Death on the Cherwell (British Library Crime Classics)

by Mavis Doriel Hay

  Sally stepped down from the flower-pot, putting a hand on Nina’s shoulder for support. She dragged Nina across the terrace and down the shallow steps which led to the lower part of the garden near the river. Here, she felt, it was safe to talk.

  “I saw him, and the old Beetle too; old Lond is chipping away with a chisel, as far as I can make out, on some wooden panelling above a fireplace. It looks as though he was carving something—too extraordinary! You’re taller; you may be able to see more. They haven’t the ghost of a notion that they’re being watched and it’s quite safe, but don’t make a sound!”

  They returned to the spy hole and Nina mounted the flower-pot. After some minutes she stepped down again and they retreated to the bottom step below the terrace.

  “He’s not exactly carving; he’s cutting away something that’s been carved there before,” Nina announced. “I’m quite sure, because I can see the long strip where he’s been working. It looks as though there was an inscription all round those panels and he’s hacking it off and making it more or less smooth. The wood is lighter where he’s taken the top layer off. He must be absolutely batty! But isn’t it a lovely room!”

  “Can’t say I noticed it much; I’d think it a lot lovelier if the window was opposite the fireplace. I must have another look. What makes you think it’s an inscription? Perhaps it’s bloodstains! Or perhaps he fired at Burse and there are bullet-holes that he wants to hide.”

  “Sounds very far-fetched to me; besides, it did look like words, though I couldn’t see clearly; it might just be a pattern.”

  “Of course I didn’t really mean that about bullet-holes. But it’s much more reasonable to suppose he’s cutting away some trace of the crime than that he’s merely removing an inscription. Especially as he’s supposed to be devoted to his old house.”

  “While we’re arguing here, he’s finishing the job,” Nina pointed out. “It looked to me as if he had nearly got to the end. If you really want to look again you’d better hurry up. But do be careful; that flower-pot didn’t feel any too safe.”

  Sally mounted to the point of vantage once more and peered through the chink. Yes, Nina was right; he was certainly chipping away some of the carving. The chink at the edge of the curtain was wider towards the top and Sally thought she could see more if only she could raise herself higher. She found that she could just reach the moulding above the window and, holding on to this, she raised herself to tiptoe, leaning sideways at the same time. Yes, she could now see the chisel blade, driven by the hammer, peeling off all the raised part of that strip of carving, leaving a rough track paler than the surface of the old mellowed oak.

  Then the flower-pot moved.

  “Look out!” breathed Nina, too late.

  The pot grated on the flagstone, toppled and crashed. Sally landed with a thump, clawing at the window as she fell. Even in falling she saw that the noise, which indeed seemed thunderous, had broken the peace of the lantern-lit scene inside the room.

  “Run! Bushes!” gasped Sally, and they ran, across the terrace, pell mell down the shallow steps, stumbling and tripping through the wild garden. Sally went down towards the river and the thick line of bushes inside the wall. There she found a damp, uncomfortable shelter and crouched motionless.

  She could see the lantern swinging about on the terrace; the two old men were apparently going to and fro up there, probably looking at the ruins of the flower-pot. Then old Lond began to shout. At his first yell Sally’s heart stood still; she thought he had seen Nina somewhere. But no, he did not give chase, but stood there, shouting into the night.

  “You damned sneaking trespassers; you—vermin! Clear out and drown yourselves! Drown yourselves, I say! I’ll not touch you, but the curse of the House blast you!”

  There was a good deal more; Sally listened, trembling. There was a pause; the lantern remained still; she was terrified lest perhaps old Lond was creeping through the darkness towards her, leaving the Beetle alone with the lantern, as a trick. But no, after a last curse flung down into the unresponsive garden, the lantern began to move steadily along the terrace, showing glimpses of long, striding legs ahead of it. It disappeared round the far end of the house.

  Sally still crouched in the bushes for what seemed like half an hour. All was quiet; the light did not even reappear at the window where they had watched. Sally was trembling all over; she imagined footsteps, sounds of someone pushing through bushes, the sound of someone breathing heavily. Where was Nina? And now there were the police to evade. If they were really posted in the lane, they would surely have heard this uproar and would be on the watch. Meeting them might be even worse than meeting old Lond and the Beetle.

  She crept out; there was a path here at the bottom of the garden which followed the bank of the New Lode towards the lane. Sally crept along, pausing every few minutes to listen to the indefinite, frightening night sounds. Then a more definite noise; the cracking and creaking of branches.

  “Sally!” the faintest whisper.

  “Nina! Here! There’s a path.” Sally stretched out a hand tentatively, as if she feared to meet some horror. In a moment her arm was gripped by Nina’s groping hand. They clung together with infinite relief.

  “I’m afraid those police may be on the watch!” whispered Sally. “But if we go through the hole again we’re bound to make a noise. There’s a flower-bed here and I think we might get across it and up to the fence and move along by that very carefully. Then, when we come to the stile, we must nip over it and bolt for our gate.”

  “Then if they see us they can trace us easily,” Nina objected.

  “There’s no other way. After all, we can’t get on to Perse Island except by the gate, unless you want to swim. And all that row was ages ago; they may not be watching now. If we’re going to be caught, better to be caught crossing a public stile than crawling through a hole in a fence.”

  “Golly, what a night! We must have been in there hours! I’m in a frightful mess. Why not go straight up to the stile by the path?” asked Nina.

  “Because if they’re watching it, they’ll see us coming and stop us for certain and ask us awkward questions. But if we go up by the fence we may just get across before they realize we are there. You can go over the fence first and if I’m caught you can run on. After all, I made you come,” Sally added generously.

  “If we’re in the soup, we’ll be in it together,” declared Nina valiantly.

  So they plodded heavily through the sodden flower-bed, close under the fence. When they could make out the stile just ahead they paused.

  “Now for it!” murmured Sally and plunged forward. Nina heard her mutter “Oh, hell!” But she vaulted the stile neatly, paused a moment on the far side for Nina to follow, and then they both ran swiftly for the bridge over the New Lode and the iron gate of Persephone College.

  A strong beam of light sprang out of the darkness behind them, showing them their own fantastically moving shadows.

  “Over the gate!” cried Sally. They climbed it neatly and without hesitation. Sally led on down a path to the left, away from the front door. In a few minutes they stood panting beneath the window which had served them before.

  “Let’s leave our shoes here!” Nina suggested.

  “I’ve only got one,” said Sally. “Left the other in the mud by the stile. I don’t think they followed. They saw us, but they surely couldn’t recognize us.”

  “No; but it will be quite simple, if they want to know who we are, to go to the front door and make the Cordial have a roll call; we should never get clean in time. I suppose we had better take our shoes in with us. Hope to goodness Daphne has managed the window!”

  Sally drew herself up on to the window-sill. Yes, the sash moved upwards. “All right!” she reassured Nina and, pushing aside the curtains, she dropped into college. Nina followed.

  Daphne, neat and elegant in red silk crêpe, emerged from some corner.

  “Gosh! You do look sweet! You’d better both come up to Sall
y’s room. I’ll see that the coast’s clear.”

  They followed her upstairs, skulking round corners. At last, in the warm security of Sally’s room, they looked at each other. Hair tousled, faces smudged, mud everywhere; Nina’s skirt with a rough, triangular rent; a muddy and somewhat bloodstained graze on one of Sally’s hands. They shivered with cold and their legs trembled.

  Daphne surveyed them with disapproval. “You’d better get a bit cleaner as quickly as possible. Scotland Yard has been here and he wants to see you both!”

  Their eyes widened, but they found no words for several moments.

  “What’s the time?” asked Sally irrelevantly, after a glance at her wrist. “Did I leave my watch or did I lose it over there?”

  “After ten,” Daphne told her.

  “I thought it was to-morrow. Look here, are you serious about this man? When did he come?”

  “Not so very long after you’d gone out. Cordial sent for me, after having failed to find you, I suppose, and asked if I knew where you were.”

  “What did you say?” they both gasped out together.

  “Well, I tried to be vague and said I thought you might have gone out and forgotten about late leave—I knew they’d soon find you were out. I think Scotland Yard knew.”

  “Is the Cordial mad?” Sally asked with some apprehension.

  “Not so much mad as pained. I’ll have to let her know that you’re in. I think Scotland Yard went away but said he’d come back later.”

  “Golly! What a pity we didn’t come in by the front door, since they know we’re out,” Nina remarked. “I expect that was Scotland Yard’s light; the hound! He’ll know we’re in all right.”

  “Daphne! Could you get hold of old Jane and square her?” Sally implored. “She’s a good sort. Get her to go to the Cordial and just say we’re in. She needn’t positively say she opened the door for us; the Cordial will assume that. Oh, Daphne, do! Then we’ll have our baths quickly and be all clean and tidy for Scotland Yard. He’s sure to follow hard on our heels.”

  “I’ll try!” Daphne agreed. “Nina, I’ll get you a dressing-gown; take off those muddy clouts here and go straight to the bathroom. And hurry up, both of you!”

  They tore off their mangled garments and dashed for the baths.

  CHAPTER XI

  SCOTLAND YARD CONFERS WITH THE LEAGUE

  A BRIGHTLY LIT bathroom, a great deal of hot water and steam, and the removal of dirt, restored the self-assurance of Sally and Nina. They were back in Sally’s room. Nina, with her brown hair in its customary twist at the nape of her neck, in a long, slim frock of brown velvet, looked very demure. Sally, in the perky yellow jersey which she had not changed for her early dinner, was collected and alert. They now felt that they had achieved something rather remarkable and had startling information to impart to Scotland Yard. Daphne arrived to assure them that old Jane had turned up trumps and that they were to await a summons from the Cordial.

  “Now tell me if you’ve really been dredging the Lode, which is what you looked like, or what,” Daphne began, and was interrupted by the violent entrance of a blue silk dressing-gown topped by a red face and a wildly rumpled mop of fluffy, fair hair.

  “Gwyneth! You’ve been boiling yourself in your bath again!” Sally protested.

  “You look like a blushing blonde gollywog,” Nina declared.

  “Have you ever learnt to cook?” inquired Daphne.

  “I?” asked Gwyneth in innocent surprise. “Not much more than scrambled eggs.”

  “I thought not. If you had been properly brought up you would have learnt that when vegetables are boiled all their goodness goes into the water. That’s what’s happening to you; all your goodness, including the intellect, goes down the drain. You’ll never get a first.”

  “I never would, boiled or unboiled,” Gwyneth agreed. “I’ve been washing my hair. But I want to hear the news.”

  “The news,” Daphne told her, “is that Scotland Yard has applied to the Lode League for help in solving this difficult case, and we are all waiting to meet the nice detective gentleman.”

  “What—not me?” cried Gwyneth aghast.

  “I’m not positive, but I have a hunch that he’ll want to see us all.”

  “What am I to do?” squeaked Gwyneth. “I’m sure the Cordial won’t let me see him like this, and it’ll take weeks to get my hair right.”

  “Just run a comb through it,” Nina advised, “and sleek yourself down a bit——”

  A maid arrived to announce that Mr. Braydon wished to see them all. Although Miss Cordell had suppressed the visitor’s official title, the girl was bubbling with surmise about this unusual visit at ten-thirty p.m., and after reciting her message and observing Gwyneth’s appearance, she retired in a state of hysterical giggles.

  “Hurry up and make yourself tidy,” Nina exhorted Gwyneth. “We’ll tell him you’re coming.”

  Detective-Inspector Braydon was a tall, grave man of scholarly air, with a thin, tight-lipped face. He was waiting for them in the small common-room with Miss Cordell. She went through the three introductions in a flustered manner and asked where Gwyneth was.

  “She’s just had a bath,” Sally explained; “but she’ll be here in a minute.”

  “I owe everyone an apology,” said Braydon cheerfully, “for calling at such an unearthly hour; please don’t worry, Miss Cordell.”

  The principal, with an air of disowning the whole affair, fluttered away.

  “It’s good of you to spare time from your private detective work to interview an old fogey from Scotland Yard,” Braydon suggested.

  The girls looked at him with suspicion. His eyes, rather screwed up, sparkled amusedly. There was silence for a few minutes.

  “What do you want to know?” Sally inquired.

  “Who killed Miss Denning, when, where and why. But I don’t suppose you can tell me that? However, I think you can tell me something that may be useful; the slightest detail may be of importance. First of all, has anything at all come back to your minds connected with the events of Friday afternoon, which you didn’t happen to mention to Inspector Wythe?”

  They looked at each other. “We’ve gathered from various people,” said Sally, “that Miss Denning started out between half-past one and two, probably at a quarter to two—I expect you know that?”

  “Don’t be afraid of telling me what I already know. Until this business is cleared up, every scrap of information may help to throw light.”

  Sally produced a loose-leaf note-book, extracted a couple of pages and handed them to him. “I’ve written down the names of the people who saw her and what they said.”

  Braydon glanced at the neatly tabulated pages. “Very businesslike, Miss Watson, and very helpful. Now, where was each of you that afternoon before four?”

  Nina was playing hockey and Daphne was reading in her room, they told him.

  “I was coaching,” said Sally.

  “Here in college?”

  “Yes, because it was with Mr. Mort; it was extra, to make up for one I missed through flu. He belongs to Sim’s but doesn’t live in college and so that’s why he comes here to coach me– the proprieties, you know.”

  “Which way would he come?” Braydon asked.

  “His house is on the river, just above Sim’s, so he probably walked through the Parks.”

  “And at what time was your coaching?”

  “From three to four; but he’s not awfully punctual. I was there at three and he arrived a few minutes later. He’s very absent-minded, you know, and often forgets to start in time. Oh!” Sally suddenly laughed. They all looked at her in astonishment.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “But I just remembered something very funny. But about the time——”

  “You’d better tell us the joke,” Braydon advised. “Your friends are longing to share it.”

  “It was Mr. Mort’s absent-mindedness reminded me,” Sally explained. “He came in the most awful old trousers and s
hoes and explained that he had been gardening and suddenly remembered the coaching and started straight away and never thought of changing. He was really frightfully upset.”

  “I suppose he was plastered with his garden mud?” Braydon chuckled.

  “Oh, I don’t suppose he does much more than moon about the garden and snip at things,” Sally explained. “I don’t think he was muddy, except his shoes; but that’s natural; there’s an utter morass just by the stile leading to the Ferry House path.”

  “And your coaching finished at four?” Braydon inquired.

  “Yes; Mr. Mort left a moment after we heard it strike. I suppose he may have seen Miss Denning from the Parks on the way here. Do tell us, when do you think she was murdered?”

  Braydon shook his head. “The obvious inference is that the canoe wouldn’t drift very far and that, therefore, Miss Denning’s body can’t have been in it for more than half an hour at most. You’ve probably reasoned that out for yourselves already. But the apparently obvious isn’t always what happened.”

  Gwyneth, now cooled to a paler shade, with her dressing- gown neatly arranged and her hair somewhat subdued, arrived.