“Should you be standing about in the sun?” Dr. Williams asked. “How about if we go someplace for a drink. You’re looking a bit peaked.”
He helped her into the waiting cab and told the driver to take them to the Eagle and Child. Catherine appreciated the gallant gesture and was glad of their destination as it would be easy to catch up with her friends there.
The ride was a short one, and once they were inside, the professor found a seat for her in the pub’s wood-paneled inglenook and went off to order her a lemon squash. By the time he returned with their drinks, she was feeling somewhat restored.
“I know Waddell slightly. He’s a bit of an oddity, even for Oxford,” he said. “But I can’t for the life of me figure out what his connection would be to Dr. Chenowith or this investigation.”
“I have heard he’s a bit of a fascist,” Catherine ventured, sipping her drink.
“He’s right off his nut about Hitler, that’s true. But, as far as I know, Agatha Chenowith wasn’t political.”
Catherine thought about this statement. “She was a woman of untapped depths; I’m finding out,” she said.
“How do you mean?”
“In some ways, she wasn’t very nice. She seems to have liked upsetting the apple cart.”
“Well, I know her feelings about men. To my cost,” he said with a short huff. “I have caught myself sometimes what it was that put her off our sex.”
“Have you ever wondered how such a beautiful poet could be such a hurtful human being?” Catherine asked. She told him the story of Anne and her first editions, as well as the sad account of Lady Rachel.
“Present company excepted; poets can be odd. I think they put their brains in a different gear when they write.”
“I wouldn’t excuse myself from that stricture,” she said. “It’s true that I did like Agatha Chenowith, the poet, a lot better than Agatha Chenowith, the person.”
“I’m just glad our orbits didn’t intersect often,” Williams said.
“Especially now that you’re not at Oxford much,” said Catherine. “Do you miss it?”
“Yes. We are doing some interesting things right now with the investigations in Norway. It’s very exciting to find these stories so close to primitive thought that have been handed down over such eons.”
“Early Teutonic legends, you said?”
“Yes. Oral tradition. None of it has been written down, so everyone is scrambling to transcribe. It’s part of this remote peoples’ consciousness. They don’t even know how it has colored their perceptions of the world. Oddly, it makes one question one’s own basis for reality.”
“So . . . Wotan and that gang?” Catherine asked. She had always found the grim old legends surprisingly frightening. Bad fortune seemed to swirl through them with an uncomfortable arbitrariness. She had always thought the Greek and Roman myths more friendly and sensible by comparison.
“Yes. The essence of Richard Wagner, of course.”
“And the legend of the Aryan master race,” she said dampeningly. “Hitler loves Wotan, I understand.”
The professor looked uncomfortable, so Catherine took pity on him and changed the subject. “And what exactly is it you’re doing at Whitehall?”
“I advise in a general capacity. Nothing thrilling. Would you care for another drink?”
“No, thanks. I know you must need to get back to London. This has been a refreshing change from the inquest. Thank you for taking me under your wing.”
“Maybe we’ll see each other soon. I’m going to organize a little soiree when my lads get back from Norway.”
“That sounds interesting,” she said.
Only after Catherine had said goodbye and went to join her friends in another inglenook did she realize she had no more idea than before about what Professor Williams had been up to in his missing ten minutes.
* * *
“So?” Dot inquired, sipping on her lager.
“I muffed it,” she said. “Got drawn in by the general perfidy of Chenowith and Teutonic Fairy Tales and completely failed in my mission.”
“Well, what’s your general impression of the professor?” Dot asked.
“Typical Oxford professor with his quaint enthusiasms. Even he was stung by the Chenowith scorpion, though he didn’t give details. He said Waddell was odd, by the way, even by Oxford standards.”
“How’s your head?” asked Dr. Harry.
“Thumping. I’m in no shape to go to the police station, but I suppose I must.”
* * *
The sergeant at the station desk rang for the Detective Chief Inspector, who appeared to greet Catherine and Dr. Harry. Dot said she would meet them at Somerville.
“Miss Tregowyn, Dr. Bascombe. I’m afraid I have some rather upsetting news. We haven’t been able to lay our hands on Dr. Stephenson. We were unable to locate him at his college this morning. A watch has been kept there since then, and he hasn’t turned up. As you noted, Miss Tregowyn, he didn’t show up at the inquest.”
Dr. Harry’s hand went to the small of her back in a protective gesture. Catherine’s heart jolted at this most recent news that the professor was still at large.
“Please come back to my office,” the policeman invited.
The handsome Detective Chief Inspector’s office was neat as a pin, which had the effect of irritating Catherine. Her life at the moment was anything but neat. Her head hurt, she was in danger, and the police had let her down.
“There is the consolation that if he knows you have been to the police, he knows he has nothing to gain by killing you,” Marsh said.
“We can’t be certain of that,” said Dr. Harry.
“His colleagues at Merton said he hasn’t been in college for a couple of days. The receptionist at the Radcliffe Infirmary says she took several calls from the Merton College exchange the night Miss Tregowyn was brought in wanting to know her condition. She explained that she could not give that information to anyone but family. That is the closest thing we have to proof that Dr. Stephenson was behind your attack. His apparent flight is also another indicator. Your Life of Edith Penwyth was also checked out of the Merton College Library by Dr. Stephenson the day of the attack, Miss Tregowyn. All these things, taken together, are damning.”
“Does he have a motorcar registered to him?” asked Dr. Harry.
“Not that we have been able to discover. His family home is in Londonderry, Northern Ireland, but we imagine he will steer clear of there. We have notified the police there in any event.”
“This is very unsettling,” said Catherine.
“I advise you to stay in company,” said Marsh. “And to keep your wits about you. However, I doubt he is going to show himself.”
“Has he been in touch with his publisher?” asked Catherine.
“We rang them this morning. They have heard nothing from the professor. Naturally, they wanted to know our business with him. We told them he is a person of interest in an assault case. They were not too happy about that. They agreed to cooperate and said they would let us know if they heard anything from him.”
“Did you want to ask me any further questions after reading my statement from last night?” asked Catherine.
“No. It was very clear and complete,” said the Detective Chief Inspector. “Will you continue to stay at Oxford? If not, I will need your London address.”
She gave it to him along with her telephone number. “I don’t know how long I will be staying here. At least through the weekend, I imagine. I will be at the Randolph. It’s safer than Somerville.”
Catherine stood. The policeman showed her and Dr. Harry out. “We will continue to have a uniformed constable in the lobby then.”
“I’ll drop you off at the Randolph and then go back to Somerville to collect Dot,” said Dr. Harry.
“Could you also give Hobb
s a message for me?”
“Of course.”
Once they arrived at the Randolph, Catherine wrote out a message on hotel stationery and addressed it to Mr. Rafael St. John. She knew he’d be up at Oxford sometime looking for her. She handed the note to Dr. Harry.
“Give this to Hobbs and tell him that Rafe is a big man with curly black hair. No one else is to know where I am.”
Dr. Harry pressed his lips together. “Rafael St. John? Who is that?”
She replied with spirit, “My sometime fiancé. He’s just back from Kenya.”
“Sometime fiancé?”
“It’s a long story, and I’m far too exhausted to get into it at the moment. Plus, I feel positively grimy and must have a bath. Thank you for standing by me. Thank you for all your help.”
“I will be in touch with you tomorrow,” he said with all the firmness of a bulldog.
“Fine,” she said. “Now I go to take my bath and have an early night.”
* * *
Much later, when Dot was already asleep, and Catherine was sliding under her sheets, pink and fresh from her bath, Catherine heard the telephone.
“Bother!” she said. She rolled over and tried to block the sound with her pillow. It continued, however.
Finally, worried it might be something to do with her inquiries, she answered.
“Hello?”
“Cat?”
Her stomach performed a flip. “Rafe?”
“Cat! I’m here! Down in the lobby. I couldn’t wait to see you, so I motored up from London.”
In spite of all her efforts to dampen it, she felt the excitement Rafe’s presence in her life always brought. Her fatigue fled, and her heart began to pound. “I’m in my pajamas. Give me a moment to get dressed, you bounder.”
She hung up and brought her hands up to her burning cheeks.
What should I wear? Oh! What about my hair? I can’t wear a hat at this time of night.
Dot rolled over. “Who was that?”
“Go back to sleep,” she said. “Just Rafe.”
Dot groaned and put her head under her pillow.
Catherine settled on her gray flannel trousers and a pale blue turtleneck jumper. She tied a matching scarf around her hair, arranging it in a floppy bow on the right side of her head. Adding a bit of powder and lipstick, she frowned at herself in the mirror.
Will he find me changed? Are those circles under my eyes?
She turned resolutely from the mirror and went out the door.
* * *
It had been many years since she had decided Rafael St. James was going to be the great love of her life. As far as she could recall, she had been ten years old the first time her brother, William, had brought him home from boarding school. She had gone back on that decision many times since, but the sight of him never failed to lift her heart. He was tall and powerfully built with a head of black curls—a gift from a Spanish ancestor—he tried unsuccessfully to tame
“Rafe!” she exclaimed upon seeing him.
His exuberance matched her own as he pulled her to him and twirled her around right there in the lobby.
“Stop it!” she cried. “I am no longer a hoyden, but a respectable graduate of this university!”
“How could I ever leave you for as long as a year?” he asked.
Catherine took the question to be rhetorical. “Have you eaten anything for dinner?”
“No. I drove straight up from London.”
“Let’s find you a beefsteak,” she said. “You must be starved.”
They left the Randolph and began walking toward the High Street. It felt so good to be next to Rafe again. She fell into step with him as though they had been together just yesterday.
“Have you a place to stay?” she asked.
“How long do you plan on being here?”
Catherine grinned. “I told you. I’m investigating a murder.”
She might have said she had taken up opera dancing. “So you weren’t joking in your letter.”
“No. Definitely not. One of my former professors was murdered in the new chapel at Somerville.” She gave him a very abbreviated sketch of the situation.
“Strewth! You discovered a body?”
“Yes. It was beastly. The police have several suspects, of which I am one.”
“So naturally you feel you must look into it yourself.”
“Naturally. I make a rather good detective, actually,” she said.
They had arrived at the Carfax intersection, where the High met St. Aldates. Catherine led Rafe to The Canterbury Room, an upstairs grill and restaurant where they served a decent steak. The maître ‘d seated them at a table by the window.
“How’s William?” she asked.
“Happy to be home. He didn’t take to Kenya, as you probably know.”
She had received but a few letters from her brother, but all were less than enthusiastic. “But you did. I’m surprised you came back.”
“Needs must. The pater isn’t well. He wants me by him so he can task me with all my duties. As usual, he feels that he is going to pass on. You know how he gets.”
“Well, he does have a weak heart, Rafe.”
He dismissed his father’s health with a wave of his hand. “He will outlive us all. Mark my words.”
“So, when do you go down to Kent?” she asked, looking her fill at his full lips and hooded brown eyes. She had missed him so much it troubled her.
“He has actually come up to London to the Mayfair flat. We’re meeting with his man of business tomorrow.”
“That sounds serious.”
“Yes. He’s transferring title of some of his holdings to me to begin looking after. Boring businesses in the North.”
The waiter came, and Rafe put in his order. Catherine requested a slice of apple tart. Her grand luncheon at Christ Church remained with her.
“So,” he said, placing his hands palms down in front of him and looking her in the eye. “When are you going to marry me?”
All Catherine’s pleasure at seeing Rafe drained away. “We’ve had this out thoroughly, Rafe.”
“But I’m a changed man, Cat. Kenya was good for me. At least give me a chance to prove it to you.”
How many chances had she given him? Her head warned her heart.
She looked down at her hands linked before her on the table but said nothing.
“Six months,” he said. “Give me six months.”
“No engagement,” she countered.
“All right,” he agreed. “No engagement. But when are you coming back to London?”
“I don’t know at the moment. There are things I need to follow up on here in Oxford.”
“All right. Plan on me joining you here after I’ve done with the pater.”
The white-aproned waiter served their food. Catherine tucked into her tart. “You didn’t write much, but I read your pieces in the Times. Tell me more about Kenya.”
Rafe, an excellent raconteur, spun tails of safaris and colonial life. “You can’t even imagine the vastness of Africa. There is one grand vista after another. And the animals. I lived out all my boyhood fantasies—elephants, giraffes, lions! The whole country suited me down to the ground.”
“I can imagine,” she said with a smile.
“I think I might like to buy a coffee plantation. Of course, I would have someone else run it. I wouldn’t want to leave England for good. How about you? Would you be willing to give it a try?”
Catherine’s feelings were mixed. While it sounded a grand adventure, she knew to her cost that Rafe could make anything sound appealing. The problem was, his enthusiasms did not endure.
“I might enjoy a visit,” she temporized.
“It’s a beautiful place. So completely different from England.”
“I love England,” she said, knowing she sounded merely stubborn. She added, “But there are many places I long to visit. Italy, for instance. Greece.”
“We could travel anywhere you like,” he said.
“Italy, first then,” she said. “For the art, the clothes, and the food. I long to visit Florence and Tuscany.”
“When the time comes, I will buy your engagement ring there,” Rafe said. “On the Ponte Vecchio. You will love all the little jewelry shops—some no bigger than a cupboard—all on this quaint old bridge over the river.”
“Then Greece. I want to see the ruins. I even know some Greek. And I want to cruise the islands,” said Catherine. She never hesitated to speak of her dreams to Rafe. He was the one who had always encouraged her to become a poet. Some dreams came true.
“That is where we will honeymoon,” Rafe decided. “There is enough to see there to keep us for months.”
If only. . . How wonderful life would be.
“When we go to Kenya, I will teach you to shoot. There is nothing like a big game hunt,” Rafe told her.
“I’m afraid I must draw the line at shooting. I would love to see those beautiful animals. But I could never bring myself to kill them.”
He laughed. “Ever the idealist. Some of them might eat you. We’ll see.”
Rafe made it all seem so real. So possible. Indulging her imagination, she spoke of Paris, Spain, and the Pyramids. They ended the dinner in laughter and high spirits. By the time they got back to the Randolph, Rafe had wrapped her up completely in his brand of magic, and she was close to forgetting all that she had resolved to remember. She hadn’t even mentioned to him that someone was trying to kill her.
At the door to her room, he said, “I will drive back to London tonight, then. Here is something to remember me by.”
He kissed her with a warmth that curled her toes. Nothing had changed. But then, that was part of the problem. Nothing had changed. She watched him walk away with regret.
How long will it last this time? Am I completely nuts?
Chapter Thirteen
Catherine didn’t sleep much that night but tossed and turned over her inevitable reaction to Rafe. When she eventually slept, she dreamed of sailing in a leaky boat.
An Oxford Murder Page 11
