An Oxford Tragedy Read online

  Contents

  Prologue: Two Scenes of London Life

  1. Awaiting the Grim Reaper

  2. Another Death in the Lodgings

  3. Family Affairs

  4. A Visitor to Makin House

  5. ‘Enter Rumour, Painted full of Tongues’

  6. The Boethian Apices

  7. An Evening Reception

  8. Taken from the Tomb

  9. Louis de Neville’s Story

  10. Timothy Fowler’s Ordeal

  11. Sophia Jex-Blake

  12. A Joint Venture

  13. Founder’s Day

  14. A Burden Lifted

  15. Another Visitor to Makin House

  16. The Well in the Spinney

  Prologue

  Two Scenes of London Life

  May Day, 1894

  Ursula Forrest, holding a letter in her hand, stood at one of the windows of her first-floor millinery establishment in Old Bond Street, and looked at the stream of traffic pouring down from Piccadilly. She noted one of the Dark Green Line Holloway omnibuses from Victoria struggling to make its way through the snarl of lorries, vans and cabs, and thought of the girl sitting silently in the room behind her.

  Rosalie had arrived half an hour earlier by one of those Dark Green Line vehicles. She rented rooms in Holloway, but her photographic salon was in Regent Street, where she often worked far into the night, and then slept on a camp bed until the next day’s business dawned.

  Ursula turned from the window, pausing to examine her reflection in a long cheval glass. At thirty-five, she had lost the delicacy of youth, but was still what was sometimes described as ‘a fine figure of a woman’. Her naturally blonde hair was, as always, expertly coiffeured, because it was attended to every morning by a visiting stylist from Monsieur DuPont’s hair-dressing establishment in Oxford Street. A ‘fine figure’? A more apt description, she thought, would be ‘majestic’. Her grey morning dress, by Worth of Paris, fitted her to perfection.

  ‘Our sweet ring-dove fears that she will no longer be able to help fund our little coterie,’ she said, holding up the opened letter for the girl to see. ‘The general tenor of her letter is that economies have to be made. Still, she expresses her undying love, and adds a few lines from Keats. Shall I read them to you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please, Ursula!’

  ‘“Of all its wreathéd pearls her hair she frees,

  Unclasps her warméd jewels one by one;

  Loosens her fragrant bodice – by degrees

  Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees.”’

  Ursula Forrest laughed, and it was a hard, heartless sound. The ring-dove had been a wonderful, exhilarating conquest, but there were others. No one was indispensible. She looked at the girl sitting on the banquette in the centre of the elegantly furnished sitting-room. Slim and darkly handsome, with her hair pulled back and fixed with a satin bow, she wore a well-tailored jacket and a long, close-fitting skirt, that gave her a boyish look. Dear, amusing, cynical Rosalie!

  Beside the young woman stood a camera mounted on a tripod. She rose from her seat and began to prepare one of the frames that would house a glass slide.

  ‘I can’t associate the ring-dove with Keats’s timid Madeline,’ she said. ‘Strength, and a positive attitude – those are the things that belong to her – or so it would seem.’

  ‘Oh, she is strong enough,’ Ursula agreed. ‘But whenever she has to deal with me, she reveals her sentimental side. Hence that drivel from Saint Agnes’ Eve.’

  ‘Dear Ursula,’ said Rosalie, ‘what will you do? I know how much you esteem our dear ring-dove. Surely you’ll give her time to find some money somewhere?’

  ‘Today is May Day,’ said Ursula Forrest. ‘I’ll give her till the end of this month, and if the money’s not forthcoming, then she need not call here again – unless I summon her. I love her dearly, as I love you, darling Rosalie, and the others; but no money, no friendship. Or if she still craves my love, she’ll have to work for it.’

  ‘Perhaps she has found a young man,’ ventured Rosalie, smiling mischievously at her friend. ‘It does happen, you know! Saying she has no money may be just an excuse to …’

  ‘A young man? Not she! I know how she feels – of course I do – who else can know more about that girl’s desires and predilections than I? No, there’s no young man.’

  Rosalie looked at the camera, and then at her friend.

  ‘It’d be a pity, you know, to lose her,’ she said. ‘In all these months since she joined us, I’ve not managed to take a single picture of her for our albums!’

  ‘I know, and that’s a great pity. A great – frustration. Once we’re all photographed, we become even closer to each other than we are. There’s nothing to hide, then, is there? I don’t want to lose her, I must admit, and I’d love to have photographs of her to – to contemplate. The kind of photographs you take, I mean. In any case, I have her letters. She must know that I wouldn’t scruple to use them, if I had to, to make her see sense and find the money. So we’ll wait a while, and see what happens.’

  She undid the girdle of her dress, and laid it carefully across a chair.

  ‘Lady Kennedy will be here in an hour,’ she said. ‘She must see the new burgundy felts from the Paris summer collections. Meanwhile, my young friend, it’s time for photography.’

  Both women laughed, and while Ursula locked the door, her friend turned her attention to the camera.

  Just after midnight on the same day, a young, flush-faced man of twenty or so managed a delighted chortle as he gathered in his winnings across the baccarat table with both arms. The upper room at Mr Paulet’s gaming-rooms in North Audley Street was dim with tobacco smoke. A servant in a white alpaca jacket had begun to extinguish the table lamps by blowing across their glass chimneys. Various more or less tipsy men in evening dress congratulated the winner, who bowed mockingly at a man in his thirties who was slouched back in his chair.

  ‘Never mind, Fowler,’ he said, ‘you can’t win every time. Are you calling in tomorrow night? Maybe you’ll win it all back. There’s two hundred here, more or less. What about the rest? Are you going to write me a cheque?’

  ‘Go to the devil, Castlemain,’ said the man called Fowler. ‘Clear out, won’t you, and leave me alone. I’ll send a cheque round to your place first thing tomorrow morning.’

  Castlemain looked dubiously at the man in the chair, and shook his head as though more in sorrow than in anger.

  ‘When a fellow comes to spend an evening at the tables,’ he said, ‘it’s a good idea if he brings his cheque book with him. I do.’

  ‘Confound your impertinence, Castlemain!’ cried Fowler. ‘You’ll get your money tomorrow. Can’t some of you fellows persuade him to go?’

  Somebody whispered to Castlemain, and the young man followed the coterie of men in evening dress from the gaming room. A man in his fifties emerged from another room, and came to stand by the man who had lost at baccarat. Like the others, he wore evening dress, but his face was the face of an assassin.

  ‘How much did Lord Castlemain take from you tonight?’ he asked.

  ‘Six-hundred-and-forty pounds.’

  ‘You’re losing too often, Fowler. This is baccarat chemin-de-fer, a game where skill is involved. You’re losing your touch. Castlemain’s only a lad, but he beat you hands down tonight. Last week, you lost a thousand to that squalid little City syndicate. One of them came here this morning, saying that you’d not honoured your note of hand.’

  Mr Paulet, owner of the gaming rooms, looked at Fowler, who sat drooping mournfully in his chair at the green baize table, which was still covered with playing cards, scattered beside the wooden pallet used to deal them to the players. Fowler, he knew, was se
nior partner in a brokerage firm in Lombard Street, a firm that had conducted business there since 1750. He was a pleasant enough fellow, no bully, like some of his clients, but weak, easily roused to recklessness at the tables when challenged by a determined young fellow like Castlemain.

  ‘Can you pay those debts, John Fowler?’ asked Paulet bluntly. ‘And can you pay the promissory notes I’m holding for you to the extent of £4,378? My patience is not inexhaustible.’

  John Fowler rose from his chair, his face pale and contorted with impotent rage.

  ‘Of course I can pay! Do you think that a man in my position will default on his debts?’

  Mr Paulet laughed.

  ‘I don’t know. But while you are mired in debt, I rise above you as a gentleman, and I rise above you as a moralist. And if you do – default on me, I mean – then I will be entitled to let it be known immediately in the City. You cannot be held responsible at law for debts of honour, but a statement from me will bring your brokerage house crashing down in ruins. I won’t say I’d do it, but I have the power to do so.’

  Mr Paulet walked towards the door.

  ‘I’m a reasonable man, Mr Fowler,’ he said, ‘and I’ll give you until the middle of June to settle your debts both with me and with the other members here. There’s Lord Castlemain, Lord Thomas Everett, Mr Weekes, Mr Price, and Mr Vane Tempest – in all you owe those gentlemen over £2,000. And £4,378 to me. That’s £6,378 in all, and you must find it before the middle of June. After that – well, you know how these things pan out.’

  John Fowler rose to his feet. The man in the white jacket helped him into his greatcoat and handed him his tall silk hat. Fowler gave him a shilling.

  The man preceded him down the stairs to the ground floor, and opened the front door.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘some men were asking for you at the door earlier tonight. Ugly customers they seemed to me. I told them you weren’t here, but they just laughed. Are you going along to the cab rank? Take care, sir. They may still be around.’

  The man watched Fowler as he stepped out into the chill night air of North Audley Street. Poor Mr Fowler! He was such a nice gentleman, well set up, and modest in his way. He’d said as much one day to Mr Paulet. ‘Jones,’ he’d said, ‘don’t judge people by appearances. Mr Fowler is an inveterate gambler – he never knows when to stop, and one day, he’ll ruin himself and his firm by reneging on his debts. Did you know he has a wife and children? He should think more of them, and less of the tables. I’ve no patience with him.’

  Well, no doubt Mr Paulet was right. But it was a crying shame.

  It was raining when John Fowler turned out of North Audley Street on his way to the cab rank in Grosvenor Square. As he did so, a brawny arm suddenly encircled his throat, and pulled him back against a wall. Two other men appeared out of the shadows: one of them, a fierce black man, wielding what looked like an open razor; the other a knock-kneed weasel of a man brandishing an iron bar.

  The man with the brawny arm spun him round and began to choke him until he gasped in fear and pain.

  ‘Listen, Fowler,’ said the man, an Irishman with huge scarred fists and a vicious mouth, ‘you can guess who sent us, can’t you? Captain Macdonald’s getting impatient for his money, and he wants it now. You’ve borrowed two-thousand pounds from him, and haven’t paid him back a penny.’

  The man fumbled among John Fowler’s clothes and he felt him yank his gold watch and chain from his waistcoat.

  ‘This will do on account,’ said the Irishman. ‘It’ll buy you a few days’ time. But if you don’t pay the Captain all that you owe him, me and my friends here will come and find you, and we’ll fix you for the summer. Just bear what I say in mind.’

  The black man suddenly lunged at him, and he heard the fabric of his evening jacket tear open as the razor slashed him almost to his chest. In a moment, his tormentors had disappeared into the rain. Clutching his torn garments close to his body, he made his way to the cab rank. Once inside one of the musty vehicles, he sighed, not with relief, but with something approaching despair.

  ‘They’re all “captains” or “majors”, these loan-sharks,’ he muttered to himself, his heart racing. ‘Oh, Father, if only you were… . All that money, and none of it for your children. All squandered on useless projects, colleges, libraries, obscure scholarships… . Don’t we mean anything to you? Me, your eldest, and Timothy, and your daughter Frances? What am I to do? These debts, and that massive investment in our firm that Frobisher made – an investment that I can’t repay? He’s turning ugly, but I haven’t the money to pay him. Oh, Father, if only you were dead!’

  Ursula Forrest sat in a tapestry-covered chair beside her bed, and gave herself up to thought. What time was it? After one, and a rattling wind was blowing outside in Old Bond Street. By the light of a lamp on the bedside table she reread the letter from the girl whom she called ‘the ring-dove.’

  Dearest Swan,

  You know that I love you, and wish to be with you as often as possible. And because I love you, I beg that you will give me time to make my monthly payment. As for the other, I hope that you will have sufficient compassion to wait until I have amassed enough to make you a significant return. I am in desperate straits at the moment, with creditors pressing upon me. Have mercy, and do not forbid me to come to you, as you did to our mistle thrush. I do not think that I could bear it.

  With all my love, I remain

  Your ring-dove

  Beneath the message were the scrawled lines from Keats.

  Ursula brought her little writing-desk over to the bedside, and composed a reply.

  My little one,

  Perhaps I will give you a little more time to get the money together. But you must repay my forbearance by coming more often to London, and pleasing me in ways that you have so far demurred to practise. I admire your strength of character, but you must not distance yourself from the ways of our little sisterhood. Dear Rosalie was here today, and she mentioned that you have always refused to let her take photographs of you for our albums. This must stop. You yourself have always enjoyed looking at the albums, and you must be willing to share your charms with me, and with the others.

  As for our mistle thrush, she was a weak and foolish girl, who needlessly threw herself in front of a train. I would have taken her back eventually, I expect. We still have our memories of her, and those pictures of her that we have all enjoyed.

  I will remind you, dear one, that you owe me a large sum of money, and that you must make it a priority to discharge that debt as soon as possible. Otherwise, I may call upon you to repay the whole sum immediately.

  With fond love,

  Your Swan

  That, thought Ursula, should bring the little fool back into the fold. I do not need the money, but I will use it to secure her as my petite amie. I love her dearly, but I love myself more; so she had better watch out.

  1

  Awaiting the Grim Reaper

  Gaunt and ravaged, Sir Montague Fowler lay in his great brass bed, propped up with pillows, his nerveless hands lying placidly on the plum-coloured counterpane. His face, rubicund in health, was now a sullen yellow, and the keen eyes that had been accustomed to miss nothing, seemed to be out of focus. The atmosphere in the room was close, and the tang of carbolic could not quite disguise the distressing smells of a vile, wasting illness.

  Outside, in Sparrow Lane, they had laid down straw on the cobbles so that the iron tyres of cabs and carriages would not disturb the Warden’s last days.

  There were eight people in the room, apart from the dying man. Five of them had come to pay their last respects; the other three, two physicians and a nurse, were there to supervise the passing of Sir Montague Fowler, and, when the moment came, to confirm the cause of death.

  Joseph Steadman, the Bursar, stood in a shady recess on the far side of the bed, looking at his old friend. Beside him stood the Vice-Warden, William Podmore, quiet and watchful. To Steadman, the Vice-Warden’s presence in
that room was an affront to decency. Podmore cared not a jot whether Monty lived or died.

  Standing silently at the foot of the bed were the Warden’s three children – two sons, one a businessman, the other a clergyman, and a daughter, headmistress of a school for girls. Steadman noted their presence; but all his attention was focused that afternoon on his dying friend.

  What had brought the Warden to this appalling state? Monty had been a strong, lively man, a man with a loud, persuasive – but not hectoring – voice, a tall, hook-nosed man with flaming red hair and a beard to match. Whenever he had come into a room, he had filled it with an air of expectancy, as though he was the bearer of great news. The smallest detail of his professional life seemed to have the quality of an event.

  And now he lay inert, his eyes open but clearly seeing nothing. Someone – presumably the nurse – had combed his beard so that it lay neat and tamed on the sheet. By this stage in his illness, his faculties had been deliberately numbed with morphia.

  Fowler would not be the first Warden of St Michael’s to have died in the Lodgings. Thomas Woolnoth, who had built the college library, had died there in 1690, of what had been described as a ‘bloody flux’. The great Dr Nehemiah Maddern had expired gently there, in the same room, but not the same bed, in 1801, at the great age of ninety-four, having been Warden for fifty years.

  Today was Friday, the first day of June, 1894. The physicians had told the family and the Senior College that Sir Montague would die on the coming Sunday.

  Joseph Steadman and Montague Fowler had been friends since boyhood, survivors of the same public school, and former scholars of Lincoln College, though they had never met there. Monty was four years Steadman’s senior, and had left Lincoln before Steadman had come up. Fowler had held two very successful lectureships in different colleges, and then had been appointed Principal of St Barnabas’ College, which he had transformed from one of Oxford’s ailing backwaters into a vibrant and much sought after place for young gentlemen of some learning and much prowess at sport, particularly rowing.

  Monty had always pipped him to the post when preferment was offered, just as he had done at school; but Steadman didn’t mind too much. Oh, yes, there had been jealous pangs, but they had soon passed. He had been in the running for the Warden’s post when old Sir Benjamin Green had retired; but such was Monty’s reputation in the university as an administrator, and such was his friendly, irenic nature, that his election as Warden of St Michael’s College had been virtually inevitable. Oh, well, it hadn’t mattered. Life was not designed to be a bed of roses.