Oxford Blood

by Antonia Fraser

  Oxford Blood

  Antonia Fraser

  Series: Jemima Shore [5]

  Published: 1998

  Tags: Mystery

  Mysteryttt

  * * *

  SUMMARY:

  In this tale Jemima is reluctantly shooting a TV expos-"Golden Lads and Girls"-on the exotic lifestyles of overprivileged undergraduates. Among them is Lord Saffron, the wealthy, twenty-year-old heir to the former foreign secretary. When a confession by a dying midwife throws Saffron's birth and bloodline into doubt, Jemima's interest in the documentary perks up considerably. Then a student is murdered, drawing Jemima into a case that will demand the utmost of her skills of detection.

  Oxford Blood

  Antonia Fraser

  For Diana of the Barn ways with love

  'Noon strikes on England, noon on Oxford town.

  Beauty she was statue cold - there's blood upon her gown . . .'

  James Elroy Flecker

  Contents

  A Dying Woman 157

  Bedside Conference 165

  Nothing Wrong with Money 173

  Staircase Thirteen 181

  Fight Before the Death 189

  No Long Shadows 196

  Blood Isn't Everything 203

  Dress: Gilded Rubbish 210

  An Envious Society 218

  Intellectual Advantages 226

  Who He is Not 234

  Love and Hate 241

  Saffron Ivy 249

  Tennis is About Winning 257

  Drawing Blood 266

  A Tragedy Must Take Place 274

  Two Unlucky Lives 283

  Your Father 292

  Supper a Deux 301

  Dancing in the Quad 308

  Purple for the Rich Man 315

  1

  A Dying Woman

  'It was kind of you to come at such short notice,' said Sister Imelda to Jemima Shore. 'We thank you for it.' She fixed her large pale blue eyes on Jemima in a long look in which no expression could be detected; nevertheless it was evident that some kind of judgement had been made. 'It won't be long now,' she added.

  'Of course miracles can happen.' Sister Imelda gave a brief rather wintery smile as though acknowledging that the words, serious in her case, might be construed in others as some kind of jest. 'She might just live out the week. But in fact we don't expect her to last more than another forty-eight hours.'

  'I'm not that busy—' Jemima Shore spoke deprecatingly. Afterwards she wondered if she had subconsciously expected Sister Imelda to waive aside her disclaimer. After all Jemima Shore was in most normal senses of the word extremely busy. For one thing she was in the midst of planning her next series of programmes and as usual Cy Fredericks, the ebullient Chairman of Megalith Television, was engaged in a campaign to infiltrate some of his own ideas at an early stage.

  'So that they will grow up along with the series, my dear Jem. All of us in the melting-pot stage together. You know that I wouldn't dream of disturbing matters later on.'

  Keeping Cy's ideas, and Cy himself for that matter, out of what he chose to call the melting-pot stage (not a phrase she would have applied to it herself) of her new series, was clearly absolutely imperative. To defeat Cy demanded a good deal of time and energy. But the alternative, Cy's victory, was undoubtedly worse. Particularly in view of the fact that Cy wanted Jemima to follow up her highly successful series about the elderly and poor with a probe into the lives of the youthful and rich, while

  Jemima wanted to investigate the meaning of middle age. There was quite a difference.

  To make matters worse, Jemima's nubile PA - Flowering Cherry, as she was known, the toast of Megalithic House - was in the throes of an unhappy love affair with an older man whose wife approved but whose analyst frowned upon the alliance. While this imbroglio could not be said to impair Cherry's professional efficiency (nor for that matter, Jemima noted, her appetite) it did mean that tears tended to drip over the typewriter, the engagement book and even the matutinal box of Danish pastries with which Cherry was wont to prop up her strength. Weeping Cherry would now be a more appropriate nickname, thought Jemima, torn between affection and irritation. What Cherry needed was distraction; she made a mental note to check the marital (and psychological) status of the men involved in her new series with special reference to Cherry's needs.

  On the other hand Jemima Shore Investigator, as she was known through the wide success of her eponymous television series, was in no need of further distraction herself. The last programme of her recently concluded series had been titled How Does the Day End? It had culminated in a furious discussion about euthanasia. Jemima Shore (and Weeping Cherry) were still dealing with the correspondence arising out of that one - to say nothing of the prolonged stir in the media. So what with programmes from the past and programmes for the future, it was fair to say that Jemima Shore Investigator was in every sense of the word extremely busy.

  While Jemima Shore certainly did not expect Sister Imelda to appreciate the whole of this, she had perhaps anticipated some anodyne remark from the nun in answer to her own self-deprecation; something along the lines that it was always the busiest people who managed to make time.

  'I'm not all that busy—'

  'No, perhaps not,' was what Sister Imelda actually said, quite briskly. 'Perhaps you are not really busy at all compared to Nurse Elsie, because she is busy dying. And we are trying to help her die in peace.'

  'You're quite right,' responded Jemima, feeling ashamed of her original impulse and speaking suddenly in a much warmer tone. 'It is much more important what is happening to her. And anything I can do to give her peace of mind—'

  'Peace of mind. Ah Miss Shore, that can only be given by God.' Another gleam of frost from Sister Imelda. The long starched veil she wore was set back upon hair which was visibly white. Her complexion however was quite rosy, set off by the watchful blue eyes which were the dominant feature of her face.

  Sister Imelda was the Matron of Pieta House, a Catholic Hospice for the Dying. She was, Jemima knew, a professed Catholic nun as well as a nurse. It was difficult to know whether her clothes corresponded to a nun's habit as modified by the decrees of Vatican Council n, or an actual nurse's uniform. Sister Imelda wore an unfashionably long grey skirt, which left several inches of severe grey stocking visible, ending in heavy grey shoes with straps across the instep. The long stiff white veil gave the air of a nun, that and the black rosary at Sister Imelda's belt, jostling almost carelessly with her keys. But her starched white apron, decorated with the traditional nurse's safety pins and little watch pinned on the broad smooth unindented breast, belonged entirely to a hospital matron. A large flat silver brooch with some engraving on it was pinned centrally on her veil; Jemima expected it to be a badge of office. Actually the engraving, rather badly done, was of Michelangelo's statue of the Pieta.

  In spite of all this Jemima, who had attended a convent school in youth and was in principle fond of nuns, decided to regard Sister Imelda as a nurse. She was not particularly fond of hospitals and unlike nuns counted no nurses among her friends.

  'You appreciate that Nurse Elsie asked for you after she saw one of your programmes on television. You referred to the question of peace of mind for the dying then of course.'

  'I hope that didn't matter. It is rather a loose phrase.' Jemima gave her famous sweet smile, the one that made people watching her on television think what a charming person she must be in private.

  'Oh, on television, Miss Shore, I've definitely heard worse.' Sister Imelda smiled in her turn. She had very large unnaturally clean-looking white teeth. Perhaps they were false - Jemima remembered from her own convent days that nuns' teeth were always ill-fitting either out of economy or, as was believed among the girls at the time, a
s a form of penance; but Sister Imelda did not give the impression of one who would easily tolerate inefficiency either in false teeth or anything else.

  Sister Imelda stopped smiling suddenly. The teeth vanished from view. There was a very slight pause or even perhaps a hesitation. But when Sister Imelda spoke again she was even brisker than before.

  'And then of course there is the question of absolution. You might help her with that too—'

  'Absolution? In her capacity as a leading television investigative reporter Jemima had fielded some strange requests from the public in her time. But to provide absolution for a dying woman in a Catholic hospice was certainly the oddest she had yet encountered. 'Surely a priest would be more suitable?'

  'Oh please, Miss Shore.' Sister Imelda raised one hand. Like her teeth, her hands were almost unnaturally clean and white: where were the traditional red signs of washing and scrubbing, common to both nun and nurse? Sister Imelda's hands resembled those of a top-class surgeon, not least because they were notably big hands for a woman. 'Nurse Elsie has of course made a full confession. We live next to the Priory here, you know. At any hour of the day or night the Fathers come if they are needed; it's part of what the Hospice is able to offer.' Sister Imelda gave another of her tiny significant pauses. 'But - absolution is another matter. It's not automatic. I should explain—'

  Jemima wondered whether she herself should explain something to Sister Imelda. Having been educated at a Catholic convent (although not herself a Catholic) she was perfectly well aware of the rules governing Catholic confession. Absolution - forgiveness for past sins given by the priest, standing in for God as it were - did not necessarily follow confession; but in all the years when Jemima, half envious, half scornful, wholly in love, had listened to her friends' confidences on the subject, she had never heard of anyone being refused it. Penances could and did vary, of course, in proportion to sins declared. 'The five Sorrowful Mysteries of the Rosary! Rosabelle, whatever have you been up to?' That had been a typical half-envious, half-gleeful comment.

  But to refuse absolution to a dying woman?

  'It can't be long now.' By all the rules of the Church, Jemima failed to see how Nurse Elsie Connolly, dying slowly and inexorably here in Pieta House, could possibly have been denied the ultimate forgiveness by a Catholic priest. It made no sense. What crime could poor old Nurse Elsie have committed? No, wait - anyone could commit a crime, as experience had certainly taught Jemima Shore. But if Nurse Elsie had committed some sort of fairly serious crime, why on earth had she not confessed it before? Undoubtedly the good Fathers from the Priory came round regularly to hear confessions, quite apart from the sudden flurry when one of the many foiling inhabitants of Pieta House was judged to be on the very brink of death. As Sister Imelda had pointed out, that was one of the important services provided by the Hospice.

  Jemima decided that if she was to be of any help in the situation -which was after all why she had postponed an important planning meeting where she intended to worst Cy Fredericks once and for all - she had better come clean with Sister Imelda. Swiftly she explained the facts about her background.

  The effect was remarkable. Sister Imelda did not exactly warm to Jemima - it was doubtful from her stance whether she knew how to do so, except perhaps towards the very sick. But she did drop altogether that air of cool superiority which had hitherto distinguished most of her remarks.

  Sister Imelda's tiny bare office was furnished solely by a Crucifix, a vast but out-of-date calendar featuring the Pope, and, rather surprisingly, a crudely coloured picture of the Princess of Wales holding her first baby which at first glance Jemima had taken for the Madonna with her child.

  Leaning across the ugly wooden desk Sister Imelda spoke urgently to Jemima:

  'Oh, thanks be to God' - manifestly she meant it - 'a Catholic.' 'I'm not.' cried Jemima.

  'No, no, I realize that. A Catholic education, I was going to say. You understand the problem. You'll help us. I know you will. It's all Father Thomas. A saint you know. A dear good man as well. But ever since he came back from Biafra - such terrible things endured and even worse witnessed. No sense, you know. No sense about this world at any rate.'

  Jemima Shore had an inkling that where Sister Imelda was concerned this was the ultimate criticism; there was a clear implication too that Father Thomas might well turn out to have no sense about the next world as well. But Jemima made no comment. As a practised interviewer, she recognized the need for silence, an irresistibly interrogative silence.

  'Restitution, yes.' Sister Imelda's confidences marched on. 'Of course that is one of the conditions of confession. To make restitution if one can. Without that, there can in theory be no absolution. The thief for example must give back his ill-gotten gains before he can be absolved. If he is still able to do so. That is the teaching of the Church. But in this case - even supposing it's all true, which I very much doubt - that Father Thomas should land us in this! So many things at stake. The Hospice itself. Our foundation - when you think who's involved.' Sister Imelda shot a quick nervous look at the picture of the Princess of Wales, giving Jemima the impression once again, if only fleetingly, that this was some kind of contemporary ikon. Then she visibly reasserted control.

  'You'll help us, Miss Shore, I know you will. Help us - and of course,' she added in a less hurried voice which was nevertheless not quite calm, 'help Nurse Elsie.'

  Sister Imelda rose. The smiling image of the Princess fluttered as she did so, in a breeze caused by her starched white veil, her starched long white apron and even perhaps the flap of her long grey skirts. The image of the Pope was made of heavier material and remained static.

  'Sister Imelda, could you amplify—' Jemima rose too. But Sister Imelda was by now thoroughly restored to tranquillity, which also meant authority.

  'No, Miss Shore, I think it is only fair to let Nurse Elsie tell her own story. I apologize if I have seemed over-emotional.' Another glance towards the Princess of Wales, but this time the expression was austere, even condemnatory. 'This has been a trying time for the Hospice. But I expect you are used to dealing with that kind of thing on television. Please follow me, Miss Shore.'

  The first thing which struck Jemima Shore about Nurse Elsie Connolly was the charm, even prettiness, of her appearance. She had expected a skeleton of a woman. Nurse Elsie, with a smooth skin and two long plaits of hair lying down on either side of her pink nightdress, certainly looked an invalid - she was extraordinarily pale for one thing - but she resembled the kind of invalid described in a Victorian novel who may linger for years of interesting if bed-ridden life.

  Nurse Elsie was in fact sixty. Jemima learnt this from her very first remark, as though in answer to her unspoken question.

  'My sixtieth birthday! Jemima Shore comes to visit me. Now that's a real present.' The words, like Nurse Elsie's appearance, were quite girlish. But the voice itself was faint and Jemima perceived that immediately after speaking Nurse Elsie gave a kind of gasp as though the effort itself had nearly extinguished her. Jemima wondered what kind of pain-killers she was being given. If faint, she sounded quite lucid.

  Jemima produced the small arrangement of strongly perfumed freesias which she had carefully commissioned beforehand at her favourite flower-shop in Notting Hill Gate. A perfectionist where flowers were concerned, Jemima knew that nothing annoyed busy nurses more than having to cope with a vast bouquet of ill-assorted blooms immured within crackling cellophane, demanding the instant production of a vase.

  Nurse Elsie smiled with obvious delight. It was almost as though she had recognized the perfection of the choice as well as appreciating the nosegay - and perhaps as an ex-nurse herself she had.

  'Like you.' Her voice was even fainter. 'So pretty.' Nurse Elsie put out her hand and laid it on Jemima's wrist. It was a claw.

  Memento mori, thought Jemima. The skeleton was not after all so far below this poor woman's skin; and above the perfume of freesias, mingling with the obvious hygienic smells o
f the sick-room, she detected for the first time some other smell, more lingering, more distressing.

  Yet the rest of the scene was pretty, charming, like Nurse Elsie herself in her pink nightdress, almost cloyingly so. There were pink blankets, pale pink flowered curtains - a pattern of hollyhocks and lupins - pale green walls. The screens which stood around a bed at the far corner of the room were made of the same ruched material.

  There were about six other people present in the ward, all lying down. One woman - Jemima imagined she was a woman - with a broad swollen face and very short black hair, raised her hand. Perhaps she was waving. On the off chance, Jemima waved back. The hand sank and a look of puzzlement crossed the broad face.

  A large crucifix hung above the door and on the opposite wall there was a reproduction of Fra Angelico's St Francis feeding the birds. A coloured picture showed Pope John Paul II walking with the Queen in the corridor of Buckingham Palace; both parties faced the camera with smiles of almost aggressively healthy confidence in contrast to the sick women below. Some tasteful flowers - a few carnations and a great deal of greenery chosen almost too obviously to harmonize with the colour scheme of the room - stood in a large dull white case on a plinth beneath the crucifixion. Little bouquets and vases flanked most of the beds, and most of the women boasted at least two photographs on their bedside tables.

  In spite of this, Jemima was quite unprepared for Nurse Elsie's own array. It might have been a shrine, the resting-place of a saint, there were so many flowers. Some of them were certainly dead, others like Nurse Elsie herself decomposing. But some were like Jemima's own little nosegay, evidently fresh.