by J. D. Oswald
‘I’ve made some progress.’
‘A suspect?’
Creswell nodded. ‘One of the College Dons.’
‘Which one?’ Sim asked.
‘I…a new man. He claims to have an alibi for the likely time of death.’
‘Any corroboration?’
‘I’ve not yet spoken to the…er…other party.’
Sim suppressed a smirk. ‘A woman no doubt.’
‘Yes,’ Creswell murmured. He had to admit that his visit to Sim came with an ulterior motive: a reason to put off the time when he would have to speak to Teresa Urchfont.
‘Married?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well I’ll save her blushes for now and not ask for her name. But remember Creswell, I’ve known many a lovesick maid who’d say anything to save her man,’ Sim sounded like a gruff madrigal singer, ‘my advice is to take whatever she has to say with a big pinch of salt. Tell me, what gave the culprit away?’
‘The suspect,’ Creswell corrected him. ‘A letter was found in Mundy’s possession, signed with an initial. I discovered that the initial corresponded to the suspect’s nick-name. Then all it took was a bit of local knowledge to deduce the identity of his correspondent.’
‘So Grace Mundy was blackmailing him?’
‘Yes, he’s admitted that.’
‘Good work Canon. Now the name please.’
‘The name?’
‘Of the “suspect”.’
‘I don’t think…I’m not yet certain.’
‘Come now, this is no time for secrets. And,’ Sim coughed, ‘there are procedures.’
‘Very well. The suspect’s name is Alexander Tokarev.’
‘Ah, a foreigner.’
‘The Russian don.’
‘Russian don,’ Sim repeated slowly, his pen scratching the words. ‘Send me a note when you’ve spoken to the woman. I don’t like being kept in the dark.’
I should have stayed in barracks. I have to use a white stick like a blind man. People skirt around me when they see me coming, children run away. In my leather mask, I must resemble a ghastly medieval executioner. Someone pressed a couple of shillings into my palm the other day when I was catching my breath on a street corner. I should smarten myself up a bit, buy a new suit, give myself a proper wash. Some shite at the surgery the other day told me I smelt like a meat counter. There’s a new nurse there now, a shapely thing from what I can tell, a bit stuck-up though. Reminds me of her, although she would never have said boo to a goose, not like this one. There was a time when such girls would have been falling over themselves…Maybe they still will, those who are suckers for hard-luck cases like me, or have deviant inclinations! I can still hope for a few moments of amusement yet.
14
Friday 28th November
At ten minutes to twelve, Creswell passed beneath the statue of a swan with wings outstretched and entered the small dark sitting room that had been reserved for him at the rear of the Black Swan Hotel. Ham sandwiches and two glasses of light beer were waiting on the sideboard. The beer was for his benefit – Dutch courage for the conversation that lay ahead. If it went ahead: he had received no reply to his message requesting a meeting at midday. It had amused him when writing the letter to follow in the footsteps of Sherlock Holmes – now it just seemed rather childish.
Mrs Teresa Urchfont was not a woman to be told what to do, he knew that. He had failed on more than one occasion to prevent the beating of a junior Collegeman who had displeased her – no lady should keep a birch in her handbag in his opinion. She seemed to regard herself as her husband’s second-in-command in all matters relating to the porters and domestic staff, docking their wages for any job that was not done to her precise satisfaction. When the head porter complained to Creswell, he had spoken to the Bursar who had merely shrugged and remarked that his wife had high standards and he had no objection if she wished to uphold them.
He began to pace the room, thought better of it and sat down in a chair by the fireplace. He picked up the Hampshire Chronicle, read an article by his friend Harry Pipe - the crime correspondent - on a series of suspicious shop fires, and then threw the paper aside. He had brought his file on the Mundy case with him; he skimmed through Philippa’s notes of the interview with Tokarev again. It was an impressive transcript, even including observations on Tokarev’s changing demeanour. He moved onto the autopsy report and found that he could not remember what “ecchymosis” meant.
Half an hour passed. He stretched over to the sideboard for a beer, took a swig and was raising a sandwich to his lips when the door opened and Teresa Urchfont entered. She was sleek in a dove-grey coat and matching gloves. She glanced disdainfully around the room, her eyes settling on the sandwich in Creswell’s hand.
‘Starting without me I see, Canon,’ she murmured.
Creswell scrambled to his feet and returned the sandwich to the platter. ‘Please take a seat Mrs Urchfont.’ As usual, he felt flustered in the presence of her polished beauty. He gulped down the rest of his beer. ‘Would you care for a drink?’
‘Thank you, no.’
‘Sandwich?’
Mrs Urchfont shook her head, her hair stroking her slim neck. ‘I have a lunch engagement in ten minutes. I take it this won’t take long.’
‘This is rather delicate.’
‘Why else would you have invited me here?’ She wrinkled her nose.
‘It would be better if you sat down.’
She brushed invisible crumbs from the chair closest to her, lowered herself into it and crossed her ankles in front of her. She began to pluck at the tips of her gloved fingers. ‘Please proceed.’
‘I have to ask you about the murder of Grace Mundy.’
‘Mundy?’ Mrs Urchfont gazed at the ceiling. ‘Oh, you mean the secretary? What about it?’
‘She was blackmailing him.’
Mrs Urchfont’s eyebrows raised a fraction. ‘Who? You’re talking in riddles.’
‘Alexander Tokarev. You’re a friend of his I understand.’
She inclined her head like a bright lapdog. ‘I know him yes.’ Her stare challenged him to go further; he had to.
‘A little more than that according to him.’
‘Canon Strange,’ her voice was brittle, ‘I thought better of you than to listen to common gossip.’
‘Mr Tokarev claims that you were with him on the 10th of this month. In the evening.’ He coughed. ‘All night in fact. And that you were the author of a postcard found in the victim’s possession, and the recipient of another: postcards that were used to arrange your assignations.’
Mrs Urchfont rose gracefully to her feet, positioning her handbag in the crook of her arm. ‘I will not dignify that with an answer.’
Creswell stood up too. ‘Then you deny that you were with him?’
‘Of course I…of course.’ Her green eyes glared at him. ‘If you would excuse me.’ She turned the door handle with her fingertips and left the door open behind her.
Creswell slumped into her abandoned chair and contemplated his empty beer glass. Many might say that the investigation was over: an abrasive Russian aristocrat blackmailed by the victim, a vicious knife in his possession, lodgings a stone’s throw from where the body was found. No alibi. What jury wouldn’t convict? And yet. He knew that Teresa Urchfont was lying. He took out his notebook and scribbled a line to Sim: Woman refuses to give AT alibi. CS. No, he could not leave it at that. He wrote out a second note. He could at least try to find out where the Bursar was that night. If he had been in Winchester, it was unlikely that his wife could have been elsewhere. The porters would know and who better to quiz them than the innocent-faced Philippa.
A couple of shillings at the hotel reception desk sent a boy scuttling down the hill, a note in each pocket. Creswell headed home.
***
Wrapped up against the freezing drizzle, and protected by Frank’s spare umbrella, Philippa took herself off to the junction of High Street and Jewry Street and then
turned back to face downhill, determined to look in the window of every haberdasher, milliner, draper and shoe warehouse, and maybe go inside one or two of them. Her plan was resolutely to ignore any shop associated with the mundane, with one exception. Her handbag contained a list, compiled by Christopher in his best handwriting, of the confectionary requirements of every boy in Sick Room:
Prentis - Ginger squares and cream caramels (2oz of each)
Musprat – Humbugs (4oz)
Nicholson - Aniseed balls and peace babies (2oz of each)
Steele - Liquorice sticks (as many as you can get for 1d) and pear drops (2oz)
She had been instructed to go to Batchelor’s. No other confectioner would do. They were generous in their portions, all the boys said. Her handbag also contained a note from Canon Strange written in almost illegible scrawl. On her way out, she had happened to check her pigeon-hole, finding the note on top of the afternoon’s post, the paper crumpled and smudged as if it had been screwed up inside a pocket.
I don’t believe her Philippa. I think she was with T that night but there’s no proof. Can you find out where her husband was? Frank is sure to know.
She felt rather resentful of having tasks so casually assigned to her. She would do it none-the-less. As it was, Frank may well be expecting the question. The porters would no doubt have read the message before placing it in her pigeon-hole; anything unsealed was fair game. They were unlikely to be fooled by the Canon’s half-hearted attempt at discretion.
She collected the sweets, and then with the crisp paper packages rustling pleasingly inside her bag, she veered off the High Street onto Parchment Street, pausing by the rain streaked window of Sharpes the jeweller. As she bent down to take a closer look at a delicate string of freshwater pearls, she felt a hand gently touch her forearm.
‘Beautiful aren’t they,’ Teresa Urchfont’s voice said, ‘although are they quite right for you? I’d suggest Arden’s fancy repository instead, or the Arcadia Bazaar. I’m sure you’d find something to suit you in those establishments.’
Beneath her cream frilled umbrella, Teresa was smiling the smile of an Egyptian god, cunning, self-satisfied, suspicious. ‘Walk with me back to the High Street would you?’
Philippa found her arm suddenly linked with Teresa’s and her body conveyed briskly back the way she had just come. Water splashed at her ankles. Their umbrellas jostled above their heads.
‘I am surprised to see you out of College,’ Teresa remarked. ‘Is it your day off?’
‘I had a few hours to spare.’
‘Do you have permission?’
‘I don’t need “permission”!’
‘Is that so,’ Teresa said. A few steps later she continued, ‘I trust you’ll be helping with the arrangements for Illumina?’
‘Yes, I …’
‘It’s all hands on deck you know. No-one likes the job of clearing out last year’s candles from the holes in the walls. As the relatively new girl, perhaps you’d be so good as to volunteer.’
‘Of course.’ It was evident to Philippa that she had no choice in the matter.
‘And if I could, a word of advice.’ Teresa lowered her voice as they turned onto the High Street. ‘There has been talk, I’m sorry to say, about Canon Strange and you. Rather impertinent suggestions I’m afraid. I said I was sure there was nothing in it but that I’d have a quiet word.’
Philippa clutched her handbag to her side, guiltily conscious of Strange’s letter inside. ‘That’s just silly gossip. Who’s been saying these things?’
‘I couldn’t possibly tell you,’ Teresa said blithely. ‘Whatever the truth of it, my husband wouldn’t react well if any of it reached his ears. He can’t abide scandal. Considering what he already knows about you, you’d do well to take care.’
‘There is no scandal,’ Philippa made herself say.
‘I know that my dear but people will talk. It would be so much better if they kept their mouths shut. People should keep out of things that don’t concern them. If they don’t, then they may find that they receive a taste of their own medicine.’ Teresa left the phrase hanging in the air.
Philippa understood her clearly. She wrenched her arm free. ‘I’m not going this way.’
‘Oh I’m terribly sorry my dear. I thought you were heading for the Bazaar. I must let you get on.’ Teresa swayed away down the High Street, head and shoulders veiled behind the fluttering umbrella.
15
Saturday 29th November
‘Miss, miss!’ Three scholars burst into the ward, gowns tumbling from their shoulders and trailing onto the freshly swept floor. They began to hop excitedly around Philippa.
‘Ssh, quiet!’ she hissed.
‘But, but…’
She ushered the boys into the corridor. ‘Well, what is it?’
‘The police are here.’
‘Five of them.’
‘Ten at least.’
‘And the Head Constable.’
‘What do they want?’ she managed to interrupt.
‘They’ve come to arrest Sasha.’
‘Mr Tokarev?’
‘Dragged him out of our class.’
‘I’m sure they didn’t “drag” him….’
‘They did Miss. Sacha…’
‘Mr Tokarev,’ Philippa reminded them sternly.
‘Mr Tokarev. He didn’t want to go. He kept shouting something in Russian. I couldn’t understand it but you did, didn’t you Digby?’
‘Yes, he was a bit rude,’ Digby sniggered. ‘Called them peasants and other things, I won’t say what. Then he started shouting, “I didn’t do it. You know that. Tell them.” But there was no one else there, just the police and us. Crazy.’ Digby circled an index finger around his head.
‘Are the police still here?’ Philippa asked, remembering too late that she should have admonished the boy for insulting the Don.
Digby nodded.
'Show me,' she said.
The boys set off at a run. Philippa hitched up her skirt and followed them as fast as she could. The policemen had made it to main gate, forming a circle around their reluctant prisoner. Tokarev was no longer shouting. His shoulders slumped, he allowed himself to be propelled forwards by a constable's hand on each arm. The porters stood in a line outside the lodge, arms folded, surveying proceedings impassively. Head Constable Sim stood a little further back and she noticed that Canon Strange was blocking his path and gesticulating at him. Sim manoeuvred around the Canon with a dismissive wave of his hand and he and his men disappeared onto the street.
She told the boys to return to Chamber. They meandered away but she knew they would stay watching from a distance. With their spectacle gone, the porters had already returned to their fire. She went to stand by Strange. He seemed not to notice her and continued to stare through the gate with his hands balled into fists. After a minute or so, she risked disturbing him. 'Did you know that Tokarev was going to be arrested?'
Strange shook his head. 'I didn't think Sim would go that far. There was no need for all this drama. They'll have to release him after a day or so, but by then the damage will have been done. No smoke without fire, everyone will say.'
'The boys said he was calling out to someone, in Russian.'
'Ah, we know who that was of course. He was too much of a gentleman to say her name. And she's too much of a lady to defend him.'
'She caught up with me earlier.'
'Oh yes, what did she want?'
'She made it very clear that she knew that I knew. And she implied that my days here might be numbered if I said anything.'
'I'm sorry to hear that.' Strange sounded unconcerned. 'Well, it's in the hands of the police now,' he continued. 'She can hardly blame you for that.'
Philippa was not so sure.
16
Sunday 30th November
Creswell hesitated outside the dining room door, listening to the muted voices inside. He smelt wax polish and wood smoke and freshly opened wine. The Dean’s Adv
ent lunch was a tradition that could not be avoided, but this was the first year without Mamie and he felt as awkward about entering the room alone as he had done before his first mess dinner. He had never spent much time with Mamie at these events, but he realised now that he had always been aware of where she was in the room, whether she was laughing or serious, talking or listening. He took a deep breath and entered.
The Deanery’s ancient oak table was set for the meal, cutlery and crystal glinting, starched napkins folded into fans on the side plates. A bulbous arrangement of dried flowers dominated the centre of the table. Legend had it that the table dated back to William of Wykeham’s time; the planks that formed the table-top were certainly sufficiently wormy and warped, forming an undulating surface like a gentle sea swell. Most of the other guests were already seated. Creswell was one of only two unaccompanied men – the other was a retired Canon, wispy haired, almost deaf, his spectacles bottle-glass thick, patronised by everyone. Creswell hoped that he could avoid such a fate.
The Dean, the Very Reverend Leslie Brownrigg, and his wife Joan sat at either end of the table in a pastiche of a medieval banquet, the guests elbow-to-elbow along the sides. Joan Brownrigg rose and ushered Creswell to his seat.
‘I’ve put you between Doctor and Mrs Chaloner. Do I need to make the introductions? Ah, you know each other. Excellent.’ She bustled back to the head of the table.
