Glass of spring-water in hand, the Warden surveyed his guests. This was the most triumphant moment in his life. The governance of the college, which he had first entered as an undergraduate thirty-two years ago, was now his. No major actions affecting St Michael’s could be taken without his consent.
He was now free to set his sights on the greater prizes, such as that of Vice-Chancellor, an office that would fall vacant within the year. He had mentioned the possibility in early February, at a meeting with the Chief Secretary to the Treasury, who had told him that a knighthood for him had already been considered; if he were to become Vice-Chancellor, then the accolade would most assuredly be his.
What was Steadman doing? There he was, contriving to look happy, and deep in conversation with Stanley Fitzmaurice. Those two had always been friends. It was time to wean Fitzmaurice away from the Bursar: he had other plans for the Senior Tutor.
Poor Steadman belonged to the world of Sir Montague Fowler, now dead and gone, and good riddance! Steadman had flaunted his intimacy with Fowler for years, and his own appointment as Vice-Warden had been obtained only after a very pointed intervention from the college Visitor, the Earl of Caernarvon. But the Wardenship was in the gift of the Crown, and Sir William Vernon Harcourt, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, had made sure that no college skulduggery could prevent his expected promotion.
He would leave Steadman at the Bursary for another year or so, and then replace him. He would have to be content with remaining as Reader in Hebrew and – what was it he called himself? – college plumber. Fitzmaurice would make an admirable replacement.
What should he do about Gerald Templar? He had been one of Fowler’s last appointments, a sop to the science faculty. He did not like the man, and when his fellowship came up for renewal in ’96, he would get rid of him. He was a clever chemist, of that there was no doubt, but he was a misfit, with the appearance of an anarchist and the crude ambitions of the worse type of 22-year-old nouvel-arrivé. He had attached himself to Fitzmaurice; there was another relationship that it would be wise to sever. Well, it was time for him to address his fellows, who tonight were his guests.
‘Gentlemen,’ he began, when the assembly had been called to order, ‘I asked you all here tonight as my guests, to thank you for all your kind remarks on my being appointed Warden of St Michael’s College. We all mourn the loss of my distinguished predecessor, but I think I speak for you all when I say that, as a college, we must turn our eyes firmly to the future. (Hear, hear!)
‘I don’t intend to weary you with a long speech, but I must make public acknowledgement tonight of the great support and friendship that I have received over the years from our Bursar, Dr Joseph Steadman. It was he whom I first informed of my elevation to the Wardenship, and my news was received with what I can only describe as joyful enthusiasm. My thanks to him.’
Everybody clapped, and then the Bursar himself called for silence as he rose to speak.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘the Warden has been very generous in singling me out for praise this evening. But if praise must be bestowed upon anyone, here, it should be upon him. His distinguished career, his notable book, The Boethian Apices, and his devotion to this college over the course of more than thirty years, richly deserved to be crowned with this well-merited appointment as Warden. So let us all spare him further embarrassment, gentlemen, by raising our glasses in a toast. I give you, the Warden.’
‘The Warden!’ they cried, and then turned their attention to the remaining glasses of champagne.
William Podmore threw off his gown, and tossed in on to the settee in his rooms in the first quad. He all but collapsed in his armchair, drunk with praise, and overheated with the triumph of success. They had been splendid, all of them, especially Joe Steadman. Had he really meant all those kind things that he’d said? Well, of course, he had himself praised the Bursar to the skies, so that he was virtually obliged to reply in kind.
Next week, he’d move into the Lodgings. John Fowler would send a pantechnicon to collect his father’s effects, and the old house, built into the fabric of the college, was his. He would follow Fowler’s practice of inviting one or two undergraduates at a time for a glass of sherry or Madeira in the morning, questioning them in such a way as to get to know them better. Fowler had been able to do that: he knew the name and former school of every young man in residence. Well, he would do the same.
Time to retire. He went into his small bedroom, and lit the candles. He removed his watch from the fob of his dress waistcoat, and laid it carefully on the strip of baize designed to receive it. Someone, he noticed, had placed an envelope under one of the glass candlesticks. He tore it open, and removed a single sheet of paper.
The cry that he uttered was the cry of a man who knew that he was suddenly standing on the threshold of utter ruin. He tried to burn the paper in the candle-flame, but singed the fine hairs on his wrist. He groped inside a dim cupboard beside the wash-stand and withdrew a bottle. He ignored the need for a glass, and drank the neat gin in gulps, until he became unconscious, falling across his bed. The bottle fell to the floor, and the candles burnt until they guttered, and went out. He remained in that state of blind despair until the surly scout Haynes found him in the morning, and tidied away the evidence of his Warden’s debauchery. He glanced at the sheet of paper lying beside the candlestick, and slipped it unread into Podmore’s trousers pocket.
Later that day, Haynes found an envelope waiting for him in the porter’s lodge. There was no letter inside. All it contained was five gold sovereigns.
Inspector Antrobus sat in the corner of one of the second-class carriages of the London train, and gave himself up to thought. Opposite him, a young mother with two little boys had got on the train at Reading, and had spent all her time trying to amuse and pacify her mutinous offspring. She had had little success, so the realm of recollection was Antrobus’s only refuge.
The new Warden of St Michael’s College had summoned him to explain himself. Dr Podmore had found the idea of exhumation scarcely credible – those had been his own words. It was not only a disgrace, he had told him, but a calumny. Everybody had loved Sir Montague Fowler. No one at St Michael’s could possibly have done him harm.
And then Podmore had tried to lead him gently away from his precious college and its occupants by a little subtle calumny of his own. If a post-mortem did indeed reveal anything sinister, would he interview Sir Montague’s children? If it was murder, who would gain from the murdered man’s death? The Warden had concluded his remarks with a final attempt to teach the inspector his job. ‘Motive, Inspector,’ he’d said, ‘that’s what you will need to investigate. Sir Montague Fowler left a vast fortune… . But I’ll say no more.’
One of the little boys banged the other’s head against the window, and he began to cry. Mother lost her temper, and began to smack the first little boy’s legs. Antrobus glanced out of the window, and saw that they were passing through the drab purlieus of Paddington. Another few minutes, and he would be rid of the little boys. Their mother would not be so lucky.
Podmore, of course, had been right. It would be imperative to interview Sir Montague Fowler’s children, but he would do that now, before the exhumation took place. He wanted to meet these newly-rich inheritors of their father’s wealth in order to make provisional judgements of his own.
Today, he would visit the elder son. Then, when occasion offered, he’d pay a call on Miss Frances Fowler at her school for girls in Oxford. The clergyman son, the man who had hidden a packet of mercuric chloride in his desk drawer, he would leave to the last. He’d take Sergeant Maxwell with him when he called on the Reverend Timothy, and while he interviewed the brother, Joe Maxwell could have a few words with that man Hammond’s daughter – the lass whose employer dismissed her as ‘the Slow Girl.’ Not so slow, when all was said and done.
Mr John Fowler lived in an opulent town mansion in a secluded square near Clarence Gate. He received Inspector Antrobus in a room that was
part office and part study, where he had been working on a number of account books set out on a great mahogany desk.
‘I felt it was a courtesy, sir,’ said Antrobus, ‘to advise you, as head of the family, that the Home Office has authorized us to conduct an exhumation of the body of your late father, and to perform an autopsy.’
They were simply words, nothing more, but they gave him time to judge the elder son’s reaction to the news. The man had turned deadly pale, and had sat down suddenly at his desk, as though his legs had failed him. Perhaps he had never even considered that his father’s death had been anything other than natural. Or was his pallor the pallor of guilt?
‘I can’t believe it,’ said John Fowler, his voice quavering with shock. ‘Murder? Everyone respected my father. He was universally loved. You will find that Father died of natural causes, Inspector. Nevertheless, do what has to be done, and then leave him to rest in peace.’
Fowler had regained some of his normal colour, but it was clear that he was profoundly shocked. Antrobus had been quietly studying him, and had almost concluded that the man’s demeanour expressed shock and disbelief, but not guilt.
‘Have you – will you visit my brother and sister?’ he asked.
‘I will indeed, sir,’ said Antrobus, ‘though you are quite at liberty to communicate with them independently. Nothing positive can be done until the results of the autopsy are known. I shall visit Miss Frances Fowler after I’ve returned to Oxford, and then call upon the Reverend Timothy Fowler at Clapton Parva.’
John Fowler looked at him. This police officer seemed frail and ill, but there was an unusual intelligence in his eyes. It would be best to tell him now how they had all benefited financially from their father’s death.
‘The alternative to a natural death would be murder, wouldn’t it? Well, all three of us inherited great sums of money from Father, and I’ll tell you frankly now, Inspector, that my portion came just in time to stave off a financial disaster. Things had come to a pretty pass. I found that I was unable to pay back a large sum that had been placed in my hands, because the investor concerned had dishonoured his pledge to see the term out. And I had debts to moneylenders, and other – er – obligations that I could not meet. So, yes, Inspector, Father’s legacy came just in time to save me from ruin. But I did not murder him – God forbid! I had contemplated throwing myself on his mercy if the worst came to the worst, and I think then he would have heeded my pleas.’
‘You’ve spoken very frankly to me, sir,’ said Antrobus, ‘and I will bear that in mind. I understand how perilous it can be for a businessman to make such a confession of near insolvency. What you’ve told me today, sir, will be a secret between the two of us.’
‘Thank you, Inspector. I can’t – won’t – speak for my brother and sister, but it’s inevitable that all three of us are going to fall under suspicion if anything sinister is found. So yes, Mr Antrobus, I shall write to them both immediately, telling them how the land lies.’
Antrobus left John Fowler’s house wondering whether the man was sincere in what he had said, or if he was, in fact, an accomplished liar. Full and frank confessions of that type were often a mask for something more sinister. He would postpone any decision about John Fowler until after the autopsy.
8
Taken from the Tomb
Frances Fowler stood in front of the cheval glass in her small bedroom in the attics of Makin House, critically appraising her newly-fitted mourning dress. She had been right to wait for it to be tailored by Jay’s of Regent Street, rather than have chosen something ready-made from the catalogue of the mourning-warehouse. It fitted perfectly, and had been contrived in such a way as to have an air of fashionable youthfulness about it. White lace cuffs and collar contrasted well with the black parramatta silk of the dress. It was trimmed with dreary crepe, but she would remove that as soon as decency demanded, probably in September. She would go into grey before Christmas.
Trixie, the maid, had given it her full approval.
‘Oh, mum,’ she’d said, ‘that’s the nicest dress you’ve ever had! It makes you look even younger than you are.’ Well, that had been the idea.
She left the room, and descended the narrow staircase, glancing out through a landing window at the sunlit Port Meadow stretching away beyond the house. She could see some children flying kites, and a man walking his two dogs on long leads.
John had written to tell her the appalling news of the impending exhumation of Father’s remains. It had filled her with an almost paralyzing fear, for she recalled Kate’s indiscreet letter, in which she’d babbled about deadly poison hidden in Timothy’s desk. Timothy! Did the silly little fool seriously imagine that her husband, an ordained clergyman, had done away with his own father?
In a few minutes’ time, at eleven o’clock, she was to receive a visit from Detective Inspector Antrobus, who had written her a letter from the police station in High Street. It was, he said, to be a courtesy call, and he apologized for obliging her to receive him on a Saturday.
Earlier in the morning, she had been accosted by one of the mistresses, Olivia Graves, who had asked her whether it was ever permissible to gloss over historical matter that was not suitable for the ears of young ladies. She was referring to Charles II’s powerful mistresses: Louise de Keroualle, and the Duchess of Cleveland.
‘Miss Graves,’ she had replied, ‘intellectual integrity is of paramount importance in a school like this. You cannot give an estimate of Charles’s true character without bringing in those women, and explaining to the girls what kind of women they were. They wielded immense power, and you must not gloss over the means that they employed to achieve that power. I leave it to you to manage how you do this, but do it you must. There can be no true scholarship where facts are suppressed for whatever reason.’
What she had said was true and binding. Suppressing evidence, cheating with facts, was deeply subversive. Her girls – ‘young ladies’ as Olivia liked to call them – had to be equipped to take their place in a man’s world. One day, she was convinced, that world would have to be shared with women.
When she reached her study, she found that Inspector Antrobus was waiting for her. He stood with hands behind his back, peering at a watercolour by Edmund Warren fixed to the wall near her desk. He looked pale, almost cadaverous, and his close black beard and moustache accentuated that pallor. Rather than give the little bow expected of her, she held out her hand, which he shook without hesitation. She saw that he was grateful to be asked to sit down.
‘Inspector,’ she said, ‘I have already heard from my brother that Father is to be exhumed. I am naturally distressed, but of course I must conform to the law.’
‘That’s very civil of you, miss. Your brother, Mr John Fowler, was very frank with me. He told me that his father’s death had extricated him from a very parlous financial situation.’
He left the implications of this statement hanging in the air, and waited to see what effect it would have. He did not have to wait long.
‘I think we all benefited from poor Father’s death,’ said Frances. ‘I, too, was facing the loss of this school, and received notification of my legacy just in time to stave off disaster. So there, Mr Antrobus, I, too, am a suspect!’
‘Your candour does you credit, Miss Fowler. But for the moment, there can be no question of anyone being “suspect”. The autopsy has not taken place, so in law no crime has been committed. Nevertheless, I am bound to ask you whether you have any information that could throw light on the manner of your father’s death.’
Frances turned towards the window to hide her sudden spasm of fear. This was a clever man. He clearly knew something, something about Timothy, perhaps, and he was waiting for her to enlighten him. Who could have told him about that packet of poison?
Only that morning she had lectured Olivia on the necessity for academic integrity. She herself would have to abide by the same rule, or lose credibility. She crossed the room to a writing desk, and opened i
t with a key taken from her reticule. She removed a letter from a pigeon-hole, and handed it to Antrobus. She stood by the window and watched him as he read it. When he had finished, he folded the letter and handed it back to her.
‘In that letter, miss,’ he said, ‘your sister-in-law, Mrs Timothy Fowler, states that she found a packet of mercuric chloride, a lethal poison, in her husband’s desk. It’s a rather incoherent letter, but its contents are clear enough. Did you not tell anyone what the letter contained? Your doctor, perhaps, or a trusted friend?’
He means a lawyer, thought Frances. What was she to say?
‘For all I know, it may have been rat poison.’
Inspector Antrobus smiled, and shook his head.
‘For all you knew, miss,’ he said, ‘it was nothing of the sort! But thank you for showing me this. I already knew from another source about this packet of poison, but it was brave of you to confirm it in this way – brave, and wise.’
She watched as Inspector Antrobus glanced around the study. He was clearly interested in what he saw: the glazed bookcases, the globe, and framed star-map, and the carefully selected watercolours adorning the walls. He suddenly turned aside, and coughed delicately into a handkerchief. As he returned it to his pocket, she saw that it was smeared with blood.
‘It must be a great adventure, miss,’ he said, ‘to establish a school such as this, where young ladies can be prepared for life at the university.’
‘It is, Inspector. This place is my creation, though I had some initial help from the Headmistress of Cheltenham Ladies’ College, and a small financial contribution from my father. Does education interest you?’
‘I have a daughter, miss, who’s a pupil-teacher at an elementary school in Battersea. While she teaches letters and ciphering to the little ones, she receives a secondary education from the teachers there.’
An Oxford Tragedy Page 9
