It was mid-afternoon before the wine and cake had been consumed, and the company had dispersed, the phalanx of carriages rolling away down the long drive of Hazelmere Castle. Among family and servants there was a feeling of relief that things could now return to something approaching normality. Jeremy Oakshott went to visit his aunt in her suite of rooms on the first floor. She had retained her mourning dress, but had removed the long crepe veils. Her hair was being tidied by her French maid, Adèle, who curtsied and left the room as he entered.
‘Adèle is a good girl,’ said Aunt Arabella. ‘She came from a London agency, and I have had her for a month now. She’s delighted that I speak to her in French.’
‘Aunt,’ said Oakshott, ‘you’ve weathered the storm very well, and I hope that you will not be subject to further shocks. The reading of Uncle’s Will takes place in Oxford on Friday. What do you intend to do after that? Do you want to remain here? Or will you look for another house somewhere in the county?’
‘I have no particular attachment to Hazelmere Castle, Jeremy: it’s not as though I grew up here, or indeed lived here for any length of time. But I should like to stay here for a few months, and then perhaps venture abroad for a while. I have been re-establishing contacts with some friends I made at finishing-school in Switzerland, and one of them has suggested that I stay with her at Nice during the winter. After that, perhaps I’ll look for a small house.’
Oakshott watched her as she crossed to her dressing table and took up the bottle of dark blue glass which contained her cologne. She poured a few drops on to a handkerchief, and applied it to her temples.
‘Jeremy,’ she said, ‘would you please do me a great favour? As your uncle’s death was unnatural, the police may wish to sift through his papers. I want you to look through them, and remove anything that you feel should be seen by the family only. I believe there is a factor here who has charge of all Ambrose’s business correspondence.’
‘Yes, Mr Sturgeon runs Uncle’s business office, and he’s already been in touch with Merryweather and Partners, Uncle’s solicitors. We shall both meet them on Friday, when the Will is read.’
‘I know nothing of Ambrose’s private affairs,’ Aunt Arabella continued. ‘After all, I have spent the last fifteen years in an asylum. Go through his desk, Jeremy, and secure anything that you think should be kept from prying eyes. Here are his keys. I think I shall lie down now, until dinner time. Send Adèle to me as you go out.’
Tomorrow, if all went well, he would be back in Oxford, back at Jerusalem Hall, where he could immerse himself in things academic, and – yes, contemplate the enrichment of his rather drab life by drawing closer to Celia Lestrange! In the autumn of ’95, if rumour was to be believed, a vacancy would occur at All Souls. If he returned in triumph from the mooted expedition to Syria, that Fellowship could be his.
He had constantly underestimated his own position in academia. He already had a European reputation as an expert on the Crusades. How that reputation would be enhanced when he had interpreted the historical significance of those ancient fragments that Celia was holding secretly for him to read!
Yesterday, a genial little man called Todd, partner in a building concern in Birmingham, had come to see him by appointment. He had walked all around the great house in the morning mist, his legs thrust into Wellington boots, his head covered by a tweed cap. He had puffed away at a clay pipe, and had said nothing until his inspection was complete. Then he had stood in the pasture, looking back at the towering pile of Hazelmere Castle.
‘What needs to be done here, Guvnor,’ said Mr Todd, removing his clay pipe from his mouth, ‘is for you to hold a grand sale. What you don’t want to take with you, let a whole crowd of folk buy from you at giveaway prices. You could have a big marquee on the pasture. Then dynamite the whole place. We can do that for you. It’s better and cheaper than demolition brick by brick.’
‘And what would that cost, Mr Todd?’
‘I can’t give you an exact figure, yet, Guvnor, but it would be in the region of £300. If you wanted us to take it all away, and leave the site pristine, as we say, then it will cost you £500.’
‘I’ll leave the matter alone for a while, Mr Todd,’ said Oakshott. ‘I’ll let you know one way or the other in a few weeks’ time.’
His uncle been fond of reminding him that one day the place would be his. Well, by the look of things, it was going to cost him £500 simply to raze the monstrous edifice to the ground!
It was quiet in Uncle Ambrose’s great gothic bedchamber. The bedding had been removed from the four-poster, and its feathered plumes seemed to have drooped in mourning for its late occupier. Jeremy stood for a moment, looking at the hideous paintings and the writhing sculptures around the empty fireplace. He could feel no lingering presence of his uncle in the room. Ambrose Littlemore had left Hazelmere for good.
Jeremy used the keys to open the top drawer of the Indian cabinet standing in the dressing room. There, in its shagreen case secured with golden clasps, he found the jewelled dagger that had belonged to an Indian potentate. The second drawer down contained bundles of correspondence, much of it yellowed with age. There were letters from long-dead relatives, with stories of marriages, births and deaths. There were receipts for membership of one or two London clubs – had Uncle ever frequented those places? Nearly an hour passed, and Jeremy had not found anything worth keeping from prying eyes. He and Aunt Arabella were Uncle’s only kin. Most of these old letters were of interest to neither of them, and, when the time came, they could be consigned to the flames.
But what was this? A letter, still in its opened envelope, from Alfred, Lord Tennyson! What possible connection could a reclusive retired businessman have with Britain’s Poet Laureate? It was only two years since Tennyson had died. This letter was dated 7 October 1890, and was written on House of Lords notepaper.
My dear Littlemore,
There was nothing at all presumptuous about your writing to me. I remember you well. We met at Wordsworth’s funeral in ’50, and I was impressed by your refreshing, if unorthodox, views on his poetic output, particularly the offerings of his later years. We met again at that dinner given by Disraeli at the Athenaeum in ’68. I forget who it was for. Some luminary of the moment, I suppose.
Let me answer your question. Yes, I composed those lines at the suggestion of a friend who had known the family of the dead girl, and who had told me her tragic story. This friend came to see me in the Isle of Wight. It was an amusing challenge to put the poor girl into a sonnet, with hidden meanings, and so forth. Only those who knew her will recognize her in my lines!
Are you a hunting man? If so, you’ll see at once that I have described a ‘rough shoot’, where one takes pot shots at anything that moves once the dogs have ‘walked it out’, as the saying goes. Anything that falls out of the sky or runs from cover. It’s not like a specific shoot, for grouse, or deer – or boar, when you can find it. Rough shoots are usually for men only, but as you can see here, it’s THE GIRL who’s at the shoot. You will appreciate that she, like the partridge, is also ‘fleckt with blood’, and that her ‘Immortality’ (vide the last line) is that of death. It’s not an orthodox Christian thought, but then, I have never been orthodox in anything. I suppose I’m a pantheist of a sort. I called the poem ‘The Dappled Partridge’, but I don’t think it appears under that name in the various anthologies.
Oh, why make a mystery of it? I’ll tell you my friend’s name. It was Michael Sanders, a young fellow of great promise who, I believe, fell on evil times in later life. He had been a friend of the Eltons, from whom he had heard of Hallam’s death at Vienna.
Please don’t noise this letter abroad. It’s private to you.
Ever yours sincerely,
Alfred Tennyson
Jeremy Oakshott put the letter down, and entered the world of his past. He saw Vivien West, delicate, ethereal, preparing for the actual rough shoot that Tennyson had described in his sonnet. It had always seemed a paradox t
o him that so gentle a creature should have loved the hunt, and that on more than one occasion she had ventured out alone, accompanied only by the dogs and the beaters.
Michael Sanders had known Tennyson! Who could have imagined such a thing? And he had prevailed upon England’s greatest poet to enshrine Vivien’s story in verse. Oakshott suddenly felt sick, and the air in the quiet dressing room seemed to choke him. It was as though an invisible hand were clutching at his throat.
He made his way to the library where, among the yards of books bought to fill the shelves, he found an edition of Tennyson’s poems. The poem about Vivien was called simply Sonnet.
She took the dappled partridge fleckt with blood,
And in her hand the drooping pheasant bare,
And by his feet she held the woolly hare,
And like a master-painting where she stood,
Lookt some new goddess of an English wood.
Nor could I find an imperfection there,
Nor blame the wanton act that showed so fair—
To me whatever freak she plays was good.
Hers is the fairest life that breathes with breath,
And their still plumes and azure eyelids closed
Made quiet Death so beautiful to see
That Death lent Grace to Life and Life to Death
And in one image Life and Death reposed,
To make my love an Immortality.
So Sanders had known all along. Tennyson’s poem was filled with Michael Sanders’s love and grief, rendered immortal by the superb poetic artistry of the Laureate. Yes, Sanders had known, and so, of course, had Uncle, to whom the letter had been addressed. This letter must not be seen by Antrobus. He would carry it off, and hide it among Aunt Arabella’s correspondence. It would be too dangerous to take it back with him to Jerusalem Hall.
Oh, Vivien! Vivien!
Alone in the great library, no one heard his convulsive sobs.
Back in Oxford the next morning, Jeremy Oakshott decided to call at Blackwell’s bookshop in Broad Street, to see whether a consignment of books that he had ordered had arrived. He skirted the Radcliffe Camera and took a short cut through the buildings of the Bodleian Library. As he crossed the central courtyard, he saw the Honourable Mrs Lestrange in conversation with a seriously crippled man, leaning heavily on a stick. He was well dressed, but there was something not quite English about his appearance. He was accompanied by a youth, who seemed to be a servant of some kind.
Oakshott watched them, unobserved, as they spoke earnestly to each other. Mrs Lestrange was carrying a heavy leather valise. The crippled man pointed to the youth, and she handed the valise to him. With some difficulty he extracted a wallet from an inside pocket, and took from it an envelope, which he handed to Mrs Lestrange. Then he limped away, supported by his young servant. What a mysterious woman she was! Oakshott waited until she had gone through the gate opposite the Indian Institute, and then continued on his way down the steep steps into Broad Street, and Blackwell’s bookshop.
Mr Marcus Merryweather looked doubtfully at his visitor. It was all very well assisting the police with their enquiries, but one’s clients’ interests were paramount. Mr Merryweather’s offices were above a high class grocer’s establishment in Cornmarket. They had been there for over fifty years, and so had Mr Merryweather. At one time lithe and dark-haired, he was now stout and bald.
‘You see, Inspector Antrobus,’ he said, ‘it’s not good form to discuss a client’s affairs without his knowledge and consent. I have already secured both Miss Cathcart and Dr Oakshott as my clients, following the sad demise of Mr Ambrose Littlemore.’
Really, Inspector Antrobus was looking very poorly. His close black beard only served to emphasize the extreme pallor of his face. His cheeks were showing the hectic spots on the cheekbones that betokened advance consumption.
‘What exactly was it that you wanted to know, Inspector? I can reveal nothing about Mr Littlemore’s Will until tomorrow. The legatees must be the first to be informed of its terms.’
‘I should like to be present at the reading of the Will, Mr Merryweather. I have sound reasons for making that request. I promise you that I will say nothing, or interfere in any way with your own proceedings. As I am currently investigating the murder of Mr Ambrose Littlemore, I think I am entitled to hear the provisions of his Will.’
‘Well, although it’s somewhat irregular, I’ll allow you to be present. After all, I know you to be an officer of the highest repute. You will not question the legatees?’
‘Certainly not. In fact – I see you have another room leading off this one. Perhaps I could sit in there, with the door partly open?’
‘Ah! I see what you’re up to! You want to catch the look on people’s faces when I read the terms of the Will. I must confess, Inspector, that it’s something that I like to watch myself. Yes, by all means sit in the back office. Anything else? I have a client calling at eleven.’
‘Can you give me some details about the Hazelmere Castle estate? Is it a valuable property? There is no need for you to be specific.’
‘It’s not really an estate at all in the legal sense, Mr Antrobus. The castle stands in 150 acres of forest land, but they are on a 150 years’ lease from the De Boulter family. The so-called castle, you know, is practically worthless – poorly built for show in the wake of the Railway Mania, for a man who had more money than sense. No, what matters to the principal legatee is the vast fortune left by Mr Littlemore. It is, in fact, far more than the family probably realize. But then, you’ll hear all that on Friday.’
‘The principal legatee being Mr Jeremy Oakshott?’
Mr Merryweather shook his head good-humouredly.
‘You’ll hear all about it on Friday, Mr Antrobus. Until then, my lips are sealed!’
Friday 28 September was a day that James Antrobus would never forget. He had presented himself at Mr Merryweather’s office just before ten, when a morning mist was beginning to rise, leaving the Cornmarket bathed in a weak but welcoming sunlight. He settled himself in the back office, with the door partly ajar, and awaited the arrival of the legatees.
The clock at Carfax had just finished its elaborate chiming of the hour when footsteps on the stair heralded the arrival of Jeremy Oakshott, accompanied by his aunt, Miss Arabella Cathcart. Both were clad in full mourning. Oakshott carried his silk hat in his left hand. Dressed in this necessarily formal habit, he looked more impressive than usual. His face betrayed nothing of what must surely have been an inner excitement. Miss Cathcart murmured a greeting, and accepted the chair that Merryweather drew out for her at the polished table. Oakshott sat down opposite her, and Antrobus watched him as he slowly removed his black gloves, and dropped them into his silk hat.
‘Well, well,’ said Mr Merryweather, rubbing his hands together in what looked like satisfaction, ‘the auspicious day has arrived when you must hear the testamentary dispositions of the late unfortunate Mr Ambrose Littlemore.’
He opened a cardboard folder which his clerk had earlier placed on the table, and pretended to glance over its contents. It was a bit of an anti-climax to have no more than two chief legatees. Lack of numbers somehow lessened the dramatic capabilities of the event. Was Antrobus watching? He could just see him if he squinted a little and peered through the crack in the inner office door. He cleared his throat.
‘Miss Cathcart, Mr Oakshott, I am about to read to you the terms of a new Will executed by the late Ambrose Littlemore, of Hazelmere Castle, in the County of Oxford, Esquire, Gentleman, executed and witnessed on Friday, 14 September, 1894. This supersedes his previous Will, made on 8th December 1893. There are minor bequests to servants, totalling £300. Then follow these two major bequests, as follows. I will read aloud Mr Littlemore’s own words.
‘ “To my nephew, Jeremy Oakshott, of Jerusalem Hall, Oxford, I leave my house entitled Hazelmere Castle, together with its contents, as itemized in the attached Schedule. To my dear kinswoman, Arabella Cathcart, currently residing wi
th me, and formerly of Frampton House, in the County of Oxford, I bequeath the sum entire of my monetary estate, all cash deposits and investment paper of all kinds, for her sole use; and do stipulate that her bequest be administered by a Trust, to be set up by my family’s men of business, Merryweather and Partners, in conjunction with Deloitte and Company, Chartered Accountants, of Basinghall Street, London.” ’
In the back office, Inspector Antrobus listened in disbelief. It was supposedly common knowledge that Jeremy Oakshott was to inherit his uncle’s vast fortune. Now, it transpired, this great deposit of wealth would go to the spinster aunt, the woman who, many years earlier, had murdered a young woman by stabbing her to death with a pair of scissors.
He looked at Jeremy Oakshott, sitting opposite his aunt at the table, and felt the shock of a sudden and terrible uncertainty. Oakshott’s face betrayed nothing but kind and cordial interest. He stretched his arm across the table, and took his aunt’s hand in his.
‘There now, dear Aunt Arabella, you are safe and secure for life. I know that nothing can really atone for your years of suffering, but to be mistress of a vast fortune should go some way to make up for the years that have been lost to you.’
Antrobus felt that the sure foundations of his world had begun to shift. He had been wrong all the time about Oakshott. There was no rancour in the man’s voice, no sign of disappointment or spite. Had he made the renowned scholar a victim of his own irrational obsession? The aunt was saying something.
‘Jeremy, your uncle must have taken leave of his senses! I must insist that you and I share this bequest. I have few needs, and have much to atone for, but you—’
‘No, Aunt Arabella,’ he said, in a kindly but firm tone, ‘the bequest is yours entirely. That’s what Uncle wished. In any case, I have means of my own. Now, you can purchase your own villa at Nice, if you so wish, and establish yourself in French society. A new life, Aunt! You can leave the dark shadows of the past fifteen years behind you.’
An Oxford Anomaly Page 13
