“I don’t think anyone could have,” said Dot.
“Probably not. He was my childhood hero. I guess it’s time for me to grow up and quit expecting to meet my other half.”
“Let’s not draw cosmic conclusions from one broken romance,” warned Dot. “It’s time for you to get some sleep.”
A tear escaped and rolled down Catherine’s cheek as she went meekly to bed.
* * *
Cherry woke her in the morning. “You have a phone call, miss. I told her you were not taking calls yet, but she was most insistent.”
“She? Who is it?”
“It’s the dean of your college, miss. Dean Andrews.”
“Oh, good heavens!” Catherine sat straight up in bed. “She’s supposed to be in police custody.”
“It’s a trunk call from Oxford. You had best hurry.”
Catherine threw on her dressing gown and went to the telephone in her sitting room.
“Hello?”
“Miss Tregowyn, this is Dean Andrews.” The voice was clipped and harsh.
“Yes, Dean. How can I help you?”
“I have something important to discuss with you. It concerns the future of our country. It is far more serious than you know. I would like to meet with you in person. There will be many like-minded people there. We have formed a group. But you must not tell anyone about it.”
Catherine’s brain reeled.
Is the woman mad? She just tried to poison poor Dr. Williams, and she wants to talk to me about the future of our country? She must know she is wanted by the police!
Stalling, she asked, “Why do you want to talk to me, of all people?”
“Because you understand the damage that has been done. Two people have been killed. He must be stopped, and the work must go forward.”
The dean’s voice was familiar, but Catherine began to realize the woman was in the grip of some strange mania. She was raving mad. But it sounded as though she knew who the murderer was. Or was this all a clever trap?
“I would like to talk to you. Where shall we meet?”
“Have you something to write with?”
Catherine gripped the pencil next to her message tablet. “Yes.”
“I’m at a flat on Kingston Road. Do you know where that is?”
“Past Somerville. On the way to Woodstock.”
“Yes. It’s Number Seventeen. Flat B.”
“As you know, I’m in London. It will take some time for me to get there.”
“I’ll be waiting.” The dean rang off.
Catherine sagged into her desk chair. Her brain raced. What should she do? First, she should inform the police and Dr. Harry. Then she should wake Dot.
Catherine picked up the telephone again and placed a trunk call to Detective Chief Inspector Marsh. When it finally went through, she was told he had left word that he wasn’t to be disturbed. He was in an important meeting.
Frustrated, she told the sergeant, “This is Catherine Tregowyn. Tell him that Dean Andrews is at Number Seventeen Kingston Road, Flat B. I’m coming up from London and am going to meet her there. I want to speak to her before he arrests her. She knows who the murderer is.”
“Yes, miss. I will give him the message as soon as he’s available.”
She rang off and then called Dr. Harry’s club. He had already left.
Dot was already awake sitting in the kitchen reading the News of the World.
“Rafe’s father has despatched him off to Kenya. Straight out of the hospital. I guess he was afraid he’d be charged with something,” her friend announced.
Catherine refused the bait. “You’ll never guess who called and wants to meet with me,” she said.
“Who?”
“Dean Andrews. She’s clearly off her head.” Catherine repeated their conversation. “I called Marsh, but he is unavailable at the moment. I left a message.”
“Call Harry. He can help you decide what to do, Cat. You can’t just walk into a trap,” said Dot.
“The dean is a little old crazy woman. She can’t do me any harm,” said Catherine.
“Sound like famous last words to me. Crikey! Who would believe the dean was ravers?”
Frustrated, she asked Dot, “Can you motor me up to Oxford?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t dream of letting you go alone.”
* * *
By the time Catherine and Dot had dressed and eaten their breakfast buns, it was already nearly ten o’clock. Feeling anxious, lest the dean should change her mind, she urged Dot to drive as fast as she could.
“You’ll pay my fine if I get stopped by the traffic police?” Dot asked.
“Of course!”
Subsequently, they made good time to Oxford. Calling in at the police station first, they found that Marsh was still unavailable. Catherine left another message.
Dot drove her to Seventeen Kingston Road and promised she would find Dr. Harry if at all possible. Catherine was trying to quell the nervous fluttering in her stomach as she pressed the buzzer for Flat B. Was she doing the right thing?
She had to find out who the murderer was.
The dean answered, looking perfectly normal with her hair in its customary bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a serviceable navy blue skirt and a white blouse, her glasses held by a chain around her neck. She frowned at Catherine’s trousers.
“Come in, Miss Tregowyn,” she said. “We have much to discuss.”
The flat’s sitting room was queerly furnished with sofas and chairs all pushed against the walls, and a big space in the middle of the floor.
“Where are the others?” Catherine asked alarmed.
“They will be here shortly. I have called a meeting, but I wanted to speak with you first. Now, my dear,” the dean began, her hands folded in her lap, “I am sure that you are very concerned as am I for the future of our country. Any thinking person must be alarmed at the harm the Labor Government is doing to Britain. Its policies are only weakening the people, not helping them! It is past time for action before the whole country languishes and dies.”
Catherine decided a nod would be the best response. Her stomach was in knots.
“Socialism is completely the wrong platform for any kind of change. Our heritage dictates that we have a strong, virile government with a steady hand on the helm of our Empire. We have no shared history with Russia and the Communists, but we have a great and ancient history with Germany, the other great Aryan nation.
“As weak socialists, we would be in direct conflict with our brother country. There would be a hellish collision—a great war on our own soil which could totally destroy Britain.
“There are thousands of our class, Miss Tregowyn, who feel this way. Here at Oxford, some of us have established the Aryan Brotherhood.”
“Pardon me, dean, but how do you fit into the Brotherhood, being a woman?” asked Catherine in genuine puzzlement.
“I am at the head of the movement. But, as you have so aptly pointed out, I am a woman. I have men who work for me.
“However, lately, there has been a great disturbance. Men have their uses, but they are far too hot-headed. As you know, only too well, two people have been murdered. Bill has clearly gone ‘round the bend and must be stopped. He would destroy us before we gain our strength and begin to sway public opinion. He has the blind arrogance of a male—he thinks violence is the only solution.”
Bill? Who is Bill? The “B” of Dr. Chenowith’s journal?
“I guess I am a little confused about what you want me to do.”
“I want you to see that Bill is arrested for murder and hanged. That is the role you have cast yourself for, isn’t it? I have invited him to meet us here before the others.”
Her words took Catherine’s breath away. The dean was executing a power play. If Bill was B, he was
the head of the Brotherhood. How did she expect Catherine to arrest Bill without involving the police?
At that moment, she heard the front door open. At last, Detective Chief Inspector Marsh.
Instead, in strode Dr. Wesley Williams.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Hello, Charlotte. I see the police haven’t picked you up yet. We need to expedite that, I suppose.” He caught sight of Catherine. “Miss Tregowyn! What a lovely surprise. Have you decided to join the ranks?”
Wesley Williams. Something hush-hush in the government. Was he spying on the Brotherhood from the inside?
Catherine stood up. “Thank heavens you’ve recovered,” she said, shaking his hand. “The dean was just familiarizing me with the tenets of the Brotherhood.”
“She is going to see that you get arrested, Bill,” the dean said to her astonishment. It was as though a kaleidoscope turned. The facts rearranged themselves in Catherine’s head in an instant.
Bill? The Bill of Chenowith’s journal? The head of the organization? The murderer?
“You may leave now, Miss Tregowan,” said the dean. “You have your assignment.”
Instead, Catherine blurted, “Is she right? Are you called Bill?”
“Since childhood, I’m afraid,” the man admitted with a feral grin.
Catherine saw him suddenly as another madman. He wasn’t the “sweetheart” of her thoughts, but a killer. In her hubris, she had dismissed him as harmless. He was anything but.
“I understand why you murdered Agatha Chenowith,” she said. “She was going to blackmail you, wasn’t she? But why Christopher Waddell? He was a proper Nazi.”
“Ah, but he was a husband, first. He wanted to shop me for Agatha’s murder and take over the Brotherhood. Just as Charlotte is attempting to do.” He looked at the woman, who sat completely composed with her hands in her lap. “She’s crazy as a loon, you know.”
“Oh,” Catherine said. “Are you certain you are quite well, yourself?”
“The arsenic has wreaked havoc with my stomach, but I shouldn’t be getting any worse, at least. Now, what to do with the two of you?”
“I have always thought you were such a dear man,” Catherine marveled. “I wouldn’t expect you to fall for Hitler’s line.”
“He’s the chosen vessel. A remarkable man. A true visionary. If we don’t join with him now, he will take this country apart, brick by brick, and then he will rebuild it to suit the gods. Like he’s remaking Germany.”
“The gods?” she exclaimed. It was easier to believe that the man was deceived in Hitler than to swallow that he actually embraced the madness. “You truly believe that stuff?”
“I suppose you believe in the other myth.”
Guessing he referred to Christianity, she said, “It’s no myth. Don’t deceive yourself.”
“Now, let’s not argue. It’s so uncivilized.”
“Whereas murder is not? What are you going to do now?” Catherine asked, trying to keep the quiver from her voice. “People know I’m here.”
“How good of you to inform me of that fact. I guess we’ll have to make ‘here’ disappear.”
Catherine looked at the man. The madness was there in his eyes. They were darting madly about the room, looking for inspiration.
I’m five foot seven. He’s five foot five if that. He’s middle-aged. I’m young.
She began walking towards the door. She was almost there when he reached her and twisted her arm up behind her back. “You’re not going anywhere, Miss Tregowyn.”
The dean came up behind him, and Catherine watched over her shoulder as little Charlotte Andrews kicked the back of his knee. He collapsed. Catherine sat on the middle of his back, straddling him as he struggled. She was very glad she had worn trousers.
Opening her purse, the other woman removed a small bottle and her folded handkerchief. She opened the bottle and wet the cotton square with the liquid inside. Then she held the handkerchief to “Bill’s” nose. Catherine felt him relax underneath her.
“Chloroform,” the dean announced. “Help me move him to the hall cupboard.”
The dean grasped the man’s feet, and Catherine gripped him under his arms. Pulling him to the entry hall, they stuffed his body into the cupboard and locked the door. The dean put the key in her purse.
Wary of the hand holding the drug-sodden handkerchief, Catherine wondered what the old woman had in mind now. “Should we ring the police and tell him where they can find the murderer?” she suggested.
“At this point, he is in our power. I would rather dispose of him myself,” said the dean. Going to the draperies, she began pulling them down off the windows. With the handkerchief securely looped in her belt, she heaped the drapes in the center of the carpet.
“Help me,” she commanded.
Catherine didn’t understand what the dean was doing but thought it best to follow her instructions at the moment. She pulled the drapes from the other window, bringing down the rod with them. She slid the draperies free. Unfortunately, she couldn’t decide how she could best use the lengthy rod as a weapon. She was still considering this when she smelled the chloroform. By then, it was too late.
* * *
Smoke!
She woke up coughing. The dean was nowhere to be seen. She heard a thumping sound and realized it was Bill trying to get out of the hall closet.
Catherine knew she needed to escape but everything was black. Where was she?
Rolling over, she felt the floor beneath her. Linoleum. The WC? It must be. Her stomach rolled with nausea as she got to her hands and knees. She must find a way out. She had the answers she had sought. She must get to the police!
Crackle. Hiss. Smoke was coming through the bottom of the door.
The house is on fire!
Getting to her feet, she staggered to the right and encountered a wall. In the other direction was the toilet. She tried another way and found herself against the door. Panicked, she threw it open. A wall of flame faced her.
Adrenaline kicked in and she no longer felt drugged. But there was no way out.
“Cat! Where are you?” She heard Dot calling her from beyond the flames.
“Here!” she choked. “Don’t open the cupboard! The murderer’s in there!”
“Harry’s here! He’s coming for you!”
A shrouded shape appeared through the flame barrier. “Catherine?” She heard Dr. Harry’s muffled voice.
“You’re on fire!” she cried.
“It’s just the blanket,” he said, his voice calm as he threw it to the floor. Stamping on it, he said, “Thank God you’re all right. We have to get you out of here.”
“There’s water in the WC behind me,” she said. She found the light switch, and they threw the smoking blanket into the bathtub.
“Hurry!” the man urged. “The fire’s spreading!”
She turned the bathwater on full strength and wet the blanket thoroughly. By that time, the fire was at the door of the WC.
“Here. Stand on the edge of the bathtub and wrap your legs around my waist and your arms around my shoulders. Duck. I’ll put the blanket around both of us, and we’ll dash it.”
“Dot! Where are you?” she called.
“Here!”
Once she was in position, he wrapped them closely in the heavy, sodden blanket and ran through the flames toward the voice. She felt the searing heat through the blanket but clung to Dr. Harry for her life. When they came out the other side, Dr. Harry threw the blanket to the floor, and they both stomped out the flames.
At that moment, the firemen finally arrived, followed by the police. Catherine felt both singed and wet like the blanket on the floor. She ran into the vestibule. Marsh didn’t even recognize her at first, as the firemen pulled hoses through the front door. She was in the way, but she stopped to tell Mars
h, “Your murderer is in the hall cupboard. Dr. Wesley Williams. I heard him confess myself.”
“Miss Tregowyn! Thank God you’re all right! Who set the fire?”
“The dean,” she said. “Did she get away?”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s my fault. I should have been available. That was unconscionable. I was transcribing the journal. You need to come outside now and get in my motor. I’ll carry you all to the station.”
“What about Williams? He’s the ‘Bill’ of the journal.”
“The fire seems to be under control. I’ll let him sit in that cupboard until my detective constables get here.”
* * *
Catherine, Dot, and Dr. Harry sat huddled under dry blankets in the police department, having given their statements. Dr. Williams was safely in custody, and the dean had been found in a tea shop around the corner from the burning flat having a cup of tea and a currant bun. She had raged against the police, telling them they would never stop “the work.” Only the handcuffs subdued her.
“I’m very glad that’s over,” said Catherine, still shivering from shock. “I must have the worst character judgment in the world. First, Rafe, then Dr. Williams, then the dean. And we still don’t know what Waddell was doing in the girls’ dormitory!”
“I imagine he was trying to solve Chenowith’s murder, just like we were. Only he had facts we didn’t and stumbled to the truth faster.”
“And the dean must have known about the journal. She was the one who burgled my flat.”
“Your motorcar is outside, miss,” said the constable who had been sent for Dot’s motor which she’d been obliged to leave at the scene of the fire.
“Let’s go then, troops,” said Dot.
“Where to?” asked Catherine. “I won’t be seen looking like this, but I’m starved.”
“How about if I get cleaned up and grab something to tide us over?” suggested Dr. Harry. “Then I can follow you down to London.”
“It’s a plan,” said Dot, the calmest of them all.
* * *
That evening, Catherine sat cuddled into Dr. Harry’s side on her sofa. His arm was around her. Now that the adrenaline had gone, she kept nodding off, but she didn’t want him to leave.
An Oxford Murder Page 24
