An Oxford Murder

by G. G. Vandagriff

  Dot woke her at what seemed like dawn.

  She groaned. At least her head was a little better. She remembered she needed to get it checked at the infirmary today.

  “How was Rafe?” Dot asked. “Has he cast his spell, once again?”

  “He’s the same,” she said. “I’m to give him a six-month trial.”

  “He is the same.”

  “Yes. Still kisses like a dream.”

  “I need to go into work today, but I’ll be back up here for the weekend. What are you doing?”

  Catherine hoisted herself on her elbows. “I need to go to Somerville to speak to Jennie about Lady Rachel’s friends.”

  “That’s good. It’s right by the infirmary. You need your head looked at.”

  “Inside and out, I’m afraid,” said Catherine with a sigh. She said good-bye to Dot.

  After a cooked breakfast in the hotel dining room, she stepped out into the fresh air and walked briskly to Somerville, hoping that Dr. Stephenson was not observing her.

  Where had he gone? Was he lurking, trying to find her alone? Or had he given up on that idea, knowing she had already been to the police with her tale of plagiarism?

  She had no answers.

  Once at Somerville, she sought out Jennie who was changing linens and refreshing towels in the few inhabited rooms in the dormitories.

  After inquiring after the scout’s health, Catherine asked, “Jennie, could you try to find out the names of Lady Rachel’s friends? I think maybe she might have been in touch with at least one of them since she left college. We have no idea where she is.”

  “I’ll ask my friend, Mary. I think she may know. How is your head today?”

  “I’m supposed to go to the infirmary to get the bandage changed. Bit of a bother, but I’m feeling all right.”

  The scout scrutinized her face. “You didn’t sleep well.”

  “No,” said Catherine. “It must be this beastly murder.”

  * * *

  Catherine kept the promise she’d made to Dot and went to the nearby Radcliffe Infirmary to have her head checked, and her bandage changed. As she lay on the table in the treatment room, she thought through what she knew.

  Surely the Detective Chief Inspector no longer suspected her of the murder of Dr. Chenowith. Why was she so driven to meddle in his investigation? Why did she think she could do a better job at it?

  She shouldn’t feel bad about Dr. Stephenson. She would have found him out eventually after the book was published. And he had tried to murder her.

  Should she cease investigating? Still troubled by Lady Rachel, she thought she should at least eliminate her as a suspect. The police weren’t even looking in that direction, as far as she knew. Besides, it gave her something else to occupy her mind other than the man who had just returned from Kenya.

  When she arrived back at Somerville, there was a message waiting for her from Dr. Harry. He had rung to invite her to “Guest for Tea Day” at Christ Church. He claimed to have some information to share.

  Cheek! He knew she couldn’t resist a clue.

  She went to the room she had occupied and packed up all her possessions for the Randolph porter to pick up. Then, giving in to the demands of a headache on top of a sleepless night, Catherine decided on a bit of a lie-down. Jennie assured her no one would mind if she lay on the bed in the room she had occupied. She promised to make up the bed again. Catherine ended by sleeping away the entire afternoon.

  * * *

  Dr. Harry awaited her at the Christ Church porter’s lodge to take her in to tea. She hadn’t known how dressy she should be, so she was glad to see by his tie and navy blue blazer that she had been wise in the choice of her white linen suit and red and white cartwheel hat.

  “Greetings,” he said. “Did you make it to the infirmary today?”

  He was every bit as handsome as Rafe in his own way. “I did. And I napped away the afternoon so I’m in fine fettle.”

  “Oh my,” she said as they entered the dining room. “This is elaborate.”

  The complete tea consisted of tiered servers full of cakes, scones, and biscuits, plates of sandwiches and fruit, as well as complete silver tea services with pots of jam and clotted cream.

  “I shan’t want dinner, that’s for certain.”

  Once they were seated, she said, “So what’s the clue you have for me?”

  “Well, I doubt it will make you happy, but I have cultivated a sergeant who is working on this case. Had a pint with him. If I approach him casually enough, he has proved to be not immune to my digging. He happened to mention that there was no trunk call made from Somerville to Somerset on the night of the murder. So, your friend, Margery’s alibi has vanished. And there is the fact that she lied under oath, as well.”

  “Oh.” Catherine felt as though the wind were knocked out of her. “That was a silly thing to do. She must have known they would check.”

  “She still maintains she called her husband,” Dr. Harry said. “He just didn’t happen to be in Somerset. He was here. At the Randolph.”

  “Oh, my. I suppose they checked that, as well.”

  “Yes. Sir Herbert was apparently out when she claimed to have called. The hotel rang his room, but he didn’t answer. They were most helpful.”

  “Evidently.”

  Catherine thought about what she knew of Margery’s husband. He loved his wife fiercely. The whole business of her poetry was important enough to him to have brought a lawsuit against the publisher who withdrew her contract. But was he hot-headed? Would he commit murder over such a thing? Catherine had no idea.

  It is the sort of thing Rafe would do.

  She brushed the thought away impatiently.

  “So now he is a suspect, as well as Margery,” she said.

  “Yes. Perhaps we are going to have a plethora of suspects, and the problem is going to be choosing between them. There is Waddell, too.”

  “And I’m still going to try to follow up on Lady Rachel. My scout is trying to find out who her friends are. One of them might know where she is. But I agree. Waddell is a puzzle. How in the world does he fit in?”

  Dr. Harry spread a scone carefully with clotted cream and topped it with raspberry jam. “If he hadn’t disappeared, I wouldn’t be thinking twice about him,” he said.

  “I know what you mean. By the way, this walnut cake is divine,” she said.

  “We seem to do our best detecting over meals,” said Dr. Harry after finishing off his scone. “Speaking of which, a mate of mine saw you out to dinner last night with a chap.”

  “That was my chap.” She tossed the words out like a challenge. “Rafael St. James.”

  “Is he the one who writes about Kenya in The Times Sunday Supplement?”

  “The same,” she said, obscurely glad that Rafe had acquitted himself so well in print.

  “Glad to see him?”

  “I am. He’ll be coming up to Oxford next week if I’m still here, so you’ll have a chance to meet him.”

  “Delighted, I’m sure,” he said, his voice dry. “Can’t say I think much of that type.”

  “What type is that?” she asked, affronted as though he had criticized a member of her family.

  “Big game hunter, idle rich.”

  “He’s not exactly idle,” she said. “He’s talked about buying a farm in Africa, and he’s in London learning all about the companies he’s inheriting from his father.”

  “And hiring someone else to run, I imagine.”

  She couldn’t disagree. She took up his other point. “I don’t like the hunting either,” she admitted. “He wants me to learn, but I could never shoot anything like an elephant. It would feel like murder.”

  “So, there’s hope for you,” he said.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  He only ra
ised an eyebrow and offered to refill her teacup.

  Would he classify her as a member of the “idle rich?” Probably. Although she did have her East End boys. And her poetry, of course.

  Steady on! Why does it matter what he thinks?

  “We’re going to honeymoon in Greece,” she shot back.

  “So, you’re engaged?”

  “Provisionally,” she hedged. “I’ve been more or less engaged to Rafe as long as I can remember.”

  “What’s stopping you?” he asked, his blue eyes keen as he examined hers.

  “I couldn’t begin to explain, and you wouldn’t understand anyway.” She took a cucumber sandwich and ate it as though it were an act of defiance.

  “I’d be interested to know what Dot thinks of all this.”

  For some reason, Dr. Harry compelled her to be honest. “She doesn’t like Rafe.”

  “I knew she had a good head on her shoulders.”

  “You haven’t even met him!”

  “Has anyone ever told you you’re a bit dense at times?”

  She felt herself color as red as the raspberry jam. Dr. Harry was interested in her romantically? No. He just liked a challenge. He didn’t even like her. Besides, he despised her poetry.

  He evidently decided a change of topic was called for. “So how are you going to track down Lady Rachel’s friends?”

  “I haven’t got that far yet. I don’t even have their names.”

  “You need a source in the Registrar’s Office.”

  “With any luck, one of them will be in Debrett’s like Lady Rachel.”

  Dr. Harry prepared another scone with cream and jam and placed it on her plate. “Eat. You’re far too thin.”

  Ignoring him, she said, “I wonder if I ought to talk to Margery.”

  “I thought we might go dancing tonight,” he said.

  She looked at him as though she had misheard. “Are you joking?”

  “Not a bit.”

  Without thinking, she ate the cream scone. She loved to go dancing, and it had been ages. And she wasn’t actually engaged. Then she remembered.

  “I have a shaved spot and a big white bandage on my head.”

  “Wear a thing in your hair. You know. One of those bands with feathers sticking out.”

  “How enterprising you are! What sort of feathers do you recommend?”

  He grinned at her. “Ostrich. Dinner first?”

  “I already told you that I shan’t need dinner tonight. This tea will just about set me up for life.”

  “All right. I’ll call for you in my motor at eight o’clock. There’s a dance on at the Town Hall. The band is supposed to be good. You tango, I hope?”

  “With pleasure,” she said and gave a little laugh. She could only imagine what it would be like to tango with a pirate.

  * * *

  Fortunately, Catherine knew of a costumier near the covered market who was happy to rent her a feathered headpiece that successfully covered her bandage. There were plenty of dancing frocks there, as well. Oxonians loved to dress up without spending much money. She found an ivory gown with black feathered shoulders and hem and a smocked bodice that fit her to perfection.

  As she walked back to the Randolph with the hired clothing, her spirits were high. There was a message from Jennie awaiting her.

  Mary knew one of Lady Rachel’s friends. Her name is Honorable Gwendolyn Fellingsworth. She lives in Hampshire, but Mary didn’t know any more than that. I hope this helps.

  An Honorable! Well, that was a piece of luck. She would be in Debrett’s. But that would be left until tomorrow. Now she needed a bath.

  Her belongings from Somerville awaited her in her room. She extracted her oil of gardenia and poured it into her bath in the old Victorian tub and allowed herself to soak.

  Catherine couldn’t believe that Dr. Harry was anything more than a flirt, although he had been wonderful to her when she had been coshed. But they were incompatible. Her poetry was the best part of her, and he utterly rejected it. Why did she have to keep telling herself that? Was she actually in danger of falling for the man?

  No. Of course not. Unfortunately, she was mad about Rafe.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dr. Harry in full evening kit was a sight to behold. Simply put, he was gorgeous. The stark black and white of his clothing played up his resemblance to Douglas Fairbanks, and the flash of his smile was devastating.

  What am I doing?

  “You look marvelous. Nothing like a convalescent,” he told her. “And the headpiece is a success.”

  “Thank you. I haven’t been dancing in a long time. I’m looking forward to it.”

  The Town Hall had been transformed. The walls were lined with ornamental trees and flowering shrubs in containers. A white gauze sheet stretched above them at ten feet, lowering the ceiling. All the light was provided by gas lamps.

  The band was sensational. Dr. Harry asked her to dance immediately. It was a Fox Trot, and Catherine had to admit he was a wonderful dancer. He fixed her with his sapphire gaze and said the last thing she expected.

  “I was certain Penwyth was an agnostic. That was the worst of it.”

  Gathering her wits, she said, “No. She was definitely a transcendentalist. She knew it was unfashionable, but she was.”

  “I forgive you for being right. Is there any chance I can look at her papers sometime?”

  A kernel of disappointment bloomed in her breast. “Is that what this evening is about? You could have just asked. You didn’t need to bring me dancing.”

  He grinned. “Since I made your acquaintance, I have been prey to two warring factions in my consciousness. Number One: I have always wanted to dance the Tango with you. Number Two: I have been angry you beat me to Penwyth’s biography. I can now admit that it was a good thing for my own scholarship on the woman was completely amiss, and you saved me a great embarrassment. But I still want to dance the Tango with you.”

  His words countered her disappointment, and she began to feel more at ease, but still a bit on guard. “I am trying to get used to your frankness,” she said.

  The dance ended, and they made their way to a side table which had been set up to hold punch and miniature pastries. “I’ll let you sample the punch and tell me what variety it is,” she said.

  He took up a cup and sampled it. “Rum,” he said. “Not too strong. Fruity.”

  She had detested rum ever since an incident at Dot’s coming out party when she had been distressingly ill. “I’ll pass on it, I believe. But these look amusing.” Catherine sampled a tiny chocolate cream puff.

  With a cloth napkin, he wiped a tiny bit of cream from her upper lip. The gesture was intimate, and she unconsciously touched the place with her tongue.

  “You will finish by driving me round the bend,” he said. “Let’s dance again.”

  “It’s a Rhumba,” she said. “I don’t know how.”

  “I will teach you then,” he said. “As evidence that I am over being shown up by a female undergraduate.”

  “But I don’t think that you are,” she said.

  “But I am working on it,” he said. “And you are helping.”

  He taught her the Rhumba box step, and she caught on quickly. A spot of heat bloomed in her breast as they danced.

  Stop it! He isn’t Rafe!

  The attraction she felt was as welcome as a nail file against her bare skin. Catherine was relieved when the dance ended, and she spotted Margery and her husband across the room.

  “You must come to meet the Wallinghouses. I see Margery,” she said.

  “I remember her from the dinner, but I don’t think we’ve ever been introduced,” he said.

  They fought through the thick crowd until they achieved her objective.

  “Margery! I’m so happy to see you.
Sir Herbert, good evening.”

  Her friend exclaimed over her dress and kissed her cheek.

  Catherine said, “I’d like to introduce my friend, Dr. Bascombe. Margery, you may remember him from dinner at The Mitre. Dr. Bascombe, meet Sir Herbert Wallinghouse and Lady Margery.”

  The baronet was tall and balding. He was handsome in a very English sort of way with a thin, long nose, a broad brow, and large, deeply set eyes. The men shook hands.

  Dr. Harry wasted no time on trivialities. “Horrible thing, murder,” he said.

  “Ghastly,” said Margery. “And the police have us in their sites.”

  “Not really!” said Catherine.

  “You know all the business about my poetry. They are convinced one of us did it for revenge.”

  “Poetry as a motive for murder. Only in Oxford,” said Dr. Harry.

  “I’m working on a few other angles. I know you aren’t guilty,” said Catherine.

  “This new suspect has a poetry motive, as well?” asked the baronet.

  “I shouldn’t say anything about it, but I can tell you that we’re not certain poetry has anything to do with it,” said Catherine.

  “Thank you for looking into this,” said Margery. “Now that we know we aren’t being singled out, maybe I can enjoy the dancing a little more. And maybe the police will let us go home tomorrow.”

  Catherine felt a little uneasy. Had she had been so anxious to reassure her friend that she had spoken up when she shouldn’t have? Detective Chief Inspector Marsh was not going to be pleased with her if he found out.

  “I haven’t talked to you since Dr. Chenowith’s review of your book,” she said to Margery. “I have never understood it. She liked the poems you submitted to her individually. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I know. It was the greatest shock of my life, I think.”

  “What I am learning about her makes me realize she wasn’t a particularly nice person. Did you ever do anything to offend her in any way?”

  “She took against me from the time I married. You know how she felt about men, right?”

  Catherine thought about this for a moment and then objected, “But Anne married. And Dr. Chenowith was always perfectly cordial to her. Even when she went platinum blonde.”