Autumn in Oxford: A Novel

by Alex Rosenberg

  “Yes. The trainman saw the event clearly. What else might it have been, ma’am? Do you think he could have been contemplating suicide?”

  “No, no . . . I only thought if it were at a tube stop, it might have been accidental.”

  Now Watkins intervened with an insistent tone. “He was pushed.” Looking at his notes, the detective continued, “By a man of above average height in a belted trench coat wearing a hat, face not visible to the trainman.”

  Bennett continued, “I must ask, Mrs. Spencer, did your husband have enemies, anyone who might have profited from his death, perhaps some unstable person with a grudge?”

  Liz tried to gauge how long she should appear to be thinking about this question and then said, “No one at all. Not a soul.”

  “Is there anyone who might have profited from his death?” Bennett was persistent.

  Liz shook her head, but all she could think of was Yes, there is someone. Two people, in fact—Tom and me. And then she recalled the thought experiment Tom had conducted one afternoon during three days they’d managed to steal in Paris: pushing Trevor in front of a tube train at rush hour could solve all their problems. Could Tom possibly have done such a thing? Impossible, Liz, unless you understand nothing about human character! The thought that he might have done it momentarily frightened her, for Tom and for herself, but then she was sure. The very idea was absurd.

  Thankfully Bennett was not reading her mind; instead, he was consulting his notes. He looked from them to her. “What line of work was your husband in, Mrs. Spencer?”

  The answer came with evident reluctance. “He was unemployed. He’d been an estate agent and then a used car salesman. But he was discharged from both jobs and hadn’t had any work recently.”

  “How long had he been out of work?”

  “I’m not sure. He didn’t tell me immediately when he lost the last job. It’s been over a year since he sold anything much,” she replied as evenly as she could.

  Looking round at the comfortable house, Detective Bennett replied with an interrogative tone, “Private income?”

  Liz flared slightly. “No, Inspector. Working wife.”

  “Excuse me,” came the surprised apology.

  The second policeman now cleared his throat. “Any idea what your husband was doing in London today?”

  “None. I’ve never known him to go to London alone in all the years we’ve lived here.” It was true; why shouldn’t she say so?

  The detective fished a business card out of his side pocket. “Does this mean anything to you?”

  Liz looked at the card. VICTOR MISHCON, a London solicitor. “Nothing whatsoever.”

  “It was in his billfold.” He took the card back from her. “I am sorry to have to ask, but might there have been another woman, one with a jealous husband?”

  Liz’s eyes widened. This was something she’d never thought of. “No, I can’t imagine it, Inspector. Why do you ask?”

  Pure chagrin overcame the rather sour look on the man’s face. He reached into his pocket. “We also found this in his jacket.” It was a neat little envelope, about one and a quarter inch square, with a flap, coloured in a light blue.

  Liz made her face into an impassive mask of stolidity. “What is it?”

  Bennett was still flustered. “It’s an empty prophylactic packet, French in origin and not sold in Britain.”

  Liz recognized the brand. So, Trevor had found her out. She opened her mouth and covered it with her hand. That had to be the right thing to do.

  Bennett decided that Mrs. Spencer had been hit with one shock too many. It was time to terminate the interview. “Here’s my card, Mrs. Spencer, in case there is anything you need to tell me. Someone will call in a day or two about the disposition of your husband’s . . . remains.” He had decided not to say body. All three of them rose. The two policemen moved to the door, collecting their raincoats.

  “May I call you a cab?” she volunteered, looking at her watch.

  “No, thank you. We’ve troubled you enough for one night. We’ll find our way to the station.” Without shaking her hand, they moved sombrely out the door.

  Liz watched them out the lounge window as they walked down the crescent until they were out of sight. Then she moved to the telephone in the hall.

  “Tom, is that you? It’s Trevor. He’s dead.” She could hear the disbelief in her voice.

  His reply staggered her. “Yes, I know. I was there when it happened.”

  “You were in London?” Liz took the receiver from her ear. Could Tom have had something to do with Trevor’s death?

  “I was on the underground platform when he was pushed.”

  Her worst apprehension suddenly returned. “My God. That’s what your message to the hotel was about!”

  “Yes. I didn’t know what to do. I tried to follow the killer, but I lost him almost immediately. Then I realized that the police would have to tell you and that it would be best if you were home when they did.”

  “Best?” She let the word hang.

  “Better to find you at home than in some seedy London hotel. The police don’t need to know about us.”

  “It’s too late for that, Tom. Two detectives were here when I got home. They told me what happened. Then they asked some questions, and they showed me two things Trevor had in his pockets: the business card of a London solicitor, and the wrapper from a sheath of the sort we’ve used, the ones we got in Paris.” Tom was silent on the other end of the line. Into the silence Liz blurted her worst fear, “At least their only witness couldn’t identify you.”

  “I told you. I saw the killer.” His reply was tinged with anger. “What are you saying? Do you think I killed him?”

  “No. It’s just—” She stopped. The scenario Tom had sketched one afternoon in Paris three months before hung there silently between them. Then she began again. “No, of course not. Only that the trainman is the sole witness they could find who got a good look at what happened, and he can’t place you at the scene. But there’s a good chance this will unravel our secret.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s obvious, Tom. The story will make all the papers. My assistant, Beatrice Russell, will read about it. She knows about us, even knows about the Gresham Hotel. Remember when I left my diary there, and they called the office? The police will interview the solicitor. The condom wrapper will make it obvious why Trev consulted him. Then they will begin to question me. And what will I say?”

  “The truth. We’ll be alright.”

  “Tom, you’re wildly gullible and dead wrong.” Liz paused for him to respond. She took the silence for continued resistance. “If I tell the police about us, they’ll soon find out we were in Paris at the same time. All they have to do is look at our passports. They’ll put two and two together and get five. It may take them a week or so, but unless they’re sloppy and lazy, there’s every chance it will come out that you were on that platform. Someone will have seen you at least near it.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “We could leave.” She gulped. “No, that’s as bad as a confession. And there’s the kids.”

  Tom added, “Besides, I really can’t go back to the States, and Canada would probably extradite me if the Brits asked.”

  “We need a solicitor, I think, or two.” Her voice sounded firm. Now, not for the first time in their relationship, Liz was completely in control. “Don’t talk to the police without one, promise?”

  “What will you tell the children?” She felt the anguish in his voice.

  Liz was still in charge. “I have till they wake in the morning to think that through.”

  Tom heard the line disengage.

  She stood there in the hall, one hand still on the receiver. How was she going to tell her children their father was dead? Olivia was nearly ten. Ian was just seven. She would have to tell them together, but they would respond quite differently. The girl’s grief would be palpable. She had only just begun to seek the attention of a fathe
r who was “distant.” The boy, Ian, was already adopting the English upper-class demeanour his schoolmaster prized as “phlegm.” Liz didn’t want him to cope with his father’s death that way.

  How will you cope? What will you tell yourself, Liz? What is it you really feel? Your husband is dead, someone you once thought you loved, still cared about, as least as your children’s father. Yes, it makes things much simpler. Yes, you’re now free to do as you really wish. But . . . he’s dead, dead. Face yourself, Liz, and admit what you feel, at least to yourself. She flushed. The feeling was unworthy, she knew.

  And then a worse thought came back to her. Could it have been Tom? He’d given up a great deal for Liz already. Some position, wealth, comfort, a wife who wanted him, even if she didn’t love him, not the way Liz did. He loves you, Liz. Is it a manic emotion, one that could lead him to kill? Liz knew well enough from her own past how overwhelming emotions could overpower.

  No, he’s not like that, not at all.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tom woke suddenly from an unbearable dream. But the instant his eyes were open, all trace of it vanished, obliterated by what had oppressed him when he had closed his eyes the night before. How had he found sleep at all in the rush of awful scenarios that had crossed his thoughts? Well, they were all back now. He staggered to the common bathroom in the landing, thankful to be still alone. False bonhomie with the undergraduates who shared it would have been impossible.

  Fellows living in college were not gregarious at breakfast. Each served himself from the sideboard. Most were absorbed in one or another of the morning papers spread on the long, wide table at which they were eating. It was a small mercy. He knew that one look at him and all would see the guilt.

  Tom took his usual bowl of Weetabix, coffee, and toast, and surveyed the choice of newspapers before him. He needed a London paper today, not the Manchester Guardian. Picking up the Daily Mail, he looked at the bottom half of the front page and then began to turn the inside pages. He worked his way through from the front and then went back through the pages. If there had been a report, it was too small to find, even by someone looking for it. Strange, he thought. His sense of oppression lifted a little.

  At eleven thirty Tom was in his study with an undergraduate droning through a rescheduled American history tutorial paper. The student’s monotone made it easy for Tom’s thoughts to wander repeatedly back to his predicament. The boy looked up at the end of each paragraph, expecting a reproof or a correction. Hearing none, he took up his paper and continued to read aloud. Finally he came to the end and glanced hopefully at his tutor. Tom was trying to think of something to say when there was a knock at the outer door of his rooms. He recognized the knock. It was Lloyd, his scout, who knew well enough that he was “sporting his oak”—closing the outer door as a signal that he was not to be interrupted. It had to be something urgent.

  Slightly relieved at the reprieve from having to say something intelligent to the student, Tom rose and went to the door. It was indeed Lloyd, who looked over Tom’s shoulder at the undergrad and whispered, “Very sorry, sir. I wouldn’t have disturbed, the oak and all, but it’s the police, sir.” The repeated “sir” showed his discomfort. He paused, gauging Tom’s reaction. “They want a word.”

  Tom felt the flush of heat spread up from his torso. How could they have put him together with Trevor’s death so quickly? Perspiration broke out on his temples. He turned to his tutorial student. Had the boy noticed? “Sorry, Norris, we’ll have to reschedule again.” Then back to Lloyd. “Are they downstairs?”

  “No, sir. They’re at the porters’ lodge. Shall I have them come along?”

  “Yes.”

  Without really enough time to compose himself, Tom recalled Liz’s advice: say nothing without a solicitor present. Three minutes later there were two uniformed Thames Valley constables at his open door, carrying their custodian police helmets at their sides.

  The younger of the two spoke as if he were reading from a script, while the older one monitored his performance. “Mr. Thomas Wrought?” Tom nodded. “I have a warrant for your arrest on a charge of murdering one Trevor Spencer.”

  Tom was about to respond when the older policeman raised his hand to him. “Let him continue, sir.”

  The younger policeman did so. “You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down and may be given in evidence.”

  “Very good, Kimble.” The older copper turned to Tom. “If you promise to come quietly, I’ll not have to restrain you, sir.”

  “Yes, certainly. Where are we going?”

  “Police station in St. Aldate’s. But the remand is to London, sir.”

  Why do you keep calling me sir, when you’re arresting me for murder? “Shall I take anything? A coat, a toothbrush, a book?”

  “It’s chilly and wet, sir. Your coat and hat.”

  They walked through the college, along Broad Street to the High, and then down towards St. Aldate’s. Passers-by gave the three men hardly more than a nod. Tom had never noticed the police station, a rather large Georgian pile amidst the mock Tudor of the other buildings on the street. He wondered whether he should ask to see the warrant. But he said nothing. Expecting to be questioned at the station, he was disappointed to learn that he would be there only long enough to arrange transport to London. In fact, except for the offer of a cup of tea, he was left sitting unattended in a corridor facing the duty sergeant’s desk for almost an hour. Tom tried to convert the anxiety cramping his stomach into anger, resentment, outrage. But everyone was being too polite, considerate, almost apologetic.

  Surely he could have walked away at any time. Was there a reason for this laxness with a murder suspect? Was it the class system asserting itself, treating him like a gentleman, the fellow of an Oxford college, someone above suspicion even when under suspicion? Or was it something else? Did they want him to leave, to escape, to betray a sign of guilt? He would not do so.

  At one thirty, two men in worn coats and rumpled suits came into the station and approached the duty sergeant’s desk in front of Tom. They showed identity cards. “I’m Inspector Bennett; this is Sergeant Watkins. We’re here for Wrought.” The duty sergeant lifted his pen and wordlessly pointed at Tom sitting behind them, while handing them the warrant.

  Bennett turned. “Mr. Wrought, are you prepared to come with us to London?”

  “Do I have a choice?” Tom’s tone was just barely ironic, and he brought his hands together for handcuffs.

  “That won’t be necessary.” Bennett signalled the way out.

  There was silence among the three men all the way to London. Tom sat in the rear of the car with Bennett, while Watkins drove. In ninety minutes the two detectives did not even engage in small talk. Were all police this taciturn? Why weren’t they interested in asking him questions? Tom needed to assert his innocence. But they asked nothing. It was as if they already had his confession.

  The police car turned from Victoria Street into New Scotland Yard, and Tom was led to a narrow hall. Here the desk sergeant at a raised desk spoke. “Turn out your pockets.” Tom did so. The sergeant brought out a manila envelope and handed it to Tom, who filled and sealed it, signing his name across the flap. The sergeant spoke again. “You will be held here pending a bail hearing in the high court Monday morning, Mr.”—he looked at the warrant—“Wrought.”

  Expecting an interrogation at last, Tom looked up at the officer. “May I make a telephone call? Can I get in touch with a solicitor?”

  “Do you have one in mind, sir? We can make contact.”

  “I don’t, Sergeant. I don’t even know how to go about choosing one.” Who can you call? he asked himself. Who might know someone? The master of Trinity? One of your editors? The American embassy? That’s what an innocent American would do, isn’t it? “I’m an American citizen. Will the embassy help me?”

  “Consulate, sir. I’ll call them.” Tom nodded in thanks. The sergeant continued. “But this late on Friday, sir,
no one will answer, not till Monday morning I fear.”

  Then, still without a question from the two arresting officers, he was led to a holding cell. But for his promise to Liz, Tom would have demanded to be questioned then and there.

  Liz waited for a call from Tom all that Friday and Saturday. On Sunday morning a constable presented himself at Liz’s door on Park Town crescent. “I’m sorry to trouble you, ma’am. But I have a warrant here”—he looked down at his paper—“to take away your passport. Material witness. You may contest this ruling before the magistrate at town hall tomorrow morning.”

  “Very well. I’ll get it for you.” In a few moments she was back, handing over her British passport. “Constable, can you tell me, was a man named Wrought arrested yesterday or this morning?”

  “Shouldn’t really say, ma’am. But yes. They took him to Scotland Yard Friday afternoon.”

  On Monday morning Liz went into London. This time the endless morning darkness was oppressive. Riding the underground from Paddington, Liz felt caught in a cave-in so deep it was pointless to even try to move the stones that trapped her.

  Snap out of it! You’re no good to Tom or yourself like this!

  She was at the office of Victor Mishcon before opening hours. This was the solicitor whose card her husband, Trevor, had in his billfold when he was killed. Perhaps he could shed some light. She moved aside for the secretary, who unlocked the front door, and when the woman asked if she had an appointment Liz replied, “No. My husband, Trevor Spencer, was here some time ago and saw someone. Now he’s dead, and I was hoping to speak to the person he talked to.”

  At that moment Victor Mishcon came through into the vestibule, looked at Liz, and smiled warmly. The receptionist spoke. “Mr. Mishcon, this lady’s husband was here last week, perhaps you recall, without an appointment. You spoke to him briefly.”

  “Yes, Miss Finch, I recall the gentleman.”