An Oxford Murder

by G. G. Vandagriff

  Her companion got up and began pacing the room. “There’s got to be something somewhere that can help us.”

  He stopped his pacing and pulled out his pipe, which he began to fill.

  Catherine mulled this over. “Miss Siddons is her literary executor. Maybe there’s some kind of abstruse clue in her latest poetry?”

  “I think that lady would have told us. She was anxious to help.”

  “Well, it’s worth a try,” said Catherine. “I’m going to write Miss Siddons a note.” She moved to her writing desk, took out her fountain pen and a piece of stationery, and began to compose.

  Dr. Harry sat down and lit his pipe.

  * * *

  Dot telephoned when she got home from work, asking to be caught up on the progress of the investigation.

  Catherine said, “Dr. Harry’s here. Why don’t you join us for a pub supper at that place by your work—what is it called?”

  “The Spot, short for Spotted Pig,” said Dot. “Sixish?”

  “That’ll just give us time to get there.”

  Catherine and the professor took the Underground along with the London hoards who were surging from offices all over the city. They arrived at six-fifteen. The pub was crowded with journalists from Fleet Street where Dot’s office was located. Everyone was quite merry, holding their drinks aloft so they wouldn’t be jostled by an errant elbow.

  They finally reached the bar where they ordered two steak and kidney pies and two pints of lager. Finding a table was virtually impossible until they caught sight of Dot who was holding one down for them in the back corner.

  They arrived at length and seated themselves.

  “Phew!” said Catherine. “Thanks for getting us a table.”

  “You’re welcome,” Dot said. She appeared to be partway through her supper of fish and chips. “Now spill. Do you know who burgled you?”

  “It must be someone who thinks I have something I don’t have. We have worked out that Dr. Chenowith may have known something to the discredit of Somerville.”

  Catherine described their line of reasoning after their visit with Miss Siddons.

  “You don’t think that’s a bit melodramatic?”

  “What was Miss Siddons like?” asked Dot.

  “It was hard to tell on such short acquaintance, but I suspect her of being spiteful, if not mean,” said Catherine. “I was very careful to stay on her good side.”

  While she started on her pie, Dr. Harry filled Dot in on their conversation.

  “Wow!” said Catherine’s friend. “So, we’ve got a pretty solid motive for Sir Herbert.”

  “Margery’s coming to Town tomorrow,” said Catherine. “I’m going to see if I can find an alibi for her husband without tipping her off about the relationship with Dr. Chenowith.”

  “That’s good. Do you think you need to go back to Oxford?”

  “I’d love to have a look at Dr. Chenowith’s rooms, but I will probably have to rely on Jennie since the dean has tossed me out.”

  “If they haven’t started packing up her things,” said Dot.

  “She apparently has no family. Her things will probably be put somewhere awaiting the Chancery Court’s decision about what to do with them. She left some kind of will because Miss Siddons is her literary executor,” said Catherine.

  Dr. Harry told Dot about Dr. Stephenson’s alibi.

  “Well, that eliminates him as a suspect,” she said. “Aside from Sir Herbert, that leaves only Dr. Waddell of our known suspects.”

  Dr. Harry said, “When I go up to Oxford tomorrow, I am going to plague his college associates. There’s got to be something somewhere that can shed light on why he was searching the dorm and then disappeared so completely.”

  Everyone concentrated on their meals as they thought. Catherine looked at her friend’s familiar red head as she bent over her food and felt Dr. Harry’s piratical gaze on her. She thought suddenly how lucky she was in her friends.

  “Rafe sent roses,” said Dr. Harry suddenly.

  “Rafe?” Dot appeared astounded.

  “I met him this morning. I shook him up a bit, I think. Thank you for calling me and telling me Catherine was in danger, by the way.”

  “Had to get some protection for Cat. I’ll stay with her tonight,” said Dot.

  “Don’t talk about me as though I weren’t sitting right here,” Catherine said, annoyed. To Dot, she said, “I don’t mean to doubt your capabilities, but a stout walking stick and I would be a lot more protection than you if the burglar decides to revisit. Besides, I don’t want to put you in danger, too.”

  “I’m to keep watch tonight,” said Dr. Harry.

  “I’d feel a lot less guilty if someone should hurt him instead of you,” Catherine told Dot.

  He grinned. “I see I’m expendable. Always happy to oblige.”

  “I’m putting Margery up tomorrow night,” Catherine told her friend. Then she had a thought. “I’m persona non grata at Somerville right now, but I’m going to try to get Jennie to search Dr. Chenowith’s room for anything the police might have missed. She could phone me and let me know if she finds anything.”

  “Good idea,” said Dot. “I wish I didn’t have to work. I could dash up there and take a look myself.”

  “This is really rather unsettling, you know,” said Catherine, rubbing her arms as she felt a sudden chill. “It’s not a game. Someone out there is a murderer, and that someone broke into my flat. What were they looking for? Why would they think I had anything?”

  “I’ll keep you safe,” said Dr. Harry. “And we’re going to find whoever it was.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Catherine rang Jennie that night when they returned to the flat. The scout agreed to take a look at Chenowith’s room the next morning and smuggle out anything she found. She would take them in her cleaning cart, underneath the clean towels.

  “I feel bad about asking her to do that,” she said after ringing off. “I should be the one to do it.”

  “It’s much less dangerous for Jennie. No one suspects her.”

  “But the golden rule scouts live by is not to steal from the rooms.”

  They were in the sitting room on separate sofas. Catherine felt a bit uncomfortable, knowing he was to stay the night and keep watch. She shifted uneasily where she sat.

  “It just feels wrong,” she said. “But I don’t know what else to do. If we wait, even until the next day, they could take everything to Oxfam.”

  Dr. Harry took out his pipe. “To change the subject, is Rafe likely to show up tonight?”

  “I doubt it. He said he’d see me in a couple of days.”

  “Good.”

  The single word dumped a load of guilt on Catherine’s head. She knew Rafe would never understand Dr. Harry’s vigilance. She hadn’t even told him about the murderous attack by Dr. Stephenson. It seemed to her suddenly that she was far too vested in this relationship with the professor. Their investigation was binding her to him emotionally. She stood up and went to the wireless. A classical piece was being broadcast by the BBC.

  “Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto,” said Dr. Harry. “That’s suitably ominous.”

  “The Russians are always ominous. Their poor souls are unsettled,” said Catherine. Like mine. Going to her desk, she sorted through the afternoon post. There was a note addressed to her from Oxford—Balliol College.

  “Would you mind if I opened this? It looks like it might be from Dr. Williams. He’s the only one I know from Balliol.”

  “Proceed, by all means,” said her companion.

  Using her letter opener, she sliced open the note.

  Dear Miss Tregowyn:

  I should like to invite you to attend a little event at Balliol on Thursday evening. My lads conducting research in Norway made some interesting discover
ies about early Teutonic legends and the development of the Anglo-Saxon language. This is the sort of thing I would normally have invited Dr. Sargent to attend, and she says you may be teaching in her place at Somerville.

  The lads are going to share their discoveries over sherry and biscuits in the Old Common Room. It is very informal, but I would be delighted if you would attend. We will begin at seven o’clock.

  Sincerely,

  Wesley Williams, Ph.D.

  Intrigued, Catherine handed the invitation to Dr. Harry, who read it as he smoked his pipe. “You are going to replace Dr. Sargent? You’ve said nothing about this.”

  “That’s because, at present, I have no intention of doing so, but Dr. Sargent is hoping I will. The point is, Dr. Chenowith was very interested in this study in Norway. She blamed Teutonic legends for the whole idea of the ‘master race.’”

  “That must have led to tensions between her and the good professor.”

  “I know. He is besotted with the ancient legends. Now that I think of it, he told me that next month he is going to a conference in Germany where he is going to examine some sort of pre-Christian Teutonic document that was uncovered somewhere. Iceland or Greenland or somewhere like that, I think.”

  “He works for the Government, you said.” He looked very professorial, holding his pipe with a musing look in his eye. “Something hush-hush. That document gives him a good cover for visiting Germany at this juncture,” he said.

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Catherine replied. “I’m going to go to this, I think. It’ll be a good excuse to go up to Oxford.”

  Her telephone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Miss Tregowyn. Detective Chief Inspector Marsh here. I heard from the London police about the break-in at your flat. I just wanted to let you know that it wasn’t Dr. Stephenson. We finally have him in custody up in Northern Ireland. He went to his grandmother’s in Londonderry. They are sending him down here where we plan to book him for attempted murder.”

  Relief surged through her. “Thank heavens! It is good of you to let me know. As soon as I saw all the poems from the poet he plagiarized were still here, I knew it wasn’t him, however.”

  Marsh asked, “Who do you think it was, then? Any ideas?”

  Catherine struggled with her answer. “I’m not entirely certain what they expected to find,” she said. “Nothing was taken, though the safe was opened.”

  “Yes. That’s what I understand. Who has the combination?”

  “My maid and I. The police here think I forgot to spin the combination dial when I last used it, but I would have thought that to be a reflex action on my part. Maybe my mind was on other things this time, however. The burglar could have just been lucky.”

  “You are extremely lucky he didn’t cause you any harm. Are you staying there alone?”

  A chill went down her spine. “No. I am taking precautions.”

  “To risk such a move, the perpetrator must think you have something that he wants rather badly.”

  “Or she wants,” Catherine interjected, thinking of the dean.

  “You have reason to believe it may be a woman?”

  “I just think we need to keep an open mind,” she said. “You may want to have someone come to London to interview a Miss Siddons of Bloomsbury. She was probably Dr. Chenowith’s closest friend. She is her literary executor. Dr. Harry Bascombe and I called on her today.”

  “Oh? More amateur detecting?”

  “She said the police hadn’t shown any interest in her literary set. They were Dr. Chenowith’s closest associates.”

  “Closer than the women at Somerville?”

  “Apparently.”

  “I will send someone down. Suppose you tell me if you learned anything useful.”

  “General information about Dr. Chenowith’s state of mind. I think it’s important. Have you caught up with Dr. Waddell yet?”

  “Haven’t a clue about him. I found out his people are from the Isle of Man. We may have to send a detective there if this case doesn’t break soon.”

  Catherine silently took in this information. Then she said, “Thank you for calling, Detective Chief Inspector. I don’t expect my burglar to return, but as I said, I am taking precautions.”

  “Very good, miss. Cheerio.”

  She related the details of her conversation to her companion. “The Isle of Man? Strewth! Not the easiest place to pursue an investigation.”

  Catherine considered. “I think there is more to be found at Oxford, in any event. If we still turn up nothing, Rafe can fly us to the Isle.”

  “He’s a pilot?”

  “Yes,” she said with a sigh. “He’s a bit larger than life—big game hunting, flying, mountain climbing.”

  “And how do you fit into this lifestyle?”

  I’m not sure I know. That’s one of the problems.

  “That’s enough about Rafe. My head is being tedious. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll call it an early night. I’ll show you to your room. It used to be my brother’s. I think he’s left some things here. Let’s see if we can find some pajamas.”

  She led him down the hall to the second bedroom which was painted a very masculine deep blue. Catherine was assailed by memories of her brother tearing through the flat as a boy, tormenting her by popping out of cupboards or from behind draperies and visiting her at night with his torch and checkerboard. She missed William and thought how she must ring him up.

  “Try the wardrobe. There are some drawers in there with his things. Help yourself. The bath is down the hall to your right. Goodnight.”

  She left him standing in the middle of the room and retreated to her own domain. Why had she felt the sudden need to be out of the man’s presence?

  Her life was growing more complicated. As if her feelings weren’t enough to manage with Rafe home.

  Thank heavens Margery is coming tomorrow.

  * * *

  No burglar attempted to access the flat on Monday night. Tuesday morning, Cherry woke her, presenting her with her tea and the morning newspaper. Catherine’s head was feeling much improved.

  “How is Dr. Harry this morning?” she asked her maid.

  “He’s in the bath. I’m just boiling him an egg. I must get back to it.”

  “Fine, then. I’ll have the same. With just toast.”

  “I have kippers.”

  “Save them for our guest.”

  She opened News of the World, which was her secret low brow addiction, to find the story of a mysterious corpse discovered behind a tobacconist’s shop in the East End. The photo showed Dr. Christopher Waddell, obviously dead. He had been murdered several days prior. His identification showed him to be George Sullivan, but the address proved to be non-existent. The public was exhorted to help identify the man.

  She restrained herself from picking up the telephone. She would leave that to Dr. Harry. Today belonged to Margery.

  Dressing hurriedly in her pink hydrangea lounging pajamas, she took off her bandage and ran a comb through her dark brown hair. Her scalp itched fiercely. Leaving it uncovered, she pushed away from her mirror. Her heart-shaped face was white as a sheet, but she couldn’t bother about how she looked now.

  “Good morning,” Dr. Harry said as she entered the sitting room. He was at the table eating kippers and egg. “You resemble a film star, darling.”

  Ignoring this sally, she handed him the newspaper. “Waddell has been murdered,” she said. “Look.”

  He sighed heavily and took the paper from her. “I was afraid of something like this.”

  “You were?”

  “I discovered a rather unsavory organization in existence at Oxford. I was afraid he might be tangled up with it.”

  “What kind of organization?”

  “Brownshirts. Nazis. Students and professors. The
ir principal activity is terrorizing Jews. They also have a propaganda press.”

  “I have never heard of them.”

  “They are deep underground.”

  “How did you find out about them?”

  “Purely by accident. It was Sunday night. I couldn’t sleep. I was taking a walk down a back street when I caught a bunch of students breaking into a violin maker’s studio. I shouted at them, and they ran. One of them tripped and fell. I grabbed him by the collar.

  “Long story short, he talked to me rather than being taken to the police. He was having doubts. I gathered that he thought joining the group would give him some much-needed stature. But they don’t make it easy for their members to quit.

  “After telling me all the details, he said he was going to leave Oxford. He’s a member of New College. I got his name.”

  Catherine sat horrified at his disclosures. “That’s insane. You must call the police immediately to identify Dr. Waddell. Tell them what you suspect. Then the Oxford police need to know all about this awful gang.”

  “It’s more a job for the Secret Intelligence Service, I think. I was going to go ‘round to see them today while you are with Lady Margery.”

  “But you must go first thing this morning! This is terrible. I can’t believe you’re so sang froid about it!”

  “I wasn’t until yesterday morning when Dot phoned me about your break-in. Then it went completely out of my head. But Dr. Waddell’s death puts another complexion on things.”

  Her tense stance softened at this evidence of concern for her. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

  “Thank you?”

  “Thank you. But in a case like this, I . . . I shouldn’t come first. Not for you.”

  She picked up a piece of toast. “I’ll fly and get dressed. Then let’s both of us go to the SIS. If Waddell was murdered by this . . . this cult, it must be tied somehow to Dr. Chenowith. I found him in the women’s dormitory doing something concerning the witnesses to her murder. And then he disappeared.”

  “All right,” he said with a smile she read as indulgent. “Run and get dressed.”

  “Cherry!” she called.

  * * *