribly worried . . .”
“You’re worried he might have killed her?” Catherine whispered.
Margery nodded sniffing.
Catherine was stunned. For her friend to cry in a public place like the Savoy meant her problem was real and immediate.
She signaled her waiter.
“Let me sign for luncheon,” she said to him. “I’m afraid we must go.”
“Very good, miss.” He left her bill and then walked swiftly away.
Quickly scrawling her signature, she told Margery, “Pull yourself together, darling. We must get out of here and then you can have yourself a good cry.”
Taking Margery’s elbow, she led them around the outside of the dining room, out into the hotel lobby, and finally into the street where they got into a waiting cab.
Margery sobbed into her handkerchief.
“It’s such a relief to tell someone. I don’t know what to do.”
“Wait until we get back to the flat. It’ll only be a few minutes. Then you can spill the whole thing.”
Once they arrived at Catherine’s building, she paid the driver and helped her friend to alight. Hustling her into the building, she said, “Stairs. The lift operator is a bit of a ghoul.”
They walked up two flights of stairs and, finally arriving at her flat, went into the sitting room where they collapsed on the sofa. She held her friend while she sobbed great heaving sobs.
“Oh, my,” Margery said at last. “I’ve been holding it in so long. It’s been so dreadful.”
Catherine rang for her maid.
“Some hot, sweet tea, please, Cherry.” When the maid had gone, she said, “Would it help you to talk about it? I’ve been finding out a lot about Chenowith since she died. She was not a nice person.”
“She was horrid! I don’t know what her hold was over Herbert, but he was paying her a great deal of money. I saw one of the cheques.”
“Have you any idea why? Any idea at all?”
“He’s very protective of me. I think it’s all tied up with my poetry somehow.” Margery blew her nose into her handkerchief. “I really think the woman hated me, and it had something to do with Herbert.”
“Margery, why are you afraid he killed her?” Catherine felt a twinge of conscience even asking this question of her friend, but she told herself that if Sir Herbert was guilty, it was best that Margery knew.
Her friend was completely given over to tears. After a few moments, Cherry entered with her tea. Margery grasped the cup with both hands and drank it down as a drunk would a tot of whiskey.
Finally, she was able to speak. “Yes. I’m afraid. Desperately afraid.”
“But what makes you think he did it?”
“When I called the Randolph after the sherry party, he wasn’t there!” Sobs overtook her once again. After a moment, she continued, “I actually took a cab ‘round to the hotel, in case he was in the dining room, but he wasn’t there, either.”
“Have you asked him where he was?”
“He won’t tell me!”
Oh, dear. Catherine’s heart began to thump with fear for her friend. Strangely, she found herself wishing that Dr. Harry were there.
“Oh, Margie, I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t know what to do! I lied under oath!”
She thought about Margery’s testimony.
“You didn’t really. You said you rang him, not that you talked to him.”
“Well, he lied!”
“He did.” And to save herself, Catherine couldn’t think of an innocent explanation. But she also could never betray her friend by going to the police with this information. Was it possible that Dr. Waddell had nothing to do with the murder? That it had been Sir Herbert all along?
At that moment, the bell to her flat rang. She heard Cherry go to the door. Then she heard Rafe’s deep voice.
“Miss Tregowyn is engaged, sir,” Cherry said. “She has a guest.”
“Never mind,” he said. “I can handle her guest.”
Cherry protested, “But you can’t go in there!”
The door to the sitting room opened, and Rafe burst in.
Margery shrank from him, covering her face with her handkerchief. Rafe stood, apparently dumbfounded. Finally, he said, “Cat! What did you do to your head?”
Without thinking, Catherine had taken off her cloche, forgetting all about her wound, which was now uncovered.
“It doesn’t matter at the moment, Rafe,” she said. “You must go and return later.”
“That’s Lady Margery,” he stated. “Whatever is the matter?”
“It’s none of your affair, but she’s very upset. You must go.”
“Maybe I can help.”
At this point, Margery wiped her eyes and looked up at Rafe. “I’m sorry, Rafe. There’s nothing anyone can do. I’m just unloading on Cat.”
He went to her and, bending down, took her hands in his. “May I speak to Sir Herbert for you? Does he know how miserable you are? It’s plain he adores you, so I know it’s not another woman.”
“No. It’s nothing like that,” she said.
The situation was awkward in the extreme, and Catherine had no idea what to do to remedy it if Rafe wouldn’t leave. Finally, she said, “Margie, would you feel better if you were to lie down for a bit? Cherry can bring you a cold compress for your head.”
“That’s a good idea,” her friend said. Rafe helped her to her feet, and Catherine led her back to her bedroom.
“I’m so sorry about Rafe,” she said. “He must have thought you were Dr. Harry. He’s a bit jealous.”
“It’s all right. I actually think I might sleep after that good cry.”
Catherine pulled closed the drapes and turned back the bed. “Here you are. Get some rest, and we can talk later.”
Stopping by Cherry’s quarters off the kitchen, Catherine asked her to prepare a cold compress for her friend. Only then did she go in to tackle Rafe.
“That was exceedingly rude to burst in on us like that!” she told him. “Poor Lady Margery is terribly embarrassed.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said. He wore a mulish expression which belied his words. “But a bit of a lie down will do her good. Now, will you tell me what happened to your head?”
“It happened days ago, and I have ceased to think about it. A professor called Stephenson went after me with a cricket bat. At night. On the Somerville Quad. He thought I could expose him for plagiarism.”
He took her into his arms and gently placed her head against his chest. “My poor Kitty. He tried to kill you, didn’t he?”
“Yes. But as William is always telling me, I have a thick skull.”
“Have the police arrested him?”
Catherine’s anger was melting, and she felt herself lean into Rafe. “Only just. But there’s still a murderer out there. Dr. Stephenson has an alibi. I think the murderer may be whoever broke into my flat the other night.”
“Let’s sit down, and you can tell me all about this wretched murder. I’m done with the pater and ready to give you a hand.” He led her to the sofa.
She gave him the full story, beginning with her discovery of Dr. Chenowith’s body, and ending with Dr. Waddell’s murder and her and Dr. Harry’s abortive visit to the police that morning.
“It sounds like you might have been trying to force a connection when there wasn’t one
,” he said of the police visit.
“Possibly. I’ll be interested to hear what the Oxford police think. This business of Nazis at Oxford is more than a little unsettling. Waddell had to have known about them, and he was most likely in league with them.”
“Does Lady Margery’s distress have anything to do with the murder of Dr. Chenowith?”
“I can’t betray her confidence.”
“Even to this wretched Dr. Harry? And why do you refer to him in such a ridiculous manner?”
“It started by being facetious. He gave my poetry a bad review.”
“Ah-ha! I knew he was a bounder!”
“You have no time for my poetry, either,” she reminded him.
“But that’s different. I have no time for anyone’s poetry. I’m not made that way.”
Her irritation with him resurfaced. “It’s a big part of who I am, Rafe.”
“Let’s not get into that now. I’m sure if you are patient with me, I can be taught to appreciate it. But let’s discuss this murder situation. Why are you so keen on solving it? Are you past seeing how dangerous it is? Are you only looking at it as some abstract puzzle?”
She felt herself deflate a bit. With the new information about Sir Herbert, she was now wondering the same thing. Was it worth betraying a friend to solve the puzzle? It had seemed abstract until she had witnessed Margery’s tears. Now she couldn’t bring herself to act.
But perhaps Dr. Waddell was the murderer, and he had in turn been murdered by his Nazi organization so he wouldn’t bring attention to them. If that proved to be true, it would take Sir Herbert off the hook. How could she find out?
A bold and crazy plan occurred to her.
“I have my own reasons for continuing this, Rafe. Is your plane still at Croyden?”
“Now what are you up to? My plane?”
“I need to take a trip to the Isle of Man.”
“That would be a nice little day jaunt. Why?”
“That’s where Dr. Waddell was from. Perhaps I can discover something from his family or friends.”
“Surely if he was an Oxford don, he has lived there for years.”
“Dr. Harry . . . er . . . Bascombe has been investigating at Oxford. He did find out the man was a fascist, but nothing much beyond that. I’m sure he’s reapplying himself to the task today. If he finds nothing more, the next logical step is to dig deeper. To go to his home.”
An Oxford Murder Page 18