An Oxford Murder

by G. G. Vandagriff

  “You saw no one on the path or on the quad?”

  “Just the ladies leaving.” He thought for a moment. “I dimly recall some scraping, like boots or something, but it was raining hard. A regular cloudburst. There was thunder, too. I didn’t see anyone, but then I hadn’t a torch.”

  “I already questioned the porters at both ends of the campus,” said Marsh. “They saw the Book Group ladies leave, but no other action around that time.”

  “Waddell hasn’t turned up?”

  “No. You think this might have been he?”

  “I think we have to consider the possibility. I’ve investigated him a bit. Did you realize he was somewhat of an extreme thinker?”

  “In what way?” asked the Detective Chief Inspector.

  “He’s a fascist. No reason to think he would hurt Miss Tregowyn, though.”

  “She can identify him as the man she saw in the dormitory, but I’m inclined to think that had more to do with the Chenowith murder than with right-wing thinking,” said the policeman.

  “Yes,” Dr. Harry agreed. “But how? According to Miss Tregowyn, Dr. Chenowith wasn’t political, and his politics are the only things of interest about Waddell. Unless you’re passionate about myths, which she wasn’t.”

  It was galling to Catherine to be discussed as though she weren’t there, but she had no idea who would come after her with such a weapon.

  “Weren’t canoodling,” she said again, feeling as though sleep was going to overcome her in spite of the pain.

  Dr. Harry chuckled.

  “Thank you for bringing us back around to the basics, Miss Tregowyn,” said the policeman.

  He left soon after that, and Catherine realized they wouldn’t be making an arrest anytime soon. If only the pain in her head would stop!

  Chapter Eleven

  When morning arrived, the doctor had been replaced, but Dr. Harry was still there, valiantly attempting to keep her awake without a lot of success. He read to her from a society tabloid and a fishing magazine, the only literature available.

  “I reckon you can tie a trout fly with the best of them,” he told her.

  They were served an early cooked breakfast of eggs, toast, bacon, and tomatoes, which she scarcely touched.

  “You need to be relieved,” she said. “You need some rest.”

  “I’m a night owl,” he told her. “Used to surviving on very little sleep.”

  “Very little is different from none.”

  “First, if you feel up to it, I’d like to know why you were at the library checking out your own book of all things.”

  “Miss Penwyth’s lover,” she said.

  “You said that already.”

  She summoned her wits. “He wrote poetry. Never published to my knowledge.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “I quoted some of it in my book. I needed to look at it.”

  He frowned. “I don’t think I’m particularly dense, but you’re still not connecting with me.”

  She sighed. “I’ve been reading Dr. Stephenson’s advance reader copy. The poetry seemed similar to Penwyth’s lover’s stuff. But I wanted to be sure.”

  “You’re telling me he plagiarized?”

  “Yes. He did. I’m almost positive. I have heaps of his poetry at home. He included it in all his letters to her.”

  “Hmm. I wonder if that relates to our mystery,” Dr. Harry smoothed his mustache. Even with his morning stubble, he was still good-looking. Catherine turned her gaze away. He continued, “Does he know you know he plagiarized?”

  “I don’t know how he could. I know he read my book years ago, but I doubt that he would remember a little fragment by an anonymous poet. He would never ask me to read his ARC if he knew.”

  “Let’s say Dr. Chenowith discovered the plagiarism somehow. That could have been a motive for murder. You are going to have to be very careful, darling. And I think we should let the police know.”

  “Would you call the dorm, please? If someone answers, ask them to wake Dot. She can bring the advanced readers copy. It’s on my desk.”

  * * *

  Dot arrived at the infirmary an hour later, and finally, Dr. Harry left on a wave of cautions to be careful and not to confront Stephenson on her own.

  “Sir Galahad, is he?” Dot asked. “Whatever happened to you?”

  Catherine briefly sketched her adventure and then, since there was no one to tell her not to, fell deeply asleep.

  Sometime later, she was awakened, and a new doctor examined her pupils.

  “There is still evidence of your concussion. Could you turn your head to the side, Miss Tregowyn? I need to examine the wound.”

  Until then, she hadn’t been aware that she had one. The pain in her head had obscured any other pain she might have. To her dismay, part of the back of her head had been shaved.

  “Good thing cloche hats are in fashion!” Dot said.

  “From the size of this lump, you are lucky to be alive, Miss Tregowyn,” said the doctor.

  Catherine felt another unwelcome flash of vulnerability.

  “From now on, I’m your shadow,” said Dot. “What in the world were you thinking to go out in the dark without a torch and all alone?”

  “I guess I didn’t realize I was in danger. I still don’t know who it can have been. Dr. Stephenson has no idea I think he plagiarized his book.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She told her friend about her discoveries of the night before.

  “What are you going to do about it?” Dot asked. “He’s on the brink of publication.”

  “I haven’t decided. I don’t want to embarrass the man. Maybe some of it is original. I have a pile of S’s poetry at home with my Penwyth papers.”

  “We’ll go down to London as soon as you’re out of this place.”

  * * *

  Dot stayed with her until nine o’clock that evening when Dr. Ryan was once more on duty. He declared it safe for Catherine to take pain medicine and sleep. After an only semi-restful night, she was discharged the next morning with instructions to be safe and avoid reinjuring herself.

  She and Dot wasted no time motoring down to London. The sounds of her friend’s motor aggravated her headache, but Catherine tried to endure as best she could. Dot dropped her at the flat and went to her own residence to pack some clean clothes for the inquest the following day.

  It was hard to believe that tomorrow was already Thursday! Rafe’s ship would be docking. She tried hard to name what she felt, but after a year without his company, she felt only numb at the idea of seeing him again. And the pain in her head obscured any serious thought.

  Catherine greeted her maid, Cherry, and treated herself to a soak in her wonderful Victorian bath.

  “Miss, what have you done to your beautiful hair?” Cherry asked with horror.

  “I was clonked on the head and have a concussion. There are a few stitches under the bandage, they tell me.”

  “Whatever have you been up to?”

  Since Cherry was in her confidence, Catherine spent a half-hour responding to the maid’s query, telling her about the murder and her investigations.

  “Now, I must look for something in my papers. It’s going to be a job. When will I ever get organized?”

  “I don’t think being organized is one of your strengths, miss,” said Cherry. “If only you’d let me help you . . .”

  “If I don’t do it myself, then I’ll never be able to find anything.”

  “You can’t find anything now,” said the maid.

  “You’re right. Oh, don’t let’s discuss it! It makes my head ache to think of such a project.”

  After dressing in gray flannel trousers and a sailor blouse, Catherine proceeded to tackle the stack of papers she had accumulated for the Penwyth bo
ok. She had thrown them together and deposited them in her wall safe. Not very scholarly of her.

  At least, S’s papers were all in the same envelope. Finally laying her hands on it, she drew it out of the safe. She sat at her desk and opened it. Scanning the sheets of poetry and comparing them to the ARC, she was dismayed to see that they had been copied word for word by Stephenson. Where had he encountered them? But, more importantly, what was she going to do about it?

  Should she confront Stephenson directly or should she go to his publisher? Much as she hated to admit it, she decided she should consult with Dr. Harry.

  Dr. Chenowith could have known. Catherine remembered that she had given her four or five of the poems as a forensic experiment. The professor had offered to read them, and (as an expert in Victorian verse) try to pick up some phraseology or another clue which might link him to a known poet. It would have been a coup if Catherine could have named the reclusive Penwyth’s poet lover in her biography. But, though Dr. Chenowith had studied them minutely, she found she couldn’t name a poet.

  If Stephenson had given Dr. Chenowith his ARC, would she have recognized the poems? Of course, she would! Surely she would have confronted Stephenson. Had she done so at the sherry party? Could they have been the motive for her murder? At this rate, everyone at the ill-fated dinner was going to have a motive. But this was the most serious motive yet. Exposure of his plagiarism would ruin Dr. Stephenson’s reputation and career.

  She sat up straight and paid for the abrupt movement with pain. If Chenowith had told Dr. Stephenson of the connection between S’s poems and Catherine’s book, wouldn’t Dr. Stephenson be anxious to silence her as well? Before she read his ARC? Could it be Dr. Stephenson, who coshed her? Of course, this was all supposition. She didn’t know if Chenowith had even confronted Stephenson at the party.

  Thinking back, however, she did remember that they had been having a confrontation. And Stephenson was in the second taxi. The one that had been late. Could he have used the time gap between the end of the sherry party and the departure of the second taxi to strangle Dr. Chenowith? Yes. He could have.

  When Dot arrived moments later, Cherry served them a late lunch of tinned tomato soup, biscuits, and cheese at the tea table in the sitting room. Catherine couldn’t bring herself to eat. The pain medicine and the pain itself robbed her of her appetite.

  Catherine said, “Stephenson plagiarized his book. I have the proof.”

  “Crikey! So now what?” asked Dot.

  “I think we have to go to the police. I remembered that Dr. Chenowith knew Penwyth’s lover’s poetry. I gave her some of it to study to see if she could recognize it as belonging to a Victorian poet whose work she knew. If Stephenson gave her an ARC, too, which he probably did as she’s an influential reviewer, she would have recognized it. She wouldn’t have hesitated to confront him about it. She could have done it at the sherry party.”

  Dot considered this. “Cat! Do you realize if she did that, Stephenson was most likely your attacker? He meant to kill you before you read the ARC! I mean, there is more than just his book on the line. His whole career is at risk! And his life, if he killed Chenowith. We’ve got to get you to the police.”

  “I have no proof.”

  “The police need to question him. Maybe he’ll crack.”

  “It’s rather shattering,” Catherine admitted. “Even if he didn’t commit the attack on me, he’s another suspect in Chenowith’s murder. So now we have at least two suspects other than Margery—Dr. Stephenson and Lady Rachel. But no proof against either one.”

  Dot said, “We’re going straight to the police as soon as we get back to Oxford.”

  Catherine replied, “Even if he didn’t attack me or kill Dr. Chenowith, he can’t be allowed to publish plagiarized work.”

  “Just let the police take care of it.”

  “I don’t know that they understand the scholarly mind. They might not see this as a sufficient motive for murder.”

  “Dr. Harry can make them see. Stephenson’s committed an infamous act, by our standards. He’s fully cognizant. He didn’t do it by accident.”

  “It’s really hard to believe. He’s such a timid fellow,” said Catherine.

  “Don’t let that fool you. He’s about to lose everything he cares about. And his life is at stake if he murdered Chenowith.”

  Catherine said, “Dot, this is so wretched. He was in the second cab. He had the opportunity. It doesn’t take long to strangle someone. And if the murderer used her scarf, it wasn’t planned.”

  Cherry came in to remove the dishes and serve coffee.

  “Don’t go soft on him,” her friend advised. “It was still murder. And he may have tried to murder you, as well.”

  “That could have been Waddell,” said Catherine. “I’m the only one that can identify him.”

  “Or, I suppose someone else we haven’t uncovered yet.”

  Catherine considered this, her mind going back to her confrontation with Dr. Andrews. “The dean is very afraid of something. The more I think on our conversation, the more I believe that fear was behind her anger. And I don’t imagine she is particularly attached to Dr. Stephenson. Not enough to be afraid and angry on his behalf. And I can’t see her swinging a cricket bat.”

  “Perhaps he’s her secret love child or something,” said Dot with a bark of laughter. “The ages are right!”

  Catherine smiled, then pressed her forehead with the heel of her hand. Her suspicions had taxed her brain to the fullest extent. The pain was exquisite. “Now, dearest friend, I’m afraid I need an hour or two of rest before we drive back. You can occupy yourself, can’t you? There S’s love letters to Miss Penwyth.”

  “That sounds jolly. Are they on your desk?”

  “Yes. Somewhere.” Catherine rang for Cherry who saw her to her room, removed her dress, and handed her a light wrapper. Then she tucked her mistress up in her bed.

  Catherine lay in the gloom. Her room had always been somewhat masculine with the deep, charcoal gray walls of the rest of the flat—they showed off her light-colored upholstery brilliantly. But in a bedroom, it was not the least bit her idea of a color for a boudoir. Oh, well. She drifted into sleep.

  Her dreams were not restful. A doctor who resembled Professor Stephenson was peering into her eye with a pencil torch. “Ah, well done! A concussion for certain. She will be dead by nightfall.”

  At his side stood the dean, Christopher Waddell, and poor decrepit Lord Carroway. On the other side of the bed stood an infuriated Dr. Harry, brandishing a cricket bat over her bed. He had grown a rather spectacular beard and sported a gold earring as well as a gold incisor. “What do you want with her?” he asked. “Her poetry is not even passable!”

  She woke with a start as Dot crept into the room. “I’m afraid we must go,” she said. “I’m sorry to wake you.”

  “No, she said. “You are right. I think Cherry’s got all my things packed. Would you ring for her?”

  The maid was able to get Catherine fitted out in her dropped waist pink frock. Then they tried the matching cloche hat. Catherine winced, but it would have to do.

  Cherry and Dot were able to carry her suitcases, and Catherine managed the hat boxes. They strapped them on the boot of her friend’s motor, and soon she and her friend were driving through the outlying areas of London on their way back to Oxford.

  Between the noise of the traffic and Dot’s own car, conversation was impossible. Catherine closed her eyes and tried to prepare for her encounter with the police. The drive seemed to take forever, and her neck was sore from twisting her head to the side against the seatback to keep from laying her wound on it directly.

  When they arrived at Oxford, they called Dr. Harry to meet them at the Bird and Baby where they intended to have a late pub supper before descending on the police department. Catherine carried S’s poetry.

 
When he entered the pub, Dr. Harry came straight to her side and kissed her cheek. “You look like the devil,” he said. “Did you sleep at all?”

  “Thank you so much,” she said. “I haven’t slept much, but we have a motive for Dr. Stephenson. Let’s order, and we’ll tell you about it.”

  He seated them at a table in the back and procured three orders of fish and chips.

  “Spill it, ladies,” he said after he returned to them.

  Catherine told him about giving Dr. Chenowith copies of S’s poetry to study. “She would have examined it minutely,” she said. “If Stephenson was handing out ARC’s for review, I have no doubt he would have given one to Chenowith. And I’m certain she would have recognized the poetry.”

  “You think she confronted him?”

  “It would have to be after he spoke to me at the sherry party. At that point, he was still eager for me to review his manuscript. But afterward, I recall him having some sort of heated discussion with Dr. Chenowith. That may have been when she told him. It wouldn’t have mattered to her that they were at a public function. It would have been just like her.”

  “So, you think he murdered her?”

  “At least he’s a strong suspect,” Dot said. “And if Dr. C told him about the connection with Catherine, he is certainly the one that tried to kill her with the cricket bat.”

  “You’re right. I hope you’ve decided to tell the police about this discovery.”

  “We wanted to tell you first,” said Catherine. “We want you to come with us to describe how serious an act of plagiarism is for a scholar. That he will lose his reputation and his career. We have no proof, you see, and they might not see the motive as sufficient.”

  “I’m determined to come with you. He certainly has a motive. The only thing that troubles me is what in the world he was doing strolling around Somerville with a cricket bat?”

  “Yes,” mused Dot. “That is a problem. Unless . . . could he have called her from the pub intending to have her meet him, while he planned to lie in wait for her in the shrubbery? When he heard she was out, he could have just concealed himself near the dorm and waited for her to come back.”