An Oxford Scandal

by Norman Russell

  ‘With term ending on Saturday, sir,’ said Lewis, ‘will you be coming back just for the one day?’

  ‘Oh, no, I sent all my heavy luggage home last week. There’s just my case of hunting guns, and they’ll be put in the luggage van at the same time as Mr Stringer’s crate – the crate that you and Bates made for him, you know. I’ll just have a valise with me when I’m travelling in the luggage van. I’ll be out of harm’s way then until Hilary Term.’

  ‘Well, I wish you God speed, Mr Napier. You’ll be alone in that van, because Joel will be in the guard’s van next to you. You’ll be locked in, but my brother will let you out when the train stops at Reading.’

  Both young men set out on their walk through the town to St Gabriel’s, but by an unspoken agreement they parted at the Martyrs’ Memorial.

  *

  Superintendent Fielding stood at the window of James Antrobus’s living-room and looked across Ditch Lane at the engineering shops belonging to the Great Western Railway. It wasn’t often that he came out to Osney Town, and he had been obliged to leave his police cab and driver in Becket Street, as Ditch Lane was cut off at one end by a blank wall, topped with broken glass.

  The lane consisted of a single row of old three-storey brick houses, each approached by a flight of steps. Antrobus lived at number three, a boarding house kept by a Mrs Hardy, the relict of a scout who had worked at Worcester College.

  ‘I expect you have already guessed why I have called on you today, Inspector,’ said Superintendent Fielding. His words had all the mournful ring of a kindly magistrate passing sentence on an old offender.

  Antrobus sat in his sagging but comfortable armchair, propped up with a number of cushions. He was half dazed with opiates, and he knew himself to be physically shattered, but his mind remained alert. He could hear footsteps in the passage, and knew that Mrs Hardy was hovering, in case he needed assistance.

  Fielding left the window, and sat down in an upright chair near the fireplace. Antrobus could see that he was dreading what he was about to say. Fielding was not a detective, but he had come to visit him in civilian clothes. It was a kindly thought.

  ‘Sergeant Maxwell has given me a full account of your investigations in London,’ said Fielding, ‘and explained how you were brought back to Oxford late on Monday evening. He also told me that Miss Jex-Blake had virtually pulled you out of the jaws of Death. Well, you must now devote all your time to recovery. Recuperation.’

  He can’t bring himself to tell me, thought Antrobus, but I must not prompt him. That would make him feel even worse than he does already. He glanced round the room that had been his home for a good number of years. His little round table was set for tea, with knife and fork, cruet, and napkin. On top of his well-stocked bookshelf stood a framed photograph of his late wife, wearing a dress that had been fashionable in the early eighties. She was only just into her thirties when she had died of a seizure. What would she think of him now? What would she think of Mr Fielding’s errand?

  The superintendent cleared his throat. It was time for him to say his piece.

  ‘I think you will realize, Antrobus, that you can no longer continue as a serving police officer. It’s just not a realistic possibility. You will continue to retain the rank of detective inspector, and your full wages will be paid to the end of December. You will then apply for retirement by reason of chronic sickness. You will, of course, receive an adequate pension.’

  The stiff, formal language failed to mask the superintendent’s distress. He had the highest regard for his senior detective, and would miss his presence in the High Street offices.

  ‘I’m much obliged to you, sir,’ said Antrobus, ‘for coming in person to tell me of your decision. I fully agree with you, of course. This unexpected heart attack was the straw that broke the camel’s back, if I may put it like that.’

  ‘I can’t tell you how much I hated performing this particular duty, Antrobus,’ said Fielding. ‘But there, it’s done. And though retired, you’ll always be one of us, you know. The police, I mean. Now, are you up to talking business? I don’t want to overtire you. I need to talk about these unsolved murders – Mrs Dora Jardine, and Mrs Rachel Noble. The Chief Constable spoke to me at the end of last week, wondering aloud, in his usual manner, about our progress in the matter. I replied that we were making slow but steady progress.

  ‘Now, I know that you work well with Sergeant Maxwell, but are you prepared to let him be the lead in this investigation? Are you willing to become, as it were, Maxwell’s consultant?’

  ‘I’d be delighted to work in that capacity, sir. Maxwell and I have long worked as a team. We know each other’s methods; the one complements the other.’

  ‘Excellent! Maxwell will come to see you tomorrow morning. I think he’s a very good man, outstanding in his own way, and next Monday I will promote him to the rank of Acting Inspector. After his work in that Jerusalem Hall business4, he thoroughly deserves that promotion.’

  ‘He’ll need a sergeant, sir. Will you bring in a detective from elsewhere?’

  ‘Well, I was thinking of PC Morton. He’s worked with both of you, and he’s an extremely able young man. If he were advanced to sergeant, couldn’t he learn the trade from you and Maxwell? He could be on probation for a while before being transferred to the detective branch. I’ve been comfortable with the three of you for the last three years, and if possible I’d like to keep our little coterie together.’

  James Antrobus sat up in his chair.

  ‘Do you know, sir,’ he said, ‘talking police business with you has cheered me up no end! I thoroughly agree about young Morton. And I very much look forward to seeing Sergeant Maxwell tomorrow. He and I need to attend to some unfinished business!’

  *

  Sergeant Maxwell arrived at Ditch Lane at eleven o’clock the next morning. Dressed in his long black overcoat, and with his black bowler tipped sternly over his eyes, he looked as impassive as ever. It wasn’t time to distract the Guvnor by enquiring after his health. They both knew that he was in a sorry state, and there was no more to be said on the subject. Mrs Hardy had brought them both a large pot of tea and a mountain of buttered toast. Maxwell sat down at the table, and produced a cardboard file from a briefcase. Without any preliminary courtesies, he launched into speech.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘this is the file on the murder of Mr Fischbein, which Sergeant Tanner and I had retrieved from the repository in Rotherhithe just before you were taken bad. It tells us that this Mr Jacob Fischbein, a discount broker, was murdered on 5 August 1869. The murder took place at his lodgings in 4 Dalcy Street, South-East London, and was investigated by an Inspector C.W. French and a Sergeant B. Wolfson, both of ‘M’ Division of the Metropolitan Police. The folder is marked: “Coroner’s Verdict Accepted”, meaning, of course, that a verdict of “Murder by some person or persons unknown” would have been recorded. There’s a further note, made on 1 January 1870, saying that the case is still open. As indeed it still is, sir.’

  Sergeant Maxwell ate a piece of toast and drank some of his tea. He looked at the Guvnor, sitting half slumped in his favourite old chair. He was as white as a sheet as usual, but his eyes were as bright and searching as ever. Mrs Hardy had told him that she’d given him a big breakfast and a cup of beef tea, and that a nurse had called to change the dressing over the wound caused by Miss Jex-Blake when she had stabbed him to the heart with a hypodermic syringe.

  ‘And what dramatic secrets does the file reveal, Sergeant?’ said Antrobus. ‘Or now that you’re an inspector-in-waiting, are you going to keep it all to yourself?’

  ‘The first document, sir,’ said Maxwell, ignoring Antrobus’s teasing, ‘is an account of the discovery of Fischbein’s body, compiled from the evidence of witnesses by this Inspector French, and counter-signed by his sergeant. Very neatly written it is, too. Would you care to cast an eye over it?’


  ‘No, just give me the salient points, Joe.’

  ‘Mr Fischbein was lying on the carpet in his living room, and in front of his open roll-top desk. He had sustained a blow to the head from some heavy object, and then he had been stabbed to the heart. A search of the premises found no trace of the two weapons used in the fatal assault.’

  ‘That suggests premeditation,’ said Antrobus. ‘Had it been a marauding robber, he would have flung his weapons down and made a run for it with his loot. This fellow brought them with him, and was able to take them away – he may have had a bag, something like that.’

  ‘The second document, sir, is a list of the contents of Mr Fischbein’s desk, compiled by his nephew. Evidently, he and his uncle were on intimate terms. The first point of interest in that list is the number of bearer bonds, sixty in all, with a face value of £15,000. A fortune, sir, kept in a roll-top desk.’

  ‘What happened to the bonds? Do we know?’

  ‘Yes, sir. There was a note in the file, dated six months after the murder, saying that all the bonds had been sold for cash to various legitimate companies in London, Paris and Rome. That suggests that our murderer fled to the Continent soon after the crime was committed.’

  Both men ate some more toast, and drained the pot.

  ‘You said that was the first point of interest. What was the second?’

  ‘The second point, sir, is that the list was written on the nephew’s own headed paper, so we can go after him, or find out what happened to him. He was writing from number 17 Platt’s Lane, Neasden, NW. You and I have come across nephews before, sir. I don’t trust them as a class.’

  ‘Excellent, Sergeant,’ said Antrobus. ‘Tracking down the nephew could lead to many interesting things. Have you anything else in that briefcase?’

  ‘Yes, sir. You’ll recall talking to Miss Jean Hillier, Mrs Jardine’s friend? Well, at Mr Jardine’s suggestion, she looked through poor Dora’s correspondence and suchlike, and came up with a few items that she knew would be of interest to the police. I found them yesterday morning, sealed in an envelope addressed to you, and waiting for us at High Street. You remember “Melanie”, who turned out to be a lady of title, Viscountess Castle Royal? Well, Miss Hillier found a letter from her to Dora, dated 11 November – three days before Dora was murdered. I could tell you its contents, but I think you’d better read it yourself.’

  He took Melanie’s letter from his briefcase, and handed it to Antrobus.

  ‘Hm… A lifetime ago, she says. I suppose she’d all but forgotten those companions of her youth. “Ascertain that Rachel still has your sealed letter”. That’s the letter that poor Rachel Noble gave to the unknown man in Oliphant’s Court, the letter that she must have been willing to give up, knowing, of course, that Dora was dead. But it was no guarantee of her own life, poor soul. That man with “the viper’s fang”, whoever he was, took no chances. And so Rachel Noble died.’

  ‘They all three seemed to know this mysterious man, sir,’ said Maxwell. ‘Melanie says she thought he’d have died from the results of dissipation years ago. But then, she reveals something that we didn’t know: At one time in the past, Dora had met Melanie at Cromer, presumably on a holiday with Mr Jardine in Norfolk, and had told Melanie the identity of the killer. That’s why Lady Castle Royal says that she’s a kind of “second insurance.”’

  ‘All we have to do, Joe, is interview this lady, and ask her to tell us the name of the man who killed poor old Mr Fischbein all those years ago. We could solve the whole case in days once we know the identity of that mysterious man. Where is Lady Castle Royal at this moment?’

  ‘As far as I know, sir, she’s still at her London residence in Regent’s Gate. She and her husband are going to Cannes on the twentieth.’

  ‘Did Miss Hillier come up with anything else?’

  ‘She found this postcard, sir. It’s a view of the city of Munich, which, I believe, is the capital of Bavaria. On the back someone’s written, “I’m always here when you feel the need of reassurance”. As you can see, Dora had written her own comment: “Villain! How dare he write to me!” It’s him, sir. The man she saw commit the murder. Why pretend that it’s anyone else?’

  ‘Yes… “When you feel the need for reassurance”. I wonder was he at one time one of her suppliers? In the seventies, I mean, after she’d had a tumour removed. It’s possible.’

  ‘And finally, sir, there’s this letter from Dr Bruce Preston-Jones, the man who supplied Dora with drugs. We gave him a good dressing down when we interviewed him, but from what he writes, he’s not as bad a villain as we might have thought. He looks to me very much like a young man who needs to be rescued from himself. Gambling! Playing-cards, sir, are the Devil’s prayer books.’

  James Antrobus smiled. Joe was a staunch Methodist, and disapproved of all kinds of harmless dissipation. But he liked his pint, and once quoted St Paul to prove that he was breaking no Commandment by doing so.

  Antrobus recalled his interview with Jean Hillier, and his conclusion that she was a dangerous confidante. Perhaps she would make it her mission in life to redeem young Dr Preston-Jones, and then artlessly reveal his former vices to her friends. He had stolen drugs, but the police had not been requested to take any action in the matter. Presumably, the Radcliffe Infirmary wanted no hint of scandal to damage their excellent reputation. So maybe Jean would set out to redeem him. Dear me! Poor young man!

  ‘It’s all connected, sir,’ Maxwell was saying. ‘It’s all of a piece, to my way of thinking. Melanie talked about this murder, and said that her friend Dora – Mrs Jardine – knew who had committed it. She also knew Rachel, the late unfortunate Mrs Noble. Fischbein was stabbed and the weapon never found. Dora and Rachel were stabbed, and the weapons not yet found. As you said, find out who murdered Jacob Fischbein, and maybe we’ll find out who murdered those two ladies. Old sins cast long shadows. And I don’t trust nephews.’

  Antrobus had been very impressed with Maxwell’s conclusions. He was already showing the kind of initiative that his impending new rank would encourage. Joe would make a good inspector.

  ‘What do you propose to do next, Sergeant?’ he asked.

  ‘My priority will be to interview Lady Castle Royal, sir. After all, she knows the name of the killer. I’ll go back to London tomorrow and call at Regent Terrace on the off-chance. Then I want to delve into the past, and find out all I can about the elusive R. Fischbein, and what, if anything, happened to him. I’ll visit the General Register Office in Somerset House. That will tell me when the nephew was born, and whether he’s alive or not.’

  ‘Excellent! It’s what I would have done.’

  ‘Meanwhile, sir, I’d like Miss Jex-Blake to meet Mr Anthony Jardine. She’s already on good terms with his domestic staff, but the two of them have never met face to face. I think something might come of that. She has a way with her, that lady. She can finds things out simply by looking at somebody.’

  ‘You seemed to have warmed to her, Sergeant,’ said Antrobus. ‘I recall a time when you had your reservations.’

  ‘That was before she started to save your life on a regular basis, sir. In any case, Miss Jex-Blake and I have recently established a special understanding. So while I go about my business, sir, will you contrive to bring the two of them together? Miss Jex-Blake is staying with a friend in Merton Street. PC Morton has been placed at your disposal. I’d better be on my way.’

  Antrobus held out his hand.

  ‘Joe – Inspector Maxwell – I’m delighted at your promotion. And if ever you want to bounce ideas off me, I’ll always be here. At least, I hope so.’

  Joe Maxwell shook hands, and made a fuss about fastening his briefcase. He uttered a few indeterminate noises, snatched up his bowler hat, and fled the room.

  *

  Sophia Jex-Blake approved of Culpeper Gardens. It had a quiet,
refined air to it, and now, in early December, the gardens themselves, arrayed around the granite monument to the great Nicholas Culpeper, looked as though they were entering into their winter sleep. It was one of those days when the sun glowed like an orange ball behind a blanket of yellow cloud.

  The same pert messenger-boy had called on her at her friend’s house opposite Merton College, bringing her a note from Sergeant Maxwell. Could she contrive to visit Mr Anthony Jardine today at Culpeper Gardens, and make his acquaintance? He would alert Jardine to expect her at two o’clock.

  She paid the cabbie, and rang the bell at number 7. The door was opened by Betty, who greeted her with glad surprise.

  ‘Oh, Miss Jex-Blake,’ she cried, ‘how lovely to see you, ma’am! The Master’s expecting you. Would you care to see Mrs Green first? She’d be awfully sorry to miss you.’

  Sophia had counted on this reception, and had arrived at Anthony Jardine’s house half an hour earlier than agreed. They descended the stairs to the cellar kitchen, and very soon they were established at the well-scrubbed table, drinking tea and eating seed-cake. Mrs Green and Betty had plain white crockery. Miss Jex-Blake was given a delicate Crown Derby china cup and saucer, as befitted an honoured guest.

  ‘Mr Jardine’s bearing up very well, all things considered, ma’am,’ said Mrs Green. ‘There’s been talk, of course, but we take no account of that here. He’s had a lot of time to brood, because they won’t let him teach his young gentlemen, more fool they, but term ends this week, and then he’ll be able to take stock of himself.’

  ‘I expect he’s still feeling the loss of Mrs Jardine very much,’ said Sophia. ‘This seed cake is excellent, Mrs Green. Yes, thank you, I’d like another slice.’

  ‘The Master’s still in full mourning, ma’am, and will be until the new year. But he’s not the kind of man who’d want to stay single for long.’