An Oxford Scandal Read online

  By the same author

  The Dried-Up Man

  The Dark Kingdom

  The Devereaux Inheritance

  The Haunted Governess

  The Advocate’s Wife

  The Gold Masters

  The Hansa Protocol

  The Ancaster Demons

  Web of Discord

  Evil Holds the Key

  The Unquiet Sleeper

  The Aquila Project

  Depths of Deceit

  The Calton Papers

  The Dorset House Affair

  The Ghosts of Mayfield Court

  An Oxford Tragedy

  An Oxford Anomaly

  An Oxford Scandal

  Norman Russell

  Copyright © 2017 Norman Russell

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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  For Patricia

  Contents

  1 The Secret of Staircase XII

  2 Incident at Culpeper Gardens

  3 Becket’s Bones

  4 The Sleeping and the Dead

  5 Anthony Jardine’s Ordeal

  6 Mrs Green Talks

  7 An Antipathy of Prelates

  8 Day of Wrath

  9 The Ladies of Oliphant’s Yard

  10 The House in Dalcy Street

  11 Recalled to Life

  12 Monsignor Lucie’s Bribe

  13 Consultations in Ditch Lane

  14 The Last Day of Michaelmas Term

  15 Confession to Murder

  16 Restorations

  Author’s Note

  Notes

  1

  The Secret of Staircase XII

  A Bird of ill omen, a rook or raven, flapped its way through the bright November sky on its journey from Magdalen Old Deer Park to its lair in Christchurch Meadow. Had it deigned to look down to earth as it passed over the Botanic Garden, it would have seen the towers and spires of St Gabriel’s College, rising proudly from its wooded grounds. There, in the great first quadrangle, noted for its gilded medieval clock, which told the hours and minutes of each passing day, and the phases of the moon, two men hurried across the grass, the long sleeves of their master’s gowns billowing in the stiff breeze.

  Dr Edward Chalmers, Provost of St Gabriel’s, glanced up at the sky.

  ‘What’s making that confounded cackle, Jardine? A monstrous crow, like the one that Dodgson of Christ Church conjured up. There, it’s gone, now.’

  Chalmers, a stout, comfortable man in his sixties, had been the headmaster of an ancient grammar school, the first of his kind to be appointed head of St Gabriel’s. For nearly thirty years he had made himself a leading authority on the Fragments of the early Roman poet Quintus Ennius, who had flourished in the second century BC.

  ‘You say that something incredible has been discovered,’ said Anthony Jardine. He was fond of the Provost, who was esteemed by dons and undergraduates alike, but his genius for wandering from the point was just a mite tiresome.

  ‘Yes, indeed. It happened just half an hour ago. The men from the works yard who are installing a heating boiler in the second quad broke through a wall in the cellarage beneath Staircase XII, and found a hidden chamber. That’s why I wanted you to come with me. Those cellars beneath Staircase XII are fourteenth century, and Medieval and Renaissance history are your forte.’

  They passed through an archway and came into the second quadrangle of St Gabriel’s. It was an enormously impressive space, flanked on one side by the high-roofed chapel, a gift from Philippa of Hainault, wife of King Edward III, who had established St Gabriel’s in thanksgiving for his victory at Crécy in 1346.

  The college coat of arms, quartering the leopards of England with the achievement of Hainault, dominated the wall facing them. Carved in stone, gilded and painted, they sat above the entrance to the library, undisturbed for five hundred years. Beneath them, incised into a stone scroll, was the college motto, given to them by Edward himself: Fortis in Fide: Strong in the Faith.

  Jardine followed the Provost under the arched entrance of Staircase XII. He wondered why Chalmers had burst into his rooms in the first quad to tell him about what appeared to be a singularly uninteresting piece of news. Old bricked-up cellars were often discovered in ancient buildings. If there was more to this discovery, he would wait for the Provost to tell him.

  Anthony Jardine’s mind was elsewhere that day. His wife had been in good spirits for the last week, but yesterday evening she had once more fallen into a bout of depression and weeping. Her speech had become slurred, as though she were intoxicated, but she had always been teetotal by choice. When he had spoken to her she had hardly heard what he was saying. She would pick up a book, read for a few minutes and then throw it down again.

  He had wanted to send for Dr Maitland, but she had burst into tears, declaring that she would be quite well again on the morrow. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Anthony, don’t make such a fuss! I tell you I shall be quite well again tomorrow.’

  That morning, before coming into college, he had breakfasted alone, served by Betty, the maid-of-all-work, who had given him occasional glances of pity and concern. Girls of her age had not yet learned to mask their feelings, so as not to humiliate their employers.

  ‘Down here, Jardine! Mind you don’t fall!’

  The Provost’s warning recalled Jardine to the present. The two men descended a steep flight of steps and found themselves stumbling over heaps of stone and shattered brick, illuminated by two paraffin lamps. A couple of workmen, both covered in white dust, rose from a bench and greeted them.

  ‘It’s just along here, gentlemen,’ said one of the men, ‘over to the right behind that buttress. It’s an old cellar, but there’s something very interesting in there. Take one of those lanterns, so that you can see what we found.’

  Chalmers and Jardine made their way cautiously through the rubble until they came to a large breach in the wall. Stepping through this, they found themselves in a vaulted chamber, perhaps ten feet in height. In the centre was an ancient tomb-chest, constructed of heavy sandstone slabs. Lying on top of it was a beautiful recumbent image of a bishop, finely wrought in alabaster. The figure had been depicted in full canonicals, and with a mitre on its head.

  ‘No one was ever buried down here, to my knowledge,’ whispered the Provost. ‘Every dead person of note lies in the chapel vaults. What do you make of it?’

  ‘This image of a bishop is fourteenth century, to judge by the carved vestments,’ Jardine replied. ‘But what’s he doing here? It’s
very intriguing. And although the tomb’s constructed of sandstone slabs, the figure is made of alabaster.’ Anthony Jardine repeated his rhetorical question: ‘What’s he doing here?’

  ‘There’s an inscription here,’ said Dr Chalmers, using his handkerchief to remove some thick dust. ‘Not along the edge of the tomb, as you’d expect, but carved into a square plaque on the front panel of the chest. Dear me, this is most interesting! Deeply incised in Roman capitals… Can you make it out, Jardine? I’ve left my reading glasses in my study.’

  Jardine crouched down to read aloud the letters on the stone plaque.

  ‘HIC SEPVLTA SVNT OSSA SANCTI – Good God!’ He sprang to his feet, almost falling as he stumbled over the surrounding debris. The Provost turned in surprise, and Jardine pointed to part of the inscription. ‘Dr Chalmers,’ he whispered, ‘you can read that name well enough. If this is genuine, and not some fanciful hoax, then we must keep it secret, at least for a while.’

  ‘Yes, yes… Incredible, if true. Jardine, make a copy of that inscription in your pocket book. We’ll discuss its significance once we’re out of this place. Walls have ears.’

  The Provost waited until Jardine had copied the inscription, and then the two men stepped out of the vault.

  ‘Bates,’ said Chalmers, ‘what you’ve discovered here is an old tomb, made of sandstone, and with an alabaster figure placed on top of it. Come back into the vault, and tell us how we can remove the figure, and gain access to the tomb chest.’

  The two dons joined the workmen in the vault. They were both crouching down, examining the sides of the tomb chest. Presently they straightened up, and Bates addressed the Provost.

  ‘Mr Provost, sir,’ he said, ‘the image on top of the tomb is cemented on to the sandstone lid. Lewis and I will be able to loosen it, and then it can be lowered to the floor. The lid is very heavy sandstone, so I’ll need to get some steel rollers and a sheet of tarpaulin. You need rollers to shift a weight like that, sir.’

  ‘And the tarpaulin?’

  ‘That’s to receive the lid once we’ve lifted it on to the rollers and slid it to the floor. I could do with bringing a couple more men with me—’

  ‘Wouldn’t we do? I mean Mr Jardine and me, and a couple more Fellows?’

  Bates regarded the two dons dubiously.

  ‘Well, sir, it’s hardly work for gentlemen, but let’s see how things go. I can have everything ready here by tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Excellent. Now, could you board up this opening, and make it fast? I’d be obliged if you’d mention this to no one for the moment. I’ll see that you get your full wages while you’re working directly for me. No doubt we can house the new boiler elsewhere. What do you think, Mr Jardine? Yes, I thought you’d agree.’

  Edward Chalmers always asked for one’s opinion on any matter without waiting to hear what it was. Coming from anybody else it would be annoying, but with Teddy Chalmers it was merely an endearing idiosyncrasy. It was virtually impossible to be vexed with Teddy.

  ‘Asking your pardon, sir,’ said Lewis, the younger of the two workmen, wiping a hand across his mouth, ‘but it’s thirsty work, this diggin’.’

  Provost Chalmers laughed, and rummaged in one of his pockets. ‘Thirsty work, hey, Lewis? Here’s a florin. You can wet your whistles with that!’

  The two dons emerged from the gloom of the cellarage and made their way into the first quad. When he was sure that they were out of earshot, Jardine stopped his companion on the shale path.

  ‘Provost,’ he said, ‘there are ramifications to this discovery, some of them not very pleasant. If word gets out too soon, much mischief will be done. I’m thinking of the Archbishop of Canterbury—’

  ‘Yes indeed. I know what you mean. And I’m thinking of Cardinal Vaughan. But you know what Oxford’s like. It’ll be common knowledge before the day’s out. Those two workmen won’t keep their own counsel once their tongues are loosened. And some of the scouts will be nosing round there already. But it was right to reward those men for their trouble. Don’t you agree? Yes, I thought you would. We must play the thing by ear, and see what transpires. ’­

  *

  Jardine had a tutorial at eleven. Bidding farewell to the Provost, he made his way to his rooms. He listened dutifully to the two young undergraduates, both in scholar’s gowns, as they read their essays to him. They were very intelligent young men, and what they had written about Thomas Cromwell’s view of Henry’s infatuation for Anne Boleyn was striking and original. A fruitful discussion followed, and he made some suggestion for further study. And all the time he talked, he was thinking of the sandstone tomb in the vault below Staircase XII, and its awesome contents – awesome, that is, if the inscription on that plaque recorded the truth.

  ‘For next week’s tutorial, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I want you to produce an essay entitled: “Henry VIII was a devout Catholic until his dying day.” You may concur, or dissent, or let your good sense take you where it will.’

  Jardine’s work in college was over for the day, though he would return to dine in hall that night. Half way through the tutorial, he had sensed the onset of one of his violent headaches. He had put up with them for nearly two years. He opened a cupboard beside the fireplace of his sitting-room, and brought out a bottle and glass. The bottle contained Bishop’s Effervescing Citrate of Caffeine, which his doctor had recommended. He poured himself a generous dose, drank it, and sat back in his chair. It was quite effective as a treatment, and within minutes he felt that the symptoms were abating. It was time to go. He stood up, and put on his overcoat. It was one of the new tailless kind, reaching halfway down the calf, and fastened with four buttons. It went well with the black bowler hats that he favoured.

  There was a cheval-glass in the room, and, although there was nothing of the narcissist about him, he stood still for a while, observing his reflection. He was forty-five, and his hair was showing more than a hint of grey. His blue eyes were heavily lidded. He wore an ample moustache, which contrived to add distinction to his appearance. He dressed well, and moved well. He watched himself smile, a smile of sardonic amusement, and then he left the room. It was time to go home.

  There were three horse-trams standing at the Carfax terminus. The horses still stood between the shafts, tossing up their nose-bags to get at their luncheon of hay and oats. The saloons had been swept out, and the floors strewn with fresh sawdust. Jardine mounted the steps of one of the trams, and entered the saloon. The conductor, a weather-beaten man in his sixties, nodded a greeting, and accepted his penny fare. It was a nice, bright day for November, he said, and Jardine agreed. But it was more than a nice bright day. It would be an auspicious day for St Gabriel’s College, a day to be remembered: Monday, 4 November, 1895.

  It was quite pleasant to sit on one of the two facing bench-seats once the conductor had closed the sliding door into the saloon. There were only four passengers, himself, a market-woman clutching an enormous basket, and two business men, both engrossed in conversation about the parity of various currencies. The conductor glanced up at the clock in Carfax tower, and pulled the bell strap that ran along the ceiling of the saloon. As usual, the bell failed to respond, but the driver heard the ‘thwack-thwack’ of the leather strap, and urged on the two horses. They rumbled into Cornmarket, to begin their leisurely eight-miles-an-hour journey out to the suburbs of North Oxford.

  What an incredible morning it had been!

  The tramcar clattered out of Cornmarket and screeched over the lines into Magdalen Street. Jardine glanced at the Martyrs’ Memorial, and thought: Those poor fellows would have been most indignant to hear who had been entombed below Staircase XII at St Gabriel’s. They might even have spared a thought for him as they submitted to the flames of martyrdom outside Balliol, over three hundred years ago.

  Rachel would be very interested to hear about the discovery. She had an enqu
iring mind, and a wide knowledge of medieval history, which she put to good use in her lectures in the Department of Extension Studies. She understood, too, the difficulties facing a married don. The conflicting demands made upon such a man by his college on the one hand, and his family on the other, were unremitting. Her sympathy, and her ability to talk over such matters, were two of Rachel’s many strengths.

  Rachel… They would meet, as though by accident, in one or other of the genteel tea shops in central Oxford. ‘Why, Mrs Noble, how nice to see you! May I join you?’ Theirs was a meeting of minds, a sharing of sympathies; but Rachel had an independent approach to life, and never allowed herself to be seduced by his persuasive manner into blind agreement with everything he said. She was an ally, a confidante, and it was inevitable that their friendship had turned into a guilty but irresistible commitment.

  Sometimes they would walk in Port Meadow, or arrange to meet at the Trout, the quaint old hostelry on the bank of the Thames at Wolvercote. She was some years younger than he, very handsome, and with an elegant poise well suited to the simple styles of the nineties.

  Rachel, too, was married, a woman of blameless reputation, yoked to a man who devoted his life to translating the epistles of the early Fathers of the Church from Greek and Aramaic into English. Gregory Noble had no other interest in life, apart from a devotion to the cello. He lived on the slender income of an old trust fund, and had long ago resigned a lectureship that he had held at Pembroke College to go his own way, unrestrained by the courteous cautions of other scholars.

  After Gregory Noble had married Rachel, he had made it clear to her that he did not want children. He desired only what he called ‘sisterly companionship’, and had fatuously spoken of ‘the marriage of true minds’, so for Rachel, love had indeed become Time’s fool: it pleased her husband that she should remain barren and unfulfilled. She was thirty-six, and had married Noble when she was twenty-three, so she had endured her parody of a marriage for thirteen years.