Catherine sighed. How did I ever think I could pull this off? “Yes. I’m that poet. But it doesn’t follow that I was starry-eyed about Agatha Chenowith. That I don’t believe that in your friend’s case, the lawsuit was justified. Dr. Chenowith did a grave injustice, not just to Lady Rachel, but to Somerville College and Oxford.”
“There we are agreed,” said the young woman. “Leave your address, and if I hear anything about Rachel, I will think about letting you know. It all depends upon how she is getting on.”
Catherine took out another of her cards and printed her London address on the back. “I am staying at the Randolph in Oxford at the moment, and I can be reached there. But after next week, I expect I will be back at my London flat.”
The student rang for the butler to show them out.
“It’s lucky she doesn’t read the newspapers,” said Dr. Harry once the front door of Redford House had closed behind them. “Dear Agatha’s murder was reported quite vividly in The Daily Mirror and News of the World.”
“Even so, she smelled a rat,” said Catherine. “I’m sorry I was so ham-fisted. But at least we found out what we needed to know. She couldn’t have done it. She’s in a lockdown facility.”
Chapter Sixteen
Catherine gave her report to Dot. “You are so much more gifted at dissemblance than I am. It should have been you who went in with Dr. Harry.”
“I don’t know whether you realize it or not, but you just called me a liar,” Dot said with a laugh. “Oh, well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
“I have a proposal,” said Dr. Harry. “My home isn’t far. Why don’t I drive you around there where we can be sure of a welcome and a good meal? We can either drive back to Oxford tonight or better yet, in the morning.”
“Excellent idea,” said Dot.
Catherine felt overwhelmed. Was she ready to meet Dr. Harry’s people all at once like this, with no preparation? Why would he want her to?
As though reading her mind, he said, “Never mind about meeting the parents. They always spend their summers at the seaside with my sister’s family.”
“In that case, I would love to see your home, if you have a spare toothbrush. I imagine the home of Dr. Harry Bascombe is a tourist site hereabouts,” said Catherine.
He laughed. “Not quite. But it is comfortable, and I haven’t visited for a while. Always good to keep the servants on their toes.”
Dr. Harry’s house proved to be a Georgian manor similar to Redford House. It sat on a rise looking down at a small lake with a willow.
Lovely. Why does he pretend to have no money?
An aged and bent butler’s face lit when he saw Dr. Harry. “Master Harry! It has been a long time since you’ve visited.”
“Too long,” admitted Dr. Harry. “And you see I’ve brought my friends—Miss Tregowyn and Miss Nichols. We’ve been down this way on college business. Any chance we can get a meal and beds for the night?”
“Of course. I am only sorry your parents aren’t at home,” said the butler.
“I didn’t know until this morning that I was headed this way, or I would have written. We’ll just go into the drawing room. If you could bring tea, it would be appreciated. I imagine the view of the flower garden is lovely as usual.”
“It is. And no one here to enjoy it,” mourned the butler. “Mr. Hansen has been doing battle with aphids all summer as they’ve been at the roses. But he’s winning.”
Catherine was enchanted with the drawing room, which was not anything like what she expected a wool merchant would have. It was decorated in the Art Deco style with modern chrome and leather furniture, geometric carpets in red and black, and abstract art upon the walls.
“This is inspiring!” she said. “What an interesting room!”
“My mother’s the artist,” he said, indicating the paintings. “She took classes at the Slade before she chose to attend medical school.”
This was so unexpected Catherine found all her ideas about Dr. Harry in disarray. “But . . . with such a modern woman for a mother, how can you be interested in Victorian poetry?”
“Nature seeks a balance, I guess. I don’t favor the moderns much. I think they lack grace.”
“But society evolves,” said Catherine.
“History has also shown that eventually, every society declines. To tell you the truth, I believe Britain is in decline and has been since the War.”
Though this was not an original idea, Catherine had never heard it espoused by anyone as young as Dr. Harry. Seating herself on a black leather and chrome tubular chair, she rallied her thoughts.
“While that may be true in some respects, I must say, that for women, things have moved forward. We have the vote. The marriage laws have changed so that we are no longer chattel and we can initiate a divorce. Women like your mother are accepted for their intelligence. Things are finally starting to move forward for our gender.”
“You and my mother would get along splendidly. And I do agree about women. It’s just that Britain’s days in the sun are numbered. Despite some rough edges, America is evolving into the new world power. And, if we don’t stop them, Germany will be, too.”
Dot entered the conversation. “I agree. About Germany, at least. Hitler isn’t doing a comic turn. And no one is stopping him.”
“The last war sapped our energy and took away our will to police the world,” said Dr. Harry. “And we will live to regret it.”
“Oh, golly,” said Catherine. “I hope not.”
The tea cart was wheeled in, and she gave her attention to the selection of cakes and sandwiches, pushing the dire concerns down inside her where she kept such things. There simply couldn’t be another war. Britain would never allow it. Would they?
There was a lemon cake, scones, and cucumber sandwiches.
“Not bad for spur of the moment,” said Dot.
“The servants feed themselves well, even in my parent’s absence,” Dr. Harry remarked.
“Tell me about your father,” said Catherine. “He must be a remarkable man to have married such a modern woman.”
“He has one of the largest sheep runs in Hampshire. Other merchants are expanding into retail, but he thinks the future of the industry is horizontal rather than vertical, so he keeps investing in land and sheep. Since their management is primarily in the hands of long-time employees, he has plenty of extra time. He’s become a scholar. He took a degree from the London School of Economics and has now made himself into an expert on Locke and Bentham. Father spends his time writing articles for various journals. He is an anti-Socialist, which is not a very popular position right now, particularly at his alma mater.”
“Ah!” said Dot. “I begin to see the roots of your thinking.”
“Yes,” murmured Catherine, “As do I. But surely you’re not so conservative as to be a Monarchist!”
He laughed. “Calm yourself. It was the prime ministers of the Victorian age who made the country great. Not the queen. I applaud the parliament of those days. They made this country a fertile place for the explosion of ideas and inventions.”
“You can idealize them only so far,” said Catherine. “Poverty was terrible. Have you not read Dickens?”
“Ah, yes. The little boys of the East End. I forgot you were a Communist.”
She restrained herself from throwing a scone at his head. “You polarize my charitable ideas to invalidate them. You know I am not a Communist.”
“I move that we get back to the matters at hand,” said Dot. “What should our next step be in our investigation?”
“You’re right, of course, Miss Nichols,” said Dr. Harry, cutting himself a large slice of cake. “I think Wallinghouse and Waddell are both deserving of more investigation. I believe you ladies stand the best chance of digging into the Wallinghouse situation. I need to look into Waddell’s case. To m
e, he still seems the most obvious and viable suspect.”
Catherine’s temper flared. Who had appointed him the leader of their little band? She buttered a scone with great attention as she ground her teeth. “I also think the dean has something in her craw.”
“Doesn’t the dean have an alibi? A phone call to her mother?” asked Dot.
“That needn’t have taken more than a minute,” replied Catherine. “She has some connection to this murder; I’d be willing to wager. At the very least, she hasn’t told all she knows.”
“Very well. I see your point,” said Dr. Harry with some annoyance. “I have no right to tell you what to do. But I still think you’re admirably situated to look into the Wallinghouse affairs. I wouldn’t be surprised if Chenowith were blackmailing Sir Herbert about a former love affair, or even just threatening him. I’m certain her treatment of his wife over the poetry collection really rankled.”
“I wonder if the police found any letters or anything,” mused Dot. “If so, they probably have no idea of their significance.”
“I can find that out from my pet sergeant,” said Dr. Harry. He stood up, stretching his neck from side to side. “I need a walk. Does anyone want to see the gardens?”
Dot declared that she did, but Catherine declined. “My head is aching rather,” she said, knowing she sounded merely stubborn. She needed a nap. Last night’s late hours had tired her more than she wanted to admit. Plus, she needed to escape from Dr. Harry for a while. His personality was threatening to overwhelm her. Tangos, unexpected wealth, his atypical parentage coupled with his archaic socio-economic ideas, would all take some processing. And, of course, there was still Rafe, whose appearance in her life once more demanded definition. The complications of that relationship made anything of the sort with Dr. Harry appear straightforward by comparison.
“Could your butler direct me to the room you would like me to have?” she asked.
“I’m certain he’ll have it all sorted. I’ll ring for him.”
* * *
Alone in the contemporary teak wood furnished bedroom, Catherine found herself thinking about Margery. Dr. Harry was right about one thing. She was in the best position to find out the details of the Wallinghouse marriage. Secretly she worried about her friend. What if she was married to a killer?
Catherine had never taken to Sir Herbert, but Margery had been swept off her feet by him. He had mounted a determined courtship which included a daily letter, weekly deliveries of flowers and other gifts, and plenty of telephone calls. But he had never visited her at Somerville. It had seemed odd to Catherine at the time. Now that she suspected the probable reason for it—Agatha Chenowith—it seemed ominous. How could the man who had (as she suspected) carried on an affair with an intense and vindictive woman like Agatha Chenowith fall in love with an uncomplicated naïve girl like Margery Ackerman? Was it as straightforward as money and beauty?
There were plenty of debs every season with those attributes. Why Margery? Was the marriage in trouble? Was Chenowith a threat to it?
The only way she could see to find the answer was to rekindle her friendship with Margery. Her friend had always been her confidante when they were at school. Even more so than Dot. It was only her marriage and removal to Somerset that had put an end to their closeness. They had written at first, but over the years, that had tapered off. Looking back, Catherine could see that it had been Margery’s doing. Her letters had become widely spaced and infrequent. Had she not wanted to confide in Catherine any longer? Was she afraid to admit that she had made a mistake in marrying Sir Herbert?
Rafe and his insistence on an engagement opened the door for Catherine to begin to write to Margery once again. No one knew the details of her ups and downs with Rafe better than Margery.
Sitting at the caramel-colored wooden desk in front of the window, Catherine searched in the drawers for stationery. She found several sheets with the house’s address printed to the left. Ordering her ideas and trying to dismiss her guilt over her deception, she wrote:
Dearest Margery,
I so enjoyed seeing you the other night at the dance and before that at Dr. Sargent’s dinner party. Too bad it had to be upstaged by a murder!
As you can see by the address, I am taking a little visit to Hampshire. Dr. Harry Bascombe, whom you met at the dance, has invited Dot and me to spend the night in his family home as we were down here together on a bit of Somerville business. In fact, we have been trying to locate a student who was profoundly upset by Dr. Chenowith. Dr. Harry will be taking over from Chenowith and wants to convince the student to come back to Somerville for the next term. But we have had no luck finding her.
Actually, I am dying to confide in you as I used to. Rafe has resurfaced after a year in Kenya and wants to marry me. When I am with him, of course, I feel as though it is a wonderful idea, but when we are apart, all the doubts begin. I need to talk to someone who knows him as you do. Marriage is such a big step. How did you ever decide to take it?
Perhaps we could meet in London sometime soon? I would love to see you and get caught up.
Thank you.
Fondly,
Cat
After folding and sealing the letter, Catherine rooted in her purse for a stamp. Finding one, she stuck it on the letter and carried it downstairs to deliver to the butler for posting. He assured her it would go out by the next morning’s post.
Her conscience troubled her a bit. Was she emotionally manipulative? Not if, as she suspected, Margery was in a troubled marriage.
The problem with this whole situation was that there were too many suspects, and none but Lady Rachel had yet been eliminated. It was difficult to go forward on so many fronts. Even Dr. Harry was a suspect. He had never really accounted for his missing ten minutes after the sherry party and before the cab ride to The Mitre. His interest in their investigation could be nothing more than a diversionary tactic. But then her head was aching, coloring everything darker than it probably was. How could she suspect someone for whom she was coming to have a reluctant attraction and fondness?
Weary of emotional gymnastics, Catherine belatedly took off her hat and lay on the red counterpane that covered her bed. She put her hand up to her bandage. Where was Dr. Stephenson?
* * *
When she woke, Dot was shaking her by the shoulder.
“Dinner, you slugabed.”
Catherine opened her eyes slowly and had difficulty remembering where she was. She didn’t feel at all refreshed by her sleep.
“Oh, golly, Dot. I can’t believe I slept in my frock. It will be creased beyond anything.”
“There’s fresh trout on the menu,” her friend said.
“That doesn’t help. I need an iron.”
“Sorry. No time.”
Getting off the bed, Catherine used the sink in the corner to splash water on her face. She applied a fresh layer of face powder and some lipstick.
“You look splendid,” lied Dot.
“Ha!” said Catherine. “My eyes are even swollen.”
“Come on down for heaven’s sake,” her friend said. “It’s dinner, not a beauty parade.”
Dot could have done with a few repairs herself. Her face was shiny, and she had a ladder in one of her stockings, but Catherine did not point this out. Instead she followed meekly down into the drawing room.
Dr. Harry was mixing cocktails. Dot ordered a gin and tonic, but Catherine was still wary of alcohol due to her head injury. She asked for a lime and soda.
“Did you come to any earth-shattering conclusions as you pondered our puzzle?” asked Dr. Harry.
“No. I’m afraid I took a badly needed nap,” she said.
“Good,” he remarked. “Got to keep the mental machinery oiled.”
Dot laughed. “Cat is famous for her naps. She sleeps like the dead.”
Catherine shot her f
riend a look. “Yes. I always fight the desire to strangle whoever wakes me, so watch your step, Dot.”
Dinner was heavenly, and Catherine was restored to good humor over the vichyssoise. The trout followed.
“Why do you go to such pains to cultivate the idea that you are in straitened circumstances?” she asked Dr. Harry.
“I prefer to be judged by my accomplishments rather than the wealth of my family,” he said.
“That is admirable, I suppose,” said Catherine. “Though hard for a woman to do. There are very few things a woman is allowed to do that can serve to support her monetarily.”
Dot took up the conversation and talked about her job in advertising. She and Dr. Harry had a lively time discussing some of her campaigns advertising cigarettes and soap. Catherine let her mind wander.
For the first time, she wondered if Dot was interested in Dr. Harry romantically. They seemed to be getting along like bread and jam, whereas Catherine was sulky by comparison.
She remembered the care he had taken of her at the Radcliffe Infirmary and the passion of their dancing. No. He was interested in her. But was she leading him on when all along she intended to marry Rafe? That wasn’t fair to him or Dot.
And then she remembered her feelings of the night before. She hadn’t imagined the romantic tension between them. What was going on in her heart? When had her feelings for Dr. Harry Bascombe changed? How could she feel such a connection with him when he had formerly been her foe? At the moment, she felt more connected to him than she did to Rafe.
So, what was she going to do about Rafe anyway? He would be coming up to Oxford on Monday. How did she feel about that? She had loved him through thick and thin for most of her life.
But she was anxious. Wary. Afraid that he would sweep her up and carry her beyond common sense. Kenya, for instance. Did she want to go to Kenya?
After dinner, they filed into the drawing room where Dot announced she was going to go up to bed. “I have to work Monday, and, unlike someone I know, I didn’t nap. Thank you for driving today, Dr. Harry. I’m knackered.”
An Oxford Murder Page 14
