She was aware that the baronet was shifting uneasily on his feet. “Let’s dance, Margery,” he said. “Good to meet you, professor. Good to see you, Catherine.”
As they moved off, Dr. Harry said, “That man has something in his craw.”
“I agree. Something is making him tremendously nervous. He’s always been the soul of politeness, and that was downright rude.”
“It’s something to do with Chenowith, I’ll wager,” said Dr. Harry.
“But how would he even know her? She was an academic; he’s a wealthy aristocrat.”
“How did he meet Lady Margery?”
“At a coming-out party in London. It’s been about four years ago now, during our last year at Somerville.”
“He looks quite a bit older than Lady Margery.”
“He is. There’s a fifteen-year age difference. It never mattered to her, though.”
“How old was Chenowith?”
“Approaching forty, I would say. But the way she wore her hair aged her. She could have been younger.”
“I’ll wager she knew Sir Herbert and he knew her. Very well.”
Catherine considered this. “Yes. You could be right. He never came to Oxford that year. Even though they were engaged. I didn’t meet him until the wedding.”
“Do you know where he went to university?”
“I don’t.”
“A look in Debrett’s will inform us. Dr. Chenowith was at Somerville, am I correct?” he asked.
“Yes, but she didn’t like men.”
“Maybe he’s why.”
The music changed. Suddenly the room came alive. It was a Tango.
She watched as Dr. Harry shook off his preoccupation.
“All right, Señorita. You will not escape me now.”
Her partner took on a new personality as they moved onto the dance floor. His every move was cloaked in drama. Laughing, she joined him in the game, locking her gaze with his, miming deep passion. They stepped carefully and deliberately. Soon a circle had cleared around them as people drew back to give them room to perform. When the music ended, there was applause.
Dr. Harry gave a flamboyant bow and Catherine curtseyed. She hadn’t had so much fun in a long time. Her partner told her she had to have a glass of punch after that, and she regretfully agreed. She was thirsty, but she hoped the result would not be disastrous.
“That was smashing,” she said, borrowing Dot’s favorite word.
“Utterly,” agreed Dr. Harry. “You are the perfect partner. Does your Rafael St. John dance?”
“Very unwillingly,” she answered.
“How did you meet?” he asked, his voice casual as he sipped his punch.
“He came home from school with my brother when I was ten. It was love at first sight.” She put her cup down on a convenient tray. “But let’s not talk about Rafe. Let’s dance again.”
They danced until the band packed up at one a.m. Catherine chased every serious thought from her head, and when the band left declared herself to be starving.
“I don’t suppose we could find bacon and eggs anywhere,” she said.
“Oysters, yes. Bacon and eggs, no,” said her partner.
They headed for Carmichael’s on the High Street, and each consumed a dozen raw oysters. Dr. Harry quoted Ogden Nash limericks one after another. It was the perfect cap to the evening.
When they stood outside her room at the Randolph, Catherine told him, “I haven’t had such a lovely time in years. Thank you so much.”
“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked.
“Trying to track down Lady Rachel. Dot will be here in the morning.”
“I am going to ferret out acquaintances of the elusive Dr. Waddell. I am determined to find out what the man is up to.”
“Good idea,” she said. Standing on her toes, she kissed his cheek. “Goodnight, Señor.”
“Adios, Señorita.”
She carried the memory of his smile with her in all her preparations for bed. Then she slept long and deeply.
Chapter Fifteen
Dot woke her at ten o’clock.
“Here I rise at dawn and drive up from London, ready for the hunt, only to find you still abed!”
“I went out dancing,” she said dreamily.
“Dancing?”
“With Dr. Harry. We did the Tango. It was more fun than anything.”
“Dr. Harry, huh? At least it wasn’t the wastrel. Up, up, up!”
Catherine dressed quickly in her pink frock and hat while Dot ordered coffee and a bun for her from room service.
They found Dr. Harry waiting in the lobby below.
“Hullo, Señor!” said Catherine. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought I might help in the search for Lady Rachel. Saturday is not the easiest day to track down inhabitants of the men’s colleges.”
“We have to stop at Somerville to check the Debrett’s in the library,” said Catherine.
“My carriage awaits,” said Dr. Harry. “I am ready to perform chauffeuring duties for the day.”
She looked at him suspiciously. “Are you sure you’re not acting as bodyguard?”
“Well, that, too. I won’t be totally at ease until Stephenson is brought in.”
“They didn’t bring Stephenson in yet?” asked Dot.
“They haven’t found him. Hence the bobby in the lobby here,” said Catherine.
“Oh, dear. Surely, he knows that horse has already bolted. He must know why the police are after him.”
“He called the infirmary,” Catherine said. “He knows I survived the blow. We think that’s when he took off.”
“Well, I think my driving is probably better than yours,” Dot said to Dr. Harry. “But I won’t mind being chauffeured for once. You will be a grand help if we should have a puncture.”
* * *
Dr. Harry waited by the porter’s lodge in his Morris motor while Catherine and Dot performed their errand at Somerville.
At the library, Dot found the Debrett’s Peerage, and they looked up the Fellingsworth family of Hampshire.
“Gwendolyn’s father is Lord Robert, the second son of the Marquis of Debenham. The Debenham family seat, Brookshire Hall, is near Winchester, it looks like,” she said. “New Alresford. It doesn’t show Lord Robert’s residence. We will have to place a trunk call to Brookshire Hall to find out. Where shall we ring from?”
“Hobbs will let us ring from the porter’s lodge if we leave him money to cover it,” said Catherine. “At least, that was the policy when we were up. I had to call Cornwall often when my mother was so ill.”
The porter was indeed amenable. It only remained for them to ascertain the cost of the call from the switchboard operator at its conclusion.
Dot made the call. “Brookshire Hall in New Alresford, Hampshire, if you please.”
The operator told her to ring off and wait for her call to be connected. While they were waiting, Dr. Harry, who had apparently grown tired of his motor, arrived at the lodge.
Catherine greeted him, “We are waiting for a call from Hampshire. Trying to locate Lady Rachel’s friend.”
“So she was in Debrett’s?” he asked.
“Yes. An honorable. Niece to the Marquis of Debenham,” said Catherine. “We’re calling the family seat to try to find her.”
“Is her father Robert or Alexander?” asked Dr. Harry.
“Robert,” Dot said.
“I might have more luck. The marquis was up at Christ Church before the War. He actually made it through. He is an active alum. I know him.”
“You’re heaven sent then. We’re trying to locate Gwendolyn—family name Fellingsworth.”
The operator rang through, telling them she had Brookshire Hall on the line. At a nod from Catherine, Dr. Ha
rry took the receiver.
“Hullo! This is Dr. Harry Bascombe calling from Christ Church at Oxford. Is this Lord Debenham’s butler?”
“It is. Quarrels, Dr. Bascombe.”
“Quarrels, yes. I remember. I don’t wish to bother the marquis if I can help it. I am trying to ring his brother, Lord Robert. Have you his direction?”
“He lives here on the estate. The exchange will know. Redford House.”
“Thank you so much, Quarrels. The family is at home, I take it?”
“Yes. You will find them all in residence, Dr. Bascombe.”
“Thank you.”
Dot took the receiver from Dr. Harry and asked the exchange for the charge on the call. Catherine left the requisite number of shillings with Hobbs. Then she thought to ask him, “May I leave a message to be delivered to the scout, Jennie, Hobbs?”
For a moment, the porter looked a bit sour. Then he said, “Yes, miss. I suppose I could take it over there before I go off duty.”
“I would appreciate it. It has to do with Dr. Chenowith’s murder investigation.”
The man brightened. “I would be happy to take a message, miss.”
Catherine wrote out a message for Jennie, telling her that if she had any further information about Dr. Chenowith, she could always call and leave a message with her maid in London. She left her telephone number.
“Thank you, Hobbs.”
“It looks like we’re off for Hampshire,” said Catherine as they climbed into Dr. Harry’s motor. “Let’s hope Miss Fellingsworth knows how we can find Lady Rachel.”
“You realize it’s all of fifty miles to New Alresford,” said Dr. Harry.
“Not as far as London,” Dot assured him. “And how did you know that is where we are headed?”
“I told you. The marquis and I are acquainted.”
As they took off down the Woodstock Road, Catherine spared a thought for Rafe. For someone unofficially engaged, she was certainly spending a lot of time with this man.
* * *
A light rain fell as they made their way south to Hampshire. Dot had insisted on sitting in the second seat, so Catherine was left to sit next to Dr. Harry in front. After the hilarity and intimacy of the night before, she felt quite silly and awkward.
As they drove through the curvy lanes to the major roads, Catherine asked, “Are you working on any poetry at present?” she finally thought to ask.
“You jest. Surely you have noticed I am fully engaged in proving I was not canoodling in the Somerville new chapel on Friday last.”
“Right. It has taken me out of my normal writing routine, as well. I appreciate your help. But tell me, how do you go about composing? Do you write out your stream of consciousness and then compose it into a poem? Or do you start right out composing it in the proper form?”
“I suspect you of trying to milk me of my secrets.”
“You’re the one who offered to drive. Now that I have you captive, at least I can use the time productively,” Catherine said.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I compose naked at the Botanic Gardens during the new moon.”
Both Catherine and Dot giggled. “I shall write a biography of you and put that in,” said Dot. “It would make me a fortune and would increase your sales a thousand-fold.”
“There’s that,” said Dr. Harry. “Or we could romanticize this mystery a bit and write it as a Sherlock Holmes with Watson and his cousin up from the country.”
Dot laughed. “I vote for you as the cousin up from the country. Catherine is obviously Sherlock.”
“Yes. I’m more the Lord Peter Wimsey character,” said Dr. Harry.
“You flatter yourself,” said Catherine. “You are not a bit like Lord Peter.”
They bickered in this manner for all of fifty miles. By the time they reached Hampshire, they had invented a wholly new character, based on Lord Harry, the viscount, who worked for the admiralty masquerading as a pirate on the high seas. Catherine thought he seemed quite pleased with his alter ego.
“Coming up: the Hampshire Downs. Made of chalk, in case you were wondering,” announced Dr. Harry.
* * *
New Alresford turned out to be a charming town with a spacious main street. Lined with Georgian residences and shops, Broad Street had trees planted down its center. On one of the side streets, they located a picturesque pub called the Dog and Rooster.
When they entered, they found it paneled in dark wood, sparsely lit. Leather-covered benches flanked oak tables.
“What’ll it be, ladies?” asked Dr. Harry.
“I’ll have the Ploughman’s Lunch,” said Dot after reading the chalkboard above the bar.
“Same,” said Catherine. “And a shandy.”
Dr. Harry ordered a pork pie with a pint of lager, and they settled in a booth.
“Poor Lady Rachel. I feel like we’re hounding her,” said Catherine.
“We need to follow it through,” said Dr. Harry. “It’s a legitimate line of inquiry.”
“I hope we can eliminate her as a suspect,” said Dot. “Poor girl.”
They fell to talking about the beauties of Hampshire, and Dr. Harry confessed to the fact that he had been raised not far away from New Arlesford. “I have a great fondness for this part of the country and its sheep,” he said. “I come from a long line of wool merchants.”
Catherine felt the importance of the seemingly careless utterance. He knew her background quite well—daughter of baron that she was. And the fact that she could sustain herself on the slim royalties from a book of poetry spoke for itself. Not only was her father a peer of the realm, but a wealthy peer.
Since the war, the barriers between the classes had been shifting, and after attending university with scholars such as Dr. Harry, whose family made their money in “trade,” Catherine no longer viewed those walls as insurmountable.
“So that is how you come to know Lord Debenham! Have you ever met Lord Robert?”
“A time or two. He’s rather vain but other than that he’s a good bloke. I don’t know his daughter, the Honorable Gwendolyn, however.”
“Well, that can’t be helped,” said Dot with a little giggle. “Though it would have been quite fun to see you vamp her.”
“There is nothing to prevent that course of action if you think it best,” he said with a grin.
“You really are a pirate,” said Catherine, laughing.
Dr. Harry knew the way to the Debenham estate and they came upon Redford House at the end of a drive that took them through a lane of towering oaks that had been standing for centuries.
It was a large and sturdy red brick house of Georgian design with multiple chimneys and black shutters. Dot was afraid the three of them would overwhelm the poor Gwendolyn, so she stayed behind in Dr. Harry’s motor.
When the butler answered the door, Dr. Harry passed him their calling cards. “We’re here to see the Honorable Gwendolyn Fellingsworth. We have just motored down from Oxford this morning,” he said.
The butler inclined his head. “I will see if she is receiving.”
At length, they were guided to a sitting room with a view of the flower garden, which Catherine took to be a good sign. Though she hadn’t sought it, she was grateful for Dr. Harry’s presence. Too grateful, perhaps.
She drew the conclusion from her surroundings that, though a younger son, Lord Robert was prosperous. The room was freshly outfitted in glazed chintz upholstery in a navy blue and coral floral pattern. The walls were coral, and a navy blue Aubusson carpet lay at her feet. Fresh roses graced the tea table in an antique Chinese vase.
Miss Gwendolyn Fellingsworth proved to be a large, athletic-looking girl with brown shingled hair and golden eyes.
“Should I know you?” she asked rather grandly upon entering the room.
Catherine smiled. “No
, I shouldn’t think so. I was a few years ahead of you at Somerville. This is Dr. Harry Bascombe, a professor at Christ Church. We’re here hoping you can talk to us about Lady Rachel Warren.”
“Why?” asked Gwendolyn. “Why do you want to question me about Rachel? Hasn’t she had enough trouble?”
“That’s just it,” said Dr. Harry. “The college greatly regrets what she has been through and thought she ought to know that Dr. Chenowith has passed away. There is no reason for Lady Rachel not to return to Somerville. I, myself, will be teaching Modern Poetry now.”
This was the first Catherine had heard of this, and she suspected him of inventing it on the spot.
“Passed away? Dr. Hatchet? That’s very sudden, surely. How did she die? Is it too much to hope that someone murdered her?”
Catherine exchanged a look with Dr. Harry. He spoke, “The cause of death has not been determined.”
“The administration wanted to make a special effort in Lady Rachel’s case, to let her know that they are keeping a place for her for the Michaelmas Term.”
“Even I know there’s a lawsuit afoot against the college on her behalf. Bending over backward, are you?”
Catherine found the girl very impertinent, but she could not wholly blame her. The story they were spinning sounded every bit like what Gwendolyn had in mind.
“Rather,” she said. “The problem is, we haven’t the least idea where she is. We’d like to inform her in person. Can you help us?”
“I’m afraid not. I wouldn’t do it even if I could. Your lot have caused the poor girl to have what they are calling a nervous breakdown. She’s in seclusion. Even I can’t see her, and I’m her closest chum. She’s locked down, so she can’t get out, either.”
Lady Rachel couldn’t have done it. “Oh, golly. Is she violent then?” asked Catherine with assumed horror.
The Honorable Gwendolyn’s eyes narrowed, and she looked hard at both her visitors.
“I’m sorry,” Catherine said. “I shouldn’t have asked that. I feel so sorry for the poor girl and what she has gone through.”
“No, she’s not violent, but I know you!” exulted Gwendolyn. “You’re that poet! The one Dr. Hatchet was always going on about. One of her former students. She gave you glowing reviews!”
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