An Oxford Murder

by G. G. Vandagriff

  “That would certainly be best,” said Catherine. “Thank you for the invitation. It doesn’t seem right to drop such dire news on you and then leave you by yourself. Is there anyone we can call for you? Someone you’d like to be with you?”

  “I think I’d rather be on my own, thank you. Sandra will come soon. I want to just go through Christopher’s things and think about him. This is such a shock.”

  Catherine handed the woman one of her visiting cards with her phone number scrawled on it. “You might want to call Scotland Yard about your son’s remains. A Detective Inspector Underbridge is handling the case.”

  She shook with sudden sobs and covered her face. “Thank you. He was still so young. So talented.”

  The three of them stood and took their leave, promising to call back at five o’clock.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The trio walked along the strand, passing Sandy’s Surprises with its jaunty turquoise and white awning, looking for someplace to have a late luncheon. They settled on a fish and chips shop where they ordered the local dish—Manx fried kippers with chips and cheese.

  “Well,” said Dr. Harry. “Mrs. Waddell certainly set the cat among the pigeons. I don’t know when I’ve been more surprised! Man-hater Augusta Chenowith married secretly to another professor! I think this fact links the two deaths for certain.”

  Catherine picked at her food. “I wouldn’t be surprised if their separation had something to do with Dr. Waddell’s new interest in changing the political direction of the country.” She turned to Rafe, explaining, “We already know he was a fascist, but her friend, Miss Siddons, said Dr. Chenowith had no time for Hitler. Not a recipe for marital bliss.”

  “Try as I might, I can’t see the woman married. And no one knew,” said Dr. Harry.

  “I know,” said Catherine. “It does seem odd.”

  “And why is that? I never met the woman, remember,” said Rafe.

  “She was beyond prickly,” said Catherine. “She carried grudges. There wasn’t anything giving or soft about her. I just can’t imagine her yielding her prerogatives to any man in a marriage relationship.”

  “Is that what you think marriage is?” asked Rafe. “Yielding? Giving in?”

  He looked her straight in the eye, and she knew he was dead serious. “One must be prepared to go at least halfway to meet another person. Don’t you think? Agatha Chenowith didn’t ever give me the idea that she would be willing to consider a dissenting point of view. She was rigid and ruthless.”

  Catherine imagined Dr. Harry was almost squirming beside her at this discussion of marriage.

  “You’re right about being willing to compromise,” said Rafe. “But one shouldn’t have to give up one’s basic self. In marrying a person, you accept them for who they are.”

  “But there are a million things that can change in the course of one’s life,” said Catherine. “A person isn’t a static entity. He or she is always changing and adapting to new circumstances like parenthood, for example. One doesn’t remain the person one is at the time one is married.”

  Rafe thought this over.

  Catherine went on. “Again, I would be willing to wager that the evolution of Dr. Waddell’s political beliefs is what caused their separation.”

  Dr. Harry picked up this thread of the specific. “I agree. But here is a question to which I don’t have an answer. What was Waddell doing in the girl’s dormitory?” he asked. “If it hadn’t been for that little errand, we would never know a thing about him. He might very well be Chenowith’s murderer and could have intended to plant evidence against someone else.”

  Rafe shot a sour look at Dr. Harry, which he appeared not to notice. “Or he might have been trying to solve the murder himself, as we are,” said Catherine.

  Rafe interrupted, “It’s a good thing I don’t live here. I could get used to these chips and cheese and lose my manly figure. Do you suppose they have a museum on this island?”

  Catherine was annoyed at both men and their attempts to wrest the conversation. “I’m sure we could ask someone,” she answered. “Why? Have you a desire to play tourist?”

  “We have to fill the time somehow, and I was thinking—Mrs. Waddell talked about her son’s childish pursuits and how they led to his scholastic career. You know—lecturing about myths and legends. Seems to me we ought to investigate that a little bit. What did those myths and legends signify to him? They must have been pretty powerful to have that much of an effect on him. A museum is what we’re looking for.”

  She let go of her annoyance. “That’s actually a good idea,” admitted Catherine. “You know, I wonder if he was part of Dr. Williams’s coterie. You haven’t met him, Rafe, but he is the pundit of Teutonic legends and thought at Oxford. I’ve been invited to a soiree he’s having on Thursday, which is why we have to get back.”

  “What kind of a soiree?” Rafe asked.

  “Sherry and biscuits and a meeting of a group that just got back from Norway. Apparently, they found a people who have an oral tradition of old Teutonic legends passed down from ancient times. He’s very excited about it.”

  Dr. Harry, finished with his luncheon, pulled out his pipe. “Williams is a proper old pagan. He subscribes to Carl Jung’s theory of an Aryan collective consciousness. Wotan is the Nordic god who represents the idea. Sound familiar?”

  “Strewth! Are we talking about Hitler and his ‘master race’ here?” asked Rafe.

  “Yes. But Dr. Williams is an old sweetheart,” said Catherine. “He works in Whitehall, for heaven’s sake. He is interested in all this from a linguistic point of view. Legends common to speakers of Old English and the Teutonic Languages. I very much doubt he has much time for a thug like Hitler.”

  “This whole thing sounds increasingly rum,” said Rafe. “Let’s go see if they have a museum.”

  After questioning their waitress, they determined that there was a Manx Museum located at an old hospital inland from the harbor. The three of them took a cab and arrived at the unprepossessing old building that bore its name in faint lettering. It didn’t look particularly promising.

  When they entered and paid their fee, they began looking at the exhibits which featured an entire collection on the Manx Viking Heritage, including a hoard of Viking silver and gold.

  “What did I tell you,” said Rafe. “This would certainly catch a boy’s attention.”

  Dr. Harry said, “But this museum was founded in 1922. That’s only fourteen years ago. When Christopher Waddell was a boy this place didn’t exist.”

  Catherine said, “I wonder if he had any part in establishing it?”

  They walked through the exhibit which had a model Viking ship and paintings of Viking battles. A statue of a Viking dressed in full war kit was on display.

  Catherine noticed a table with a stack of brochures. Paying the requested 50 pence, she picked one up and saw that it detailed the legend of the Vikings on the Isle of Man.

  “Look,” she said. “This thing was written by Dr. Waddell.”

  “Hmm,” said Rafe. “I wonder how involved he was in setting up this exhibit.”

  It proved that Waddell was a primary benefactor of the Viking Heritage Exhibit, memorialized on a plaque fixed on the wall at the end. He was quoted as saying, “The spirit of the Viking hero is endemic to the consciousness of Manx citizens. We embody their appearance and values in our everyday lives. A study of the Viking culture is imperative if we are to understand ourselves.”

  “Sounds very like the Jungian creed of collective consciousness,” said Dr. Harry.

  “Agreed,” said Catherine. “Kind of creepy, actually.”

  The rest of the museum was a less interesting history of politics on the island. They dutifully passed through it and then took their leave.

  Because they had time, the three of them walked back down to the shore rather
than taking a taxi. With her new knowledge of his improbable marriage and the obsession of Dr. Waddell with the Viking culture, Catherine had plenty to think about. Positioning herself to the rear of the two men who walked in single file down the winding streets, she looked at the sapphire sea without really seeing it. Since it had been hot in the museum, she relished the cool breeze on her face. She could have used either Dr. Harry or Rafe’s arm but knew it would cause friction if she were to choose one over the other.

  “I wonder how Aryan racism is born,” she said once they reached the flats.

  “I don’t know that it starts out in any sinister way,” said Dr. Harry. “For Christopher Waddell, it may just have meant embracing who he was. All young boys look for heroes. I think the idea just becomes pathological when it becomes exclusive. Today it targets Jews as the enemy, the corruptor of the purity of a superior race.”

  “I’m surprised a college like St. John’s would tolerate such a rum philosophy,” said Rafe.

  “We don’t know that it does. He may have preached it in a more diluted form. ‘Roots of European Thought’ or something like that,” said Dr. Harry.

  Rafe appeared to ponder this. “My Spanish great grandmother was Jewish,” he said finally.

  Catherine didn’t know what he expected her to say. Finally, she settled on, “Best to stay clear of the Nazis then.”

  It was nearly five o’clock when they passed Sandy’s Surprises. They made their way to Mrs. Waddell’s flat.

  A tall, red-haired woman with eyes that were obviously swollen answered the door.

  “You are the people from Oxford?”

  “Yes,” answered Catherine. “We are so sorry for your loss. It must have been a terrible shock. I am Catherine Tregowyn. These men are Dr. Harold Bascombe and Mr. Rafael St. John.”

  “Sandra Christensen,” she said abruptly, standing in the doorway with no apparent intention of letting them in. “I don’t know what you expect to find out from us. What is your purpose here, anyway? You’re not the police.”

  For once, Catherine didn’t know what to say.

  Dr. Harry smiled. “No. We’re not the police. But as Oxford fellows, we’ve got hold of facts the police won’t even look at. We’re trying to see where they lead.”

  Catherine cringed at the lie. None of them were, in fact, fellows.

  “My mother is still very upset, and I’m not doing too well, either.” She eased out into the hallway and closed the door behind her. “We can talk out here. What are your questions?”

  Catherine was surprised but decided to try to make the best of the situation. “It came as a complete surprise to us that your brother was married to Dr. Chenowith. Did your mother tell you that she was recently murdered, as well?”

  “Yes, she did tell me. But Agatha and Christopher hadn’t had anything to do with one another for the past year. They were legally separated.”

  Dr. Harry asked, “Could you tell us how long they had been married?”

  “They married three years ago, but Agatha wanted it to be kept secret. She was like that. I really don’t know why they married at all. They only saw each other at the weekend. They had a cottage in Bucks.”

  “Do you have any idea why they separated?” asked Dr. Harry.

  “Why do you need to know that?” Mrs. Christensen asked, her voice hostile.

  “It might have a bearing on the murders,” said Catherine as gently as though she were treading on eggshells.

  “Agatha could no longer tolerate my brother’s political beliefs. They embarrassed her. You might as well know I had no time for the woman.”

  “What were his political beliefs?” asked Rafe, his voice only idly inquisitive.

  “If you don’t know, you’re not much good as investigators. Now, I’ve got to get back to my mother. We’re trying to figure out how we’re going to afford to get Christopher’s body back to the island.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Christensen,” said Catherine. She handed her a calling card. “There is my telephone number in London. If you get any ideas about who was responsible for Dr. Waddell’s death, I would appreciate your ringing me. You can reverse the charges.”

  “Thank you. I will keep it in mind,” said the woman. Opening the door, she went inside and shut it behind her.

  “Charming,” said Rafe.

  “I don’t blame her,” Catherine said. “We have no official standing, and we were the bringers of the worst kind of news. We must seem like vultures.”

  * * *

  Rather than fly home that night, the little group elected to have a good seafood dinner, spend the night at a hotel and fly home the next morning.

  Catherine felt she was probably the only one that was anxious to get home. The friction between Rafe and Dr. Harry was grating on her nerves. Either one of them alone was tolerable, but together they were too much. She couldn’t take one’s arm without the other bristling in silence. They seemed to bring out the worst in one another, as well. Dr. Harry was puffed up like a barnyard rooster while Rafe, though more conversant in matters outside of sport than she had ever known him to be, came across as a smooth matinee idol.

  By dinnertime, she had had enough of both of them.

  “I’m going to give dinner a miss,” she said. “There is a nice little hotel I saw on the strand. I’m going to check in there and go to bed. I’ll meet you at the airport in the morning. Ten o’clock?”

  Both men looked surprised at her decision but finally agreed on ten o’clock. She parted ways with the two men in her life.

  The Hotel Madeleine was pocket-sized and expensive, but her room had a view of the sea and a lovely private bath with a large Victorian bathtub. There was also a small dining room, so she didn’t miss dinner, after all. After taking a bath and freshening her hair and makeup, she dined downstairs on lobster. It was lovely.

  Catherine did not sleep well, however. She dreamed of brown-shirted gangs chasing her through the streets of the Isle. They had Viking beards and carried tridents for weapons. She was weighted down by the Viking gold and kept looking for places to hide it. Every time she thought she was safe; Dr. Waddell would discover her and call on his gang of brown shirts to come and get the gold. She would wake in a sweat, get a glass of water, and then return to bed where the dream resumed.

  She woke in the morning exhausted and very glad she didn’t have to go back to sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  When they met at the little make-shift airport, Rafe seemed elegant and rested as usual. Dr. Harry was fractious and didn’t seem to have slept well, either. They all boarded the plane. Catherine swathed herself in layers of warmth, and soon they were airborne. This time, Dr. Harry sat next to her in the cabin of the plane.

  “Well, I don’t know that we’re any forwarder,” he said loudly to make himself heard after takeoff. “Except for the bombshell about the marriage.”

  “I wonder if he killed her,” she shouted back. “Then who killed him? Were their deaths linked? Are politics important or irrelevant?”

  They flew over the Irish Sea and then south over northern England. The flight was wracked with turbulent weather, and Catherine found herself instinctively holding on to Dr. Harry. Though she railed at herself for being a spineless female, she couldn’t let go of his comforting arm.

  When they finally set down safely at Croyden, she reluctantly let go of him.

  “Thank you so much for taking us, Rafe,” she said. “It was an unforgettable experience.”

  He scowled at her, and she knew he must have noted her clinging to Dr. Harry.

  “Especially when I thought I was going to die,” she added. Now she could grin about it.

  Dr. Harry said, “I have my motor. Are you still going to Dr. Williams’s soiree, Catherine?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I’ll be driving her up,” said R
afe.

  Catherine ground her teeth but didn’t contradict him in front of Dr. Harry.

  “Well, then. I guess I’ll see you both there,” the professor said, tipping his hat.

  As soon as he was out of sight, she turned on Rafe. “I did not invite you!”

  He just grinned. “Cat, I want to be part of your Oxford world. You’re up to your pretty neck in this story, and you’ve intrigued me. Or don’t you think I can hold my own at an Oxford sherry party?”

  “You’ve never shown the least partiality for this part of my life. Is this Dr. Harry’s doing?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Since Catherine didn’t know what to say to that, she just let him open the door to his Hispano Suiza motor and she took her seat in the luxurious automobile. He put the top down, making further conversation impossible.

  She had to admit that her relationship with Rafe had always been lacking in the intellectual vein. The camaraderie she enjoyed with Dr. Harry had been refreshing that way. And until this little trip to the Isle, Rafe had never seen the intellectual side of her. Maybe it was time he did. Certainly, it was time he did.

  * * *

  He dropped her at her door with a stirring kiss, promising to return at five-thirty for the drive up to Oxford. Rattled by the kiss, she opened the door and greeted Cherry.

  “Oh, miss I’m so glad you’re in one piece. I didn’t like to think of you in an airplane!”

  “It was actually fun,” said Catherine. “Any messages?”

  “Yes. Someone called Jennie rang. She said to tell you she has something important for you. I told her you would be coming up to Oxford tonight. She’s leaving it at the porter’s desk for you. I hope that was all right.”

  Catherine’s pulse quickened. What could she have found? “Yes. Thank you, Cherry.” She handed the woman her fur coat. “Now I would love a bath!”

  * * *

  After her disturbing night, she decided to spend the two hours remaining to her napping. When she awoke from a heavy sleep, Catherine was startled to see that it was five o’clock. She had only half an hour to dress. Cherry entered her room.