An Oxford Murder

by G. G. Vandagriff

  “Not unless he were to be sober. But I am giving up that dream. He would have to do it for himself and not for me. And, at bottom, he really doesn’t want to do it. He’s never grown up, I guess.”

  The realization hurt, but for the first time, she believed it was true. And she needed to hold on to that belief.

  They strolled the gardens the rest of the afternoon hours, sometimes in silence and sometimes Dr. Harry would repeat stanzas of poetry from the Romantic poets about the glories of nature. Catherine appreciated the effort to keep her entertained instead of brooding. She enjoyed the scent of green growing things that she missed when she was in the city, but she grew progressively more anxious. She knew she hadn’t seen the last of Rafe, and she worried about their next encounter.

  At length, after several hours of rambling, they took the Underground to Fleet Street. Friday night at the Spot was even busier than the last time they had met there. This time, Dot was not waiting at a table. She was engrossed in conversation with a man in a white shirt, loosened tie, and open jacket. Catherine took him to be a Fleet Street journalist like most of the patrons.

  Dot was biting her lip, her eyes fixed on the man’s face. Concerned, Catherine walked up to her. The moment her friend saw her, she signaled her conversant to stop speaking.

  “Thank you,” she said to him. Then taking Catherine’s arm, she said, “We need to go somewhere quiet.”

  Dr. Harry had joined them. He noted Dot’s demeanor. “What’s going on?”

  “I’ve got some rotten news. It just came across on the ticker. We need to go somewhere private. My office, I think. Everyone pours out of there at six.”

  Puzzled, Catherine followed her friend out of the pub into Fleet Street. It was mad with foot and road traffic. Dodging fellow pedestrians, she followed a resolute Dot as they walked against the flow of the crowd down to the corner where they turned into a quieter street. At the Simpson Building, they entered and walked up a flight of stairs to a pair of glass doors. Dot opened them. The Arrow Advertising Agency featured a large main area crammed with desks and telephones. Behind that was a row of offices. Dot took them into one of these and closed the door. She perched on the edge of the cluttered desk behind which was an Art Deco picture of an enormous ocean liner looking like it was sailing right into the room.

  “Take that seat, Cat.” Dot indicated the chair facing the desk. Dr. Harry took the seat next to her.

  “I just heard. I’m sorry to tell you, darling, but according to my newspaperman, it just came across the ticker. Rafe crashed his plane into the Thames. A couple of fishermen saw it happen and were able to rescue him before it went down. But he’s unconscious. He’s in St. Thomas’s.”

  The blow hit her in the chest, where her heart seemed to pause and then started pounding furiously. She felt the blood leave her head and the room shrank to a pin-dot. Then blackness.

  When she came back to consciousness, she was stretched out on the floor of Dot’s office, and she knew she was going to be sick. She choked out a warning, and Dr. Harry raced for the dust bin which he held next to her. Fortunately, the feeling subsided.

  “Breathe,” Dot said. “Take deep breaths.”

  “Oh, Rafe,” she moaned. “What have you done?”

  “The fishermen are enjoying their role as heroes of the hour,” said Dot. “They’re giving quite an account.”

  “Did he hurt anyone else?” Catherine asked.

  “No. He missed the bridges,” said Dot. “Rather a miracle.”

  “I imagine . . .” started Dr. Harry. He shook his head and stopped.

  “No,” said Catherine. “Continue.”

  “I just thought that he might be under arrest for ‘reckless endangerment.’”

  “He certainly should be,” said Catherine firmly. “And I’m going to tell him so.” A small sob escaped her. “If he wakes up.”

  She struggled to her elbows, thankful she was wearing trousers. “Please help me,” she said to Dr. Harry. “I need to get up.”

  “I don’t want to cause you unnecessary stress,” said Dr. Harry. “But do you suppose this is some spectacular suicide attempt?”

  Catherine was sitting now. Anger and outrage wouldn’t even let her consider the suggestion. “I really doubt it. I’m sure it seemed like a tremendous lark. That is more typical.”

  “That sounds about right,” said Dot.

  It was time Dot knew about Rafe’s fall from grace. “Last night. Dr. Williams gave a sherry party. He went with me. A person has to drink a lot of sherry to get drunk, but he did it. He made a dreadful scene.” She looked at Dr. Harry. “He spent the night in jail. I wonder if that will come out.”

  “Cat, the man’s dangerous. There’s no getting around it. This isn’t Kenya, where there are acres of open space. He could have killed a lot of people,” said Dot.

  “Do you feel you must see him?” asked Dr. Harry.

  Catherine consulted her violently veering emotions. “I think I must. I’m so terribly afraid he might die,” she said. Then as though it explained everything, she said, “I’ve never fainted before.”

  “Can you stand?” Dot asked.

  Catherine gingerly got to her feet. She picked up the string bag containing the journal and handed it to Dot. “You two go on to the pub. I can take a cab to the hospital.”

  “Are you crazy, darling?” asked Dot. “You just fainted. I’m coming with you.”

  “I am, as well,” said Dr. Harry.

  * * *

  St. Thomas’s at Southwark was the largest teaching hospital in London, and Catherine was very glad that was where they had taken Rafe. When she inquired after him, she was told he was still unconscious.

  “He is not able to have visitors in his condition,” said the sister at the reception table.

  “But, I’m his fiancé,” said Catherine, lying without even a twinge of conscience.

  The woman appeared to consider. Finally, she said, “Well, I suppose you might help rather than hinder, in that case. But your friends must stay here.”

  Catherine climbed the wide stairs to Rafe’s ward with trepidation. Was he going to die? She asked herself for the umpteenth time.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The ward extended over the entire floor. There were perhaps twenty beds. Most of them were full.

  Her first glimpse of Rafe’s unconscious face rent her heart. He had a white bandage on his forehead and both his eyes had reddish bruises. His arm was in a complete cast from the shoulder to the hand.

  She sat in the chair next to his bed, taking his good hand.

  “Rafe, you foolish boy. Why would you do such a crazy thing?”

  A nursing sister overheard her remark as she passed by. She said with some asperity, “He’s not a boy. He’s a man. And it is my understanding that he could have killed many people if he had hit one of the bridges. It was indeed a foolish, drunken stunt.”

  Catherine quailed at her words. “How do you know he was drunk?” she asked.

  “He reeked of it. His blood-alcohol level was astronomical.”

  The sister’s words smote Catherine’s heart. Drunk. Again. She let go of Rafe’s hand.

  “Is he going to regain consciousness, do you think?” she asked.

  “I would say so.”

  At that moment, Rafe blinked his eyes. Spotting Catherine, he smiled. “I knew you didn’t mean it. I knew I’d get you back.”

  She took in his words, but it was a moment before she understood. Anger soared through her body. “You did this because of me?” Catherine got to her feet. She spoke with barely controlled ire. It was an effort to keep from yelling. “Are you insane? You could have killed dozens of people. You were stinking drunk. You will never grow up. I don’t think I will ever forgive you, and I can only thank God that I never, ever married you.”

  She k
new she had to sever herself from him completely and for good. Standing, she walked off the ward, anxious to find her friends.

  * * *

  “How’s Rafe?” asked Dot.

  “Conscious. I found out he was drunk.”

  “Of course he was, darling,” said Dot.

  “I am absolutely finished with him. I hope he gets arrested and put in jail.”

  “That didn’t do the trick last night,” said Dr. Harry.

  “Let’s go somewhere and transcribe that journal. I don’t want to give him one more second of my concern.”

  Exiting the hospital, they took the Underground to Piccadilly and went into Lyon’s Corner House. There Catherine ordered Shepherd’s Pie and ate heartily. Her attempt to forge ahead with her life was folly, however, as she was forced to race to the WC, where she lost everything in the toilet. It wasn’t going to be easy to put Rafe behind her, but she was going to go on trying.

  The others ate, unaware of her distress, and when they were finished, Dot had a go at the journal. From her briefcase, she extracted a tablet and began transcribing.

  To begin with, Chenowith gave an account of her decision to separate from Waddell because of his association with the noxious Aryan Brotherhood which was spelled out in shorthand. Dr. Harry had been correct.

  Chenowith especially abhorred his association with “B,” who seemed to be a don at another Oxford College. Abhorring their secret meetings at anonymously rented digs in Woodstock, Chenowith went on to decry their blatant anti-Semitism, justified by the myths of Aryan strength and superiority.

  Later in the journal, she recorded that to her great shock, she had discovered the affiliation of “SD” with the group. Up until that point, she had been gathering evidence with intent to expose the group, but now she never could because of the connection with “S.”

  “Oh, Crikey,” said Dot. “What do you suppose “S” means?”

  Catherine’s thoughts flew back to what Miss Siddons had said. “Probably Somerville. Her friend said she was concerned about something at Somerville.”

  “And SD?” asked Dot.

  “SD,” repeated Catherine. Then everything became clear. Her encounters with Dean Andrews. “SD.” Somerville Dean. “Of course. The Dean.” And with that discovery, her brain switched almost fully from her preoccupation with private matters to the task at hand.

  “We can never prove it, though,” said Dot. “Not with just this journal.”

  “She was at Dr. Williams’s soiree last night,” said Dr. Harry.

  At this point, they decided to take a break and adjourn to Catherine’s flat for coffee. They settled their bill and took a cab. Cherry greeted them with the news that Lady Margery had rung again, as had the Oxford Detective Chief Inspector Marsh.

  The policeman had left a number, and Catherine put a trunk call through to him.

  “Miss Tregowyn, do you have any reason to suspect Dean Andrews of poisoning Dr. Williams?”

  Catherine bit her lip. Crikey, as Dot would say.

  “Uh, he was poisoned?”

  “We found arsenic in his tea. Dr. Williams has regained consciousness and he claims his latest batch of tea was a gift from Dean Andrews. He can trace the beginning of his stomach ailments to the new batch of tea. Those ailments culminated in his terrible illness last night.”

  “Is that typical of arsenic poisoning?” she asked. “That it builds like that?”

  “Yes. It can.”

  “Well, I do believe Dr. Andrews is guilty of something. You see, Jennie, my scout at Somerville, brought me Dr. Chenowith’s journal. It’s in shorthand. We are just trying to transcribe it. There is a reference to a person at Somerville she was protecting, and we think that person was Dean Andrews. But there’s no proof or anything. She just says ‘SD.’”

  “What was she protecting her from?”

  “The reason Chenowith separated from her husband was because of his involvement in that Nazi group Dr. Bascombe told you about. SD was another person involved. She was distressed because that SD was from S, which we took to mean Somerville. I have had some unfortunate encounters with the dean, ending in her banning me from the campus because I wouldn’t give up my investigations.”

  “But that doesn’t explain why she would poison Dr. Williams, even if what you surmise is true.”

  “I know. I don’t know what she was up to.”

  “I think it sounds as though you had better bring that journal up to Oxford and turn it over to us. I read shorthand. It was part of my training when I was a sergeant.”

  Catherine sighed. She had been afraid of that. “We will bring it up to you tomorrow.”

  “How is Mr. St. John doing today?” he asked, obviously trying to sound casual.

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  She said, “It will be on the BBC tonight, I’m certain. He crashed his plane into the Thames.”

  “Crikey. Drunk again?” the policeman asked.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  After a renewal of her promise to turn over the journal, she rang off.

  “Well, people, we must make hay while the sun shines. He wants the journal tomorrow morning.”

  “What was that about the dean?” queried Dot.

  “It appears she gave Dr. Williams the tea laced with arsenic. That’s what caused his collapse last night. He’s conscious now, and he told the police about the tea.”

  “That’s truly weird,” said Dr. Harry. “I wonder if it has anything to do with this Nazi business?”

  “You ponder that. I must quickly ring Marge. This is the second time she’s rung.”

  Catherine put through another trunk call, this one to Somerset.

  “Darling!” Margery greeted her. “Rafe is all over the news!”

  “Don’t remind me,” she said. “I’m trying to put him behind me. Is that why you rang?”

  “No, as a matter of fact. I wanted to tell you that Herbert finally told me what he’s been holding back.”

  “Did he? It’s good news, I imagine.”

  “The best, although it didn’t immediately seem that way. You see, Chenowith had been blackmailing him. Apparently, they had an affair once upon a time, and she was threatening to show me his letters. The silly man didn’t want me to be hurt by them, even though it was eons before we were married.”

  “Men are so silly sometimes,” said Catherine.

  “The night she was murdered, Dr. C. wanted Herbert to meet her at the chapel with the latest payment. He thought she was being coy and wanted to renew their relations. He wanted to put an end to all her manipulations. But when he got there, she wasn’t anywhere about.”

  Catherine thought of the corpse of ‘Dr. C.’ hidden under the bench. “I can understand why he didn’t want to open up about that. The body was concealed. She was probably dead by then. Did he see anyone?”

  “He saw the figure of a man, but he was hatted and coated and far away. He couldn’t identify him.”

  “He might not be the murderer anyway,” she said. “But I’m so glad that things are in the open between you. And thanks for telling me about it. I can cross him off the list.”

  “Yes, thank heavens. And thank you for listening. If you want to talk about Rafe again, I’m happy to listen.”

  “I’m determined to get over him for good this time but thank you anyway.”

  When she had rung off, she informed her colleagues about Sir Herbert’s confession to his wife. “So, if he can be believed, the only person remaining on our official list is Dr. Waddell. Let’s see if there’s anything else interesting before we have to turn this journal over to the Detective Chief Inspector.”

  There followed in the journal accounts of various individuals identified only by initials who were affiliated with the Aryan Brotherhood. They hadn’t the
least hope of identifying them. However, it emerged that “B” was their leader. And finally, Dr. Chenowith revealed that she was convinced that “B” was employed by the Germans as a spy. She stated her intention of confronting him with her knowledge. It wasn’t hard to see that she intended another spot of blackmail.

  “Chicken Little, I may be,” said Dr. Harry. “I am going to push for Marsh to turn this over to the SIS.”

  “That’s where it belongs,” said Catherine.

  Dot seconded her.

  They were finished with the journal. Cherry had long ago retired, so Catherine made coffee. Dr. Harry said that he would stay at the Christ Church Alumni Club, but Dot declared her intention of staying with Catherine, for which she was grateful.

  She said goodnight to Dr. Harry with a surprising amount of regret. He promised to take the journal to the police in the morning.

  Catherine kissed the tips of her fingers and placed them under his blackened eye. “Thank you for listening today,” she said.

  “Any time,” he promised. Kissing his fingers, he placed them on the bruise on her chin.

  * * *

  Dot prescribed a long hot bath for her friend. “You’ve had a terrible day, darling. Go wash it down the drain.”

  “I scarcely know where I am,” Catherine said. “Between Rafe and Chenowith.”

  “Not to mention dear Dr. Harry.”

  “Oh, please, Dot. Don’t start with that. I’m far too drained.”

  During a long soak in her tub, she was no closer to understanding the mystery surrounding the two murders, Dean Andrews’ actions, or the train wreck of her love life. She should have skipped the coffee. Her brain was on some kind of super drive.

  Afterward, Dot administered her patented foot rub, and they had a little ceremony where they burned Rafe’s photograph in one of her ashtrays. It was a sad business.

  “I think in these last years, since Rafe first went away to Oxford, my connection to him has been rather a connection to the person I made up. He was my ideal, and I was regularly heartbroken when I was face to face with the real man. I loved a figment of my imagination. It’s really not his fault that he didn’t live up to it,” Catherine said.