‘I thought she would be quite safe after she wrote a letter detailing his crime, which she lodged at my instigation with Rachel Greenwood. I wrote to her on the eleventh, urging her to check that Rachel still had possession of that letter. I never received a reply.’
‘Your letter was dated the 11th, ma’am. Dora Jardine was murdered on the 13th. We, the police, I mean, have seen all this correspondence. Now, will you tell me the name of the murderer? I know that Dora confided this to you verbally when she met you once at Cromer.’
Melanie, Viscountess Castle Royal raised her eyebrows.
‘You seem to know a great deal, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘How you find out all these things is a mystery to me.’ She sighed, and shook her head. ‘We were all girls together, but had long parted company. Dora was a merry, cheerful girl, and it was quite impossible not to like her. Rachel was a much cleverer girl, and Dora knew this, and resented it. They were acquaintances, but not true friends. I asked Dora to entrust her sealed envelope to Rachel, because Rachel had a strong sense of duty and responsibility to others.’
She paused, and a little smile enlivened her face. ‘Rachel could be very trying, at times,’ she added.
‘And will Your Ladyship now tell me the name of this man? The man whom Dora saw murder Jacob Fischbein at his lodgings in Rotherhithe?’
‘Yes, I will tell you. He was old Mr Fischbein’s nephew, Ralph Fischbein, and Dora witnessed the murder as she was going up the stairs. I suppose that letter exists somewhere, unless that fellow has destroyed it. But you now have my assurance that the killer was Ralph Fischbein. I hope you find him, Sergeant, and that you set him on the path to the gallows.’
*
Freddie Stringer made his way through the obstacle course presented by the many glass display cases covering the floor of the Pitt Rivers Museum in Parks Road. Opened ten years earlier as an adjunct to the University’s Museum of Natural History, it contained the magnificent archaeological and anthropological collection donated by Lieutenant-General Augustus Pitt Rivers.
Stringer eventually found the obscure office where his friend Jack Carter occupied his working hours in the examination of human skeletons removed from ancient town graveyards under the terms of the various Burial Acts. Carter, a prematurely bald man in his late thirties, looked up from the bench where he had been working.
‘Hello, Freddie,’ he said, ‘what brings you this far out of town?’
‘I’ll be quite frank with you, Jack,’ said Freddie Stringer. ‘I’m hoping to beg some old bones from you – really old ones, you know. It’s for a little project I’m setting up.’
Carter sat down on a high laboratory stool and looked gravely at his friend.
‘I have literally thousands of bones in store here,’ he said, ‘and their examination yields a tremendous amount of knowledge about how people lived in past centuries, their diet, their diseases, the factors determining their growth and stature. But they are human remains, and the Law requires that they must be decently buried after examination in a duly consecrated churchyard. What is this project of yours?’
‘I’d really rather not say, Jack,’ said Stringer. ‘Look, I’m sorry to have bothered you. I’ll be on my way.’
‘Hold on, Freddie,’ said Jack Carter. ‘I’m not refusing you, I’m just advising you that certain conditions must be fulfilled before human remains of this type can be released to third parties. What exactly is it that you want to beg from me?’
‘I want a set of leg bones and arm bones from an old, blackened skeleton – something that’s lain for hundreds of years in a closed burial ground. I can give you my solemn word that these remains will be buried with decent order in a Church of England cemetery.’
‘Very well. Come with me now, and I’ll take you down to what I call the catacomb. It’s actually a large cellar under the museum where we house our specimens. You’ll find a vast selection down there to choose from. You’ll have to sign for whatever you take. I have a very nice collection of fifteenth century skeletons taken from the vaults of St Perpetua’s, here in Oxford, when they were cleared and the church demolished in 1854. There’ll be something there, Freddie, that will suit you very nicely.’
*
Anthony Jardine stirred in his chair and realized that he had dozed off. He was in his familiar sitting room at St Gabriel’s, where he had been preparing the first of a series of lectures that he was to give to third-year History students in the coming term.
He was tired, but it seemed to him to be a healthy tiredness, the result of his recent determination to throw himself wholeheartedly into his work. His life had reached a crisis, and it was up to him to face it with determination.
He had asked Gorringe, who was Professor of Physick, about brain tumours, and had been somewhat reassured by his old friend’s explanations.
‘You’ll need to be examined by a specialist physician,’ he had said, ‘a man who can tell whether your tumour is benign or cancerous. From the symptoms you describe, I’d say yours is benign, but that’s only my opinion.’
‘If the tumour is removed, will it ever grow back?’
‘No. It can be removed completely, and those areas of your brain that have been affected by it – producing the ghosts, and lights, and so forth – will return to normal. I would like you to see Mr Angus McKay McKenzie, a very distinguished brain surgeon at King’s College Hospital. I’ll write to him today, and also furnish you with a letter of introduction.’
‘You’ve been dashed good to me, Gorringe,’ said Jardine, ‘you and Amy.’
‘Well, well, we do what we can. Come and dine with us next week. If you can come on Wednesday, Madame Elodie Deschamps will be there.’
He sat now in his study, looking out of the mullioned window at the great first quadrangle. How he loved this ancient college! He was not by any means an old man, but he felt that he was at one with the very fabric of St Gabriel’s. Elodie was Keeper of the Archives at Aix-la-Chapelle. Would she be prepared to forego that distinguished appointment to come as his wife to Culpeper Gardens? These were early days.
The remains of Becket’s sandstone tomb had been removed to the Ashmolean Museum, where they were to be displayed on one of the staircase landings. The alabaster image of Bishop Lineham had been despatched by railway to the South Kensington Museum. The Bursar had told him that the new central heating boiler could now be installed, as originally planned, in the empty chamber under Staircase XII.
Tomorrow night he was to dine with Count Raphael Savident. He must learn to master his instinctive dislike of the man, who had proved himself to be unexpectedly kind and accommodating. Oxford was full of eccentrics. Surely he could manage to be indulgent of Savident’s idiosyncrasies, his flamboyant dress, his boastfulness, his impatience with the achievements of others? Yes, he would go to dinner with him in Beaumont Street, and work at achieving some kind of accommodation with the distinguished polymath.
15
Confession to Murder
On Saturday morning, Sophia Jex-Blake called on Sergeant Maxwell at the police headquarters in High Street. She was greeted by young PC Morton, who conducted her to what had been her friend Antrobus’s office. On the door a newly-painted sign read: Detective Inspector Maxwell.
‘Mr Maxwell won’t call himself Inspector until Monday, ma’am,’ said Morton, ‘but the sign’s ready for him when he does.’ The young man blushed self-consciously as he added: ‘And I’m to be his sergeant.’
He knocked on the door and opened it. Joseph Maxwell rose from where he was sitting behind a desk to greet her. His new rank had evidently made no difference to his demeanour. He wore the same sombre black suit, and high white collar encircled by a black tie. He looked worried, and a little depressed, and when he had motioned her to a seat, he stood at the barred window of the office, gnawing his straggly moustache.
‘I’ve
come to offer you my congratulations on being promoted to Inspector,’ said Sophia. ‘And to ask whether you will follow Mr Antrobus’s precedent, and retain me as an unofficial Special Constable.’
Maxwell nodded absently, as though he had only half heard what Sophia Jex-Blake had said. Then, recollecting himself, he motioned to a chair, and she sat down. It was obvious to her that she had intruded on Maxwell at some kind of crisis. Nevertheless, she felt that he was glad to see her.
‘Last year, ma’am,’ he said without preamble, ‘you and Mr Antrobus solved two murder cases between you. But this business of Mrs Jardine and Mrs Noble – we’ve made no headway at all. The Guvnor was of the opinion that the answer to our mystery lay in London, centring on a murder case from the sixties, and we both made what seemed to be relevant investigations there. But I don’t know…’
‘You think we should look nearer home?’ said Sophia. She glanced at Maxwell and saw that he accepted her ‘we’ without demur. Evidently, she was still to be their ‘Special Constable.’
‘I do, ma’am. Mr Jardine, Mrs Dora Jardine and Mrs Rachel Noble all lived in London in those days, and I’ve established that Dora had witnessed the unsolved murder of an old man committed in Rotherhithe in 1869. We could both reel off a list of names and places connected with it. By some means or other Dora felt that she was once more threatened by this mysterious figure from the past, and wrote to an old friend about it. I visited that old friend – now a lady of title – and from her learned the name of the man who had committed the murder that Dora witnessed—’
‘And what was that name?’
‘It was Ralph Fischbein, ma’am. I’ve communicated with the Metropolitan Police, and it’s up to them now to pursue this Ralph Fischbein if they think that to do so would be in the public interest. But I think the whole Fischbein affair has been a red herring, if you’ll pardon the expression. Those three people, Mr Jardine, his wife, and Mrs Rachel Noble, were all Londoners, together with another six million citizens. But they’d all lived here in Oxford for years. They were settled here. So next week, PC Morton and I are going to do some old-fashioned footwork, looking for a man who wears a gabardine rain-coat and a trilby hat, glimpsed by a conductor as he boarded a tram with Mrs Jardine on the night of her murder. And I’m going to look at that disreputable young doctor again, Dr Bruce Preston-Jones. He’s an Oxford man, born and bred here, and a shady character if ever I saw one. We’ve wasted too much time, ma’am, delving into the past, and doing so in the wrong city.’
He stopped speaking, and sat back in his chair. Sophia saw that for the moment he was turning his mind away from the case, and concentrating on her. She knew before he spoke what he was going to ask.
‘How’s the Guvnor, ma’am?’ he asked. ‘You know you can speak honestly to me. Is he going to die?’ He failed to disguise the tremor in his voice.
‘He is not going to die, Joe, not yet a while. I’ve been to see him this morning at his lodgings in Osney Town, where he’s being mothered by his landlady. He’s started to regain his strength. Oh, he’ll never be able to work again, but it won’t be long before he’s out and about, though he may have to walk with the aid of a stick for a while. And I’ve no doubt whatever he’ll be calling on you before very long.’
Maxwell stopped gnawing his moustache, and the ghost of a smile appeared on his usually austere face.
‘I’m looking forward to that, ma’am. When I think how he lay there in that London hospital, looking like a corpse, I really thought I’d be bringing him home to bury him. Have you any more news for me? I’ve scarcely left this office since I came back from London last night. Did you visit Mr Anthony Jardine, as I suggested?’
‘I did. And I found him to be a charmer – any member of my sex would do so. I also found that he was a very sick man, in urgent need of surgical intervention.’
‘Surgical—’
‘He has a tumour on the brain, Joe. It’s been making him see “ghosts” and other things that are not actually there. Professor Gorringe has recommended him to see a surgeon whom he knows in London.’
Joe Maxwell sighed. He picked up a brown cardboard file off his desk, made as though to open it, and then threw it down again.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, ‘Mr Jardine is a charmer, what we call a smooth customer, a man with a ready explanation for everything. He didn’t love his wife any more, and so she died. He had a mistress, if you’ll excuse me using that vulgar word, and she died. And now, ma’am, he’s making eyes at a French lady, a clever lady by all accounts, who’s another friend of his neighbour, Professor Gorringe. A bit like Bluebeard in the old story. I think the Guvnor was being deliberately led astray by all that charm, though it wasn’t for me to say so.’
‘So you think my diagnosis of a brain tumour is misjudged?’
Maxwell permitted himself another little smile.
‘That’s as may be, ma’am,’ he said. ‘But I’m not the type of man who can be deceived by charm. Is he confined to bed?’
‘Oh, no, nothing like that. He’s planned to go to dinner tomorrow evening with a friend of his, Count Raphael Savident. Mr Jardine’s cook told me that her master is very fond of his food, so a dinner invitation will do a lot to raise his spirits. Do you still suspect him?’
‘Alibis, ma’am, can be carefully and cunningly contrived. A police officer needs to be constantly alert. In a murder case, everyone concerned, however remotely, is suspect.’
When Sophia Jex-Blake left him, Sergeant Maxwell sat for a while in thought. He opened the cardboard file, and glanced at its contents – the photographs, the letter that Melanie had written to Rachel Noble, the birth and baptism certificates of Ralph Fischbein. All these documents, relating to an ancient murder, were nothing but a mare’s nest.
He rose from his desk, but was suddenly transfixed by a memory of something that Sophia Jex-Blake had just told him. Blockhead! The truth had been staring him in the face in that cardboard file taken from the Repository in Rotherhithe. But it was not his fault that it had meant nothing to him, it was the fault of the city in which he lived and worked.
Oxford was a city with a dual society, known universally as Town and Gown. To the gentlemen in the university, some names were household words that were completely unknown to citizens of the town. The Guvnor and he were townies. Mr Jardine, of course, was not. And that was why—
What time was it? There was no time to be lost. Sergeant Maxwell flung open the door of his office.
‘PC Morton!’ he shouted. ‘Come here now! At once!’
*
That evening, Anthony Jardine knocked at the door of 13 Beaumont Street. The Eurasian servant opened it, and bowed him into the exotic house. The red-shaded gaslights in the hall were turned down to a glimmer, and Anthony found himself groping his way as he followed the servant to the drawing room. Here, the candles in the chandeliers had been extinguished, and the room was dimly lit by a number of baroque candle-holders, each bearing six slender green wax tapers. A small fire burned in the over-sized grate, but the corners of the room remained in shadow.
A small round table had been set for two, and there was nothing exotic or foreign about it. It was covered with a crisp white cloth, and gleamed with fine china and well polished glasses. A bottle of champagne nestled among cubes of ice in a silver bowl.
In a moment Count Raphael Savident came into the room from a door hidden behind a Japanese screen. For once, he was correctly attired in formal evening dress. He greeted Jardine cordially.
‘Welcome once again, my dear Jardine,’ he said. ‘Last time, I was only able to treat you to a glass of seltzer – we’d both eaten more than our fill at the Randolph! Tonight, you must sample some of the creations of my Neapolitan chef, who dwells in his steamy kitchen below-stairs. Please sit down, and we’ll commence without more ado.’
The Eurasian servant appeared
, and for the next hour served them both a delightfully recherché meal. It had been created for a gourmet, a man who had also chosen the wines to accompany it from his own eclectic cellar. Come, come, thought Jardine, you’ve misjudged this fellow. With time, you may positively warm to him.
A melon and coriander soup was drunk, and the china bowls removed. Escargots à la Bourguignonne were served, and Jardine found them unexpectedly delicious.
‘They’re specially imported for me by Fortnum’s,’ said Savident, noting his guest’s appreciation. ‘They’re a common starter in most Latin countries, but I prefer them to come after a warm soup.’
Jardine’s eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom.
‘I see your Coptic monk has disappeared,’ he said. ‘Or have you loaned him to the Ashmolean Museum over the road?’
‘The Coptic monk is at this very moment being consumed in the basement furnace,’ Count Savident replied with a laugh. ‘His resting place was wanted for another purpose. Let me pour you more champagne. When the main course arrives, we’ll sample what I am told is a rather ponderous Médoc.’
Well, thought Jardine, why shouldn’t a man burn his own Coptic monk to ashes, if the fancy took him? Or was that remark just Savident’s attempt at a joke? Men of his stamp hardly, if ever, had a sense of humour.
The main course was roast pheasant wrapped in bacon, and cooked in cider. It was quite splendid. Jardine could not identify the subtle spices with which it had been prepared. Savident poured Jardine a glass of the ponderous Médoc, but chose more champagne for himself.
The two men ate in silence for a while. Then, from some corner of the darkened room, the strains of a beautiful soprano voice were heard singing JH Payne’s Home, Sweet Home. Anthony Jardine jumped in alarm.
‘A modern miracle,’ said Count Savident, smiling, ‘the phonograph. Do you recognize the voice? It is Adelina Patti. Verdi thought her the greatest opera singer of them all. Aren’t those moving words? Don’t they summon up for you scenes and places long vanished?’
An Oxford Scandal Page 20
