Death on the Cherwell (British Library Crime Classics)

by Mavis Doriel Hay

  Miss Steevens seemed to consider this idea calmly, but Miss Cordell felt that her mind was disintegrating. Undergraduates, a rag, manslaughter, murder! An insane, an incredible sequence. “Murder!” she gasped. “But no—no one could contemplate—What reason could there be? Murder?” Her real thought, which she was unable to express, was: “Bursars of Persephone College don’t get murdered.”

  “We are bound to investigate every possibility,” Inspector Wythe continued earnestly. “It would help me, Miss Cordell, if you would explain briefly Miss Denning’s position here as bursar, her everyday occupations and routine, the people with whom she came into contact, and so on. She lived here, I take it?”

  Miss Cordell drew in her breath, bit her lip, and seemed to make an effort to direct her mind towards the superintendent’s question, but her eyes looked dazed. Miss Steevens glanced inquiringly at her principal and, receiving a vague nod of assent, launched into explanation.

  “Yes, Inspector, Miss Denning lived in college. I suppose you will want to see her room. As bursar she was responsible for all financial and business affairs of the college, and the papers relating to college business are kept in the office. The secretary, who is not on duty now, will be able to show you those, if you need to investigate them, though I should hardly think it would be necessary. Miss Denning was also responsible for the domestic management of the college, the catering and supervision of the household staff, and so on. Her status in college was the same as that of the fellows and tutors, that is to say she was a member of the senior common room, though she did no coaching.”

  “Quite so. Thank you. You have explained the position admirably. I can only wish that all members of the public from whom we have occasion to seek information could give it so lucidly.” The superintendent sighed. “Now I am afraid I have to ask rather—er—delicate questions. You have no reason, I suppose, to suspect any irregularity in the college accounts or any difficulty of that kind?”

  “I am quite confident,” declared Miss Cordell with dignity, “that Miss Denning’s business affairs are beyond reproach.”

  “Miss Denning was a very good business woman,” Miss Steevens added soothingly. “She has been our bursar for fifteen years and has managed college affairs most competently.”

  “Quite so. You will realize that we are bound to make these inquiries,” Wythe explained. “Can you tell me whether, in her relations with the dons or the domestic staff, or with people outside the college, Miss Denning may have made enemies? I gather that she did not have very much to do with the students?”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to imply that,” said Miss Steevens. “Miss Denning had nothing to do with their work, but being in charge of all domestic affairs, rooms and meals and laundry and so forth, she had a good deal to do with them from time to time. She managed the household very efficiently, but people always complain about housekeeping, you know. I suppose it’s because, at heart, we all care more about our personal convenience and comfort than anything else. It is useless to deny that Miss Denning was unpopular with the students; if you begin to make inquiries about her you are sure to hear that before long. But I really don’t think you need pay much attention to that aspect of the matter. Undergraduates must always have an object for their grumbles and sarcasm. I feel quite sure none of them would ever contemplate anything serious in the nature of revenge.”

  “I have always had the greatest respect for Miss Denning’s work and character,” declared Miss Cordell.

  “I think I understand the situation,” said Inspector Wythe. “I know a bit about these undergraduates, one way and another. But apart from the young ladies——?”

  “Yes, among outsiders—” Miss Steevens began, obviously with something to disclose. She hesitated and looked at Miss Cordell. Miss Cordell looked at Miss Steevens and again gave a slight nod of assent, in what seemed to be a mood of resignation.

  Miss Steevens continued: “I think we ought to tell you, Inspector, of two people who might be called enemies, though not, I should have thought, to any murderous extent. But you may hear of these people in the course of your inquiries, and you had better have the full story.”

  “Quite right! Quite right!” Wythe agreed.

  “You probably know Mr. Lond—Ezekiel Lond?”

  “The owner of Ferry House, on the other side of the New Lode? Quite so.”

  The history of Ferry House and Persephone College was a favourite subject with Miss Cordell, and at the mention of Ezekiel Lond she roused herself from the state of horrified disapproval in which she had, up to the present, kept herself detached from the conversation. Miss Steevens had paused, as if she expected that her principal would now take a hand, and Miss Cordell resumed the narrative.

  “You may also know that Ezekiel Lond’s father, Adam Lond, owned this land on which Persephone College stands. In fact, this land, now vulgarly known as Perse Island, once formed part of the Ferry House grounds, before the backwater, known as the New Lode, which now divides us from Ferry House, was cut. The filling in of the Old Lode, which ran on the far side of Ferry House, and the cutting of the New Lode, were part of a drainage scheme of considerable extent. If you have ever studied the old maps of Oxford, you will have observed the alteration of the innumerable watercourses and the creation or elimination of islands, through the centuries, a most fascinating subject for study.”

  “Pardon me,” begged Inspector Wythe in his most propitiatory voice, “but—er—you will realize how important it is to gather information quickly——”

  This sharp reminder that the superintendent was not merely an earnest seeker after knowledge, but a police officer investigating something that might be murder, recalled Miss Cordell momentarily from the peaceful field of geographical history. But even in this unprecedented situation she could not be false to her favourite dictum that to understand the present one must study the past.

  “You must excuse me!” she murmured, a little flustered. “But the connection between Miss Denning and Mr. Lond has its roots, one may say, in that remote past of which I was speaking. The island in its ancient form was known as Londle or Lundle—it is variously spelt in the old maps, but the name seems to have been a corruption of ‘Lond’s Isle,’ since Mr. Lond’s family had held it since the sixteenth century. Mr. Lond’s late father sold this piece of land, under severe financial stress, to the founders of Persephone College—the well-known—but no; that is of no interest to you. It is commonly said that Mr. Ezekiel Lond never forgave his father for selling part of the family estate, nor Persephone College for occupying it. That is the first cause of ill-feeling. The second difficulty arose out of the use by us of a footpath across the garden of Ferry House, which forms a short cut from our private lane to the road leading to the Parks. There was said to be an understanding with the late Mr. Lond, when the land was bought, that we might use this footpath, but there is no conclusive documentary evidence, and Mr. Ezekiel Lond strongly resents our use of it. Miss Denning firmly maintained our right to use this path, which she believed to be part of an old right of way across the island to a wooden footbridge on its far side, and so through the fields beside the upper river. As you may be aware, there is still a public footpath through those fields, continuing, beyond a stile on the opposite side of the lane, the line of the disputed path. Miss Denning was, in fact, engaged in research on this subject and had told Mr. Lond that she intended to prove our right of way. I was entirely sympathetic with her research—a most interesting subject—but I would have been willing to waive our possible right to use the footpath, to avoid any unpleasantness. It would be difficult, however, to prevent the students from using it, especially while the house remains unoccupied.”

  “Exactly,” put in the superintendent. “Lond doesn’t live in Ferry House now, so how can this affect him?”

  “Certainly he does not usually inhabit the house, but he visits it from time to time. There is an old man who seems to be employed to keep the garden from running utterly wild, and perhap
s as a sort of caretaker, but he does not live there.”

  “You don’t happen to know whether Lond is at Ferry House now?”

  “I have no idea. Please do not think, Inspector, that I wish to cast suspicion on Mr. Lond. He is eccentric and—well, not very courteous. We have found him distinctly difficult, but I do not imagine that he can be in any way connected with this terrible accident.”

  “He is the sort of man,” explained Miss Steevens, “who will use abusive language and utter violent threats, but he has never made any show of violence, even when he has met us on the footpath. Besides, he is an old man, quite tottery.”

  “Quite so,” agreed Wythe. “Violence from his own hand does not seem very likely to my way of thinking. I know the man a bit. By the way, was there ever any quarrel about landing from boats on his island? Has that ever been done, do you know?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Miss Steevens. “There is a derelict boathouse, with landing steps, at the corner of Ferry House garden, but I never heard of anyone using it. It looks as if the overgrown bushes almost block the way to the steps from the garden.”

  “Well, this path business seems a small thing to fuss about when he doesn’t live in the house—unless he contemplates selling it and thinks that would hinder the sale?”

  “Mr. Lond is eccentric and definitely a misogynist,” declared Miss Cordell severely. “He regards his family estate as a sacred inheritance and the loss of part of it and the trespass—as he regards it—of women on another part of it, he looks upon as a form of insult.”

  “Hm! A bit crazy!” was Inspector Wythe’s judgment. “Well, that sort is sometimes dangerous.”

  “The question of the sale of Ferry House has arisen,” announced Miss Steevens. “In fact, I’m not sure that it hasn’t caused more ill-feeling than the footpath.”

  “I was about to explain that,” continued Miss Cordell. “We are considering the purchase of land for extensions to the college. I believe it is common knowledge that there are two possible sites for our building. One is the piece of land on the side of our private lane opposite to Ferry House, the land known as Pagan’s Field—another interesting instance of nomenclature—most interesting; its origin—but no, I must not pursue that subject now. The other possible site, which for many reasons is preferable for our purpose, is the land on which Ferry House itself stands. It is known that Mr. Lond is not in affluent circumstances, and we have therefore approached him with a tentative offer to purchase, only to be met with what I can only describe as abuse. Miss Denning, as bursar, conducted these negotiations; she is—was—an excellent business woman.”

  “Quite so. So Lond might well feel particularly unfriendly towards Miss Denning, if he resented this suggestion so strongly?”

  “Undoubtedly he did,” declared Miss Steevens. “He regarded her with a fanatical hatred and seems to have had the idea that she was determined to obtain the land from him by some underhand means. He’s quite obsessed about it—but all the same, I’m sure he’s not the man to do any violence—and I haven’t seen him about since last term.”

  “Murder!” murmured Miss Cordell to herself. “Oh, no! And after all, he comes of a good old family.”

  “Quite,” agreed Inspector Wythe. “And what about the other piece of land—no trouble there, I suppose?”

  “The owner of Pagan’s Field,” put in Miss Steevens rather quickly, “is a Mr. James Lidgett, a farmer of Marston, who has sold a good deal of land for building and was anxious to sell this plot to the college. In fact, he offered it to us when he heard that we had approached Mr. Lond. He’s a difficult man too, though of quite a different type from Mr. Lond. Miss Denning was against accepting his offer because she had not given up hope of getting Ferry House—after all, Mr. Lond is an old man. But Lidgett realized that we didn’t want to see Pagan’s Field covered with cheap, ugly houses and he tried to use this possibility as a threat.”

  “To force you to buy and at the same time put up the price? And Miss Denning in this case also conducted negotiations?”

  “Yes; and not only that; she roused the Preservation Trust to the danger of ill-considered building development on that property——”

  “Of course!” murmured Inspector Wythe. “That’s why I know the name of the field so well. Quite a lot of talk about it, wasn’t there?”

  “There was a great deal of publicity,” the principal agreed, with some asperity. “But at least public opinion proved that it can have some power for good. I believe that Mr. Lidgett has been finally prevented from defacing that site. Financial profit seems to be of prime importance to him, and he feels considerable animus towards Miss Denning.”

  “But you can see,” added Miss Steevens, “that neither Mr. Lond nor Lidgett could have any real motive for attacking Miss Denning because, in the first case, she only represented the college council, which is unanimously in favour of the Ferry House site, and in the second case the damage—from Lidgett’s point of view—has been done and even the death of Miss Denning can’t give him back the freedom to build his nasty little houses.”

  “Quite. But undoubtedly, from what you tell me, they both had a spite against her—a spite which might possibly drive either of them to sudden violence.”

  “I trust, Inspector, that the details of this unfortunate relationship between Miss Denning and these two owners of property need not be publicly advertised. I can assure you that no blame whatever attaches to Miss Denning. They are two most difficult men,” Miss Cordell declared.

  “You can rely upon me, ladies, to conduct the necessary inquiries with the utmost discretion. Let us hope that we may find some solution of the problem which involves no criminal responsibility. There is one thing more I must ask. Can you tell me what relatives Miss Denning had?”

  “Yes, of course. I intended to ask you what should be done. Miss Denning was singularly alone in the world, so far as my knowledge goes. She has—had—a niece, Pamela Exe——”

  “X?” queried Inspector Wythe.

  “E-X-E. A Devonshire name, I believe; or is it merely that I connect it with the river? In any case, probably a surname of place origin. But I must not digress. This girl is an undergraduate at Girton College, Cambridge. Miss Denning was very devoted to Pamela, who is an orphan, the only child of Miss Denning’s sister. I have only seen the girl once or twice, for Miss Denning did not wish her to form any attachment to Oxford as she thought it better that she should go to the other university. Miss Denning’s parents were dead and I believe she had no near relatives alive. I will telephone to the mistress of Girton and ask her to break the news to Pamela.”

  “Yes; say a drowning accident.”

  “Will it be necessary for Pamela to come here? She is certainly the next of kin.”

  “Not essential, so far as I can tell at present. I can run over to Cambridge by car and see her. Of course she may wish to come.”

  “We could put her up here of course. We are all strangers to her, I fear, but naturally we would do all that is possible for her comfort. But that dreadful railway journey! One would not, of course, expect constant traffic between the two universities, but communication might at least be less forbidding!”

  “I could run the young lady back in my car, if that would help.”

  “That would be very kind. And—Inspector, I suppose it is inevitable that this accident will be reported in the papers, but doubtless you have influence in the matter. If you could restrain the reports as far as possible; I do not feel that blatant publicity can serve any good purpose.”

  “Quite. I can assure you that I shall keep a pretty strict hold on the press. At the moment I’m particularly anxious that the papers shan’t say too much; it might hinder me from getting at the truth, if the truth is some undergraduate foolery. I think you had better forbid your young ladies the use of the college boats for the present; girls are as inquisitive as cattle and we don’t want anyone messing up possible clues on the banks. And warn them not to give interviews
to reporters. If the press scents a mystery—mind you, I don’t say they will—but if they do they’ll spare no pains to get a story from someone.”

  “Indeed, I know. I can assure you, Inspector, that we will take every precaution. I trust it will not even occur to our students that clues might be found on the river banks.”

  After some instructions about Miss Denning’s room, Inspector Wythe departed to sift the facts he had elicited, to gather other pieces of evidence which his subordinates might collect from the Cherwell’s sluggish waters and bushy shores, and to try to fashion them all into some coherent chain.

  CHAPTER IV

  THE BLOOD FEUD

  GWYNETH, Daphne and Nina automatically followed Sally towards her room after dinner that evening. Passing through the hall, Sally seized a letter from her pigeon hole.

  “Betty!” she exclaimed. “I’d forgotten all about her.”

  “Your sister—why, she’s coming to-morrow!” exclaimed Gwyneth. “You could still catch the post and put her off.”

  “I don’t want to put her off. She may be useful,” Sally announced slowly as they went up the stairs.

  “Useful?” Gwyneth caught up the word. “What for?”

  “Give me a chance to read this. Oh, I suppose it’s just about what time they’ll arrive.” Sally skimmed it hurriedly. They reached her room and she knelt before the fire and attended to it assiduously while the others grouped themselves round the hearthrug on humpties and cushions.

  “There are the crumpets,” Daphne suggested. “They want eating.”

  “Any butter?” inquired Sally. “We can’t get it now.”

  “Yes, I got it,” said Daphne. “I feel ready for crumpets. I was saving up for the Friday suet pudding at dinner, and then it was all evanescent flimsies and I’ve an awful hole inside.”

  “It was a putrid dinner,” Gwyneth proclaimed. “Curse— Oh! How awful! We can’t curse the bursar now. Well, that dinner was her last act, I suppose. Pity it couldn’t have been a better one.”