An Oxford Scandal Read online

  ‘Yes, sir. Shall I tell Mr Antrobus about the woman in the tram?’

  ‘Just do as you’re told. You’re a sore trial to me tonight, boy. If I ask him to come, he’ll come. Go!’

  What a night! The rain showed no signs of abating, and the road was well-nigh flooded. He could see the raindrops dancing high from the cobbles in the gas light. He’d sent the driver and conductor home – they could be interviewed tomorrow. There was a night watchman on duty in the sheds, who was now standing guard over the murder scene. A strong, stoical man, Corbett was prepared to stand out in the rain all night if duty demanded it.

  Who was this? Unless you were a police officer, it was difficult to spot that someone was ‘behaving suspiciously’, but this fellow who’d just emerged from one of the side streets was a decidedly furtive customer. Dressed in a long overcoat, and with a peaked cap pulled down over his eyes, he started when he saw the uniformed police officer, and tried to hurry past.

  ‘Not so fast, my friend,’ said Inspector Corbett, laying a hand on the man’s arm.

  ‘Where may you be going at this time of night? What’s your name, and where have you been?’

  The man seemed dumbstruck. Corbett could see that he was actually trembling with fright. Had he been on that fatal tram? Had he been hiding across the road until the police were out of sight?

  ‘Why should I give you my name?’ the man faltered. ‘I have done nothing wrong.’

  His voice told the inspector that the man in the long overcoat was a gentleman. What was a man like that doing in an area like this?

  ‘Tell me where you’ve just come from, and where you’re going. I don’t like the look of you, my friend. Loitering in the rain at the scene of a murder—’

  ‘What? A murder? What do you mean? I must go. I know nothing of this.’

  The man made a sudden dash for freedom, but in a moment he was pinned against a wall, and handcuffed. At the same time, a closed van driven by a man in oilskins emerged out of the rain-mist. It was followed by a single hansom cab. Leaving his prisoner half fainting against the wall, Inspector Corbett stepped out into the road and held up a hand. The front flaps of the cab were flung open, and Corbett saw the spare, black-clad form of Detective Inspector Antrobus emerge into the cold, wet night. He, too, had brought a young constable with him.

  ‘This is a bad business, Mr Antrobus,’ said Corbett. ‘I have a woman stabbed to death in a tramcar. She was found when the vehicle turned in here to the depot. The man you see over there by the wall was acting suspiciously. He tried to run away, so I handcuffed him.’

  The young constable, who had followed Antrobus out of the cab, stopped in the road, oblivious to the rain, and looked at the handcuffed man half collapsed against the wall.

  ‘Why, Mr Jardine, sir, what are you doing here?’ asked PC Morton. ‘Do you remember me? I brought your wife home from the Trap Grounds on the night of the fourth.’ With a great effort of will, Anthony Jardine managed a reply.

  ‘Yes, Constable, I remember you. So you can vouch for me to this officer here.’

  PC Morton glanced at Inspector Antrobus. What was he to say?

  ‘Mr Jardine,’ said Antrobus, ‘you must stay here with PC Morton until I’ve finished my business here. You must regard yourself as being in police custody until you are told otherwise.’

  The two inspectors, talking in low tones, went into the tram depot. To Jardine, manacled and soaked through with the rain, the next quarter of an hour seemed like an eternity. Sitting on the wet pavement a few feet away from him was a black bull mastiff, which had begun to bark. At least, that was what it seemed to be doing, because no sound emerged from the beast. Even as he looked at it, it disappeared. Perhaps he was going mad. He felt the onset of one of his wretched headaches.

  Eventually, Antrobus and Corbett emerged from the sheds, and at the same time the driver of the closed van manoeuvred his vehicle in such a way that the rear door was facing the entrance to the terminus. The door opened, and two men stepped down into the road, hauling a stretcher between them. At a word from Antrobus they made their way into the sheds.

  Some minutes later, they reappeared, carrying the stretcher, upon which they had placed the dead body of the woman, decently covered with a blanket. They would take it to the mortuary in St Ebbe’s, and on the next day one of the forensic police surgeons would conduct a post mortem.

  And so for a few moments the six men formed a kind of macabre tableau, out in the driving rain beneath the fitful light of the gas lamps, until PC Morton, obeying a sudden impulse, stopped the cortège, placed a hand on Jardine’s arm, and pulled back the sheet from the face of the dead woman. Anthony Jardine screamed, and then began to sob. For he had looked down upon the dead face of Dora, his troubled wife.

  5

  Anthony Jardine’s Ordeal

  Anthony Jardine, no longer handcuffed, sat on a bench in the reception room of Cowley Road Police Office, trying desperately to reassemble all the elements of his shattered life. Someone had turned down the blanket covering a corpse, and he had seen the face of his wife, rain-bespattered, her eyes open to the elements. Dora was dead, Dora, the vivacious, fascinating girl whom he had married against the university rules, the mother of his children.

  Oh, God! The children! John was in Lucerne, and dear Lucy was working at the British Museum. They would have to be told immediately. But he was a prisoner here in this dim, gas-lit police station. He had been forced to submit to the indignity of a search, and wondered whether these men had found it suspicious that he carried no form of identity with him. When he came to stay in Cowley as ‘Mr Charles Jordan’, he was careful not to carry anything with him that would identify him as Anthony Jardine.

  How dare these men suspect that he had murdered his own wife! They had constrained him to go with them, and at the moment seemed to have forgotten his existence as a human being, and were discussing him as though he were an interesting specimen in a museum. The big, heavy inspector had discarded his cloak, and was sitting at a desk near a fire blazing in an old-fashioned round steel grate set in one of the whitewashed walls. He was wearing the frogged uniform jacket of an inspector, but his companion, a thin, bearded man, was in plain clothes. He looked more like an undertaker than a police officer.

  Dora was dead! The house in Culpeper Gardens would be empty, and Mrs Green – what would she do? Would she send for the police? Was there to be an end to this nightmare? What were they saying?

  ‘I’m more than willing to hand him over to you, Mr Antrobus, but I’m afraid I can’t oblige by letting him go now on his own recognisances. All this business is his own fault, for refusing to give his name, and a reason for him being in Cowley this evening. He’ll stay here tonight in our cells, and come up before the magistrate in the police court tomorrow. Then I’ll send him down to you at Oxford High Street.’

  ‘That’s very fair, Mr Corbett. If you don’t mind, I’ll sit here while you question him. I won’t interfere.’

  Inspector Corbett looked at the prisoner sitting on the bench. He was in a wretched state, pale as a sheet, his clothes soaked with rain. But he was obviously a gentleman.

  ‘Prisoner,’ said Corbett, ‘you understand, do you not, that you were taken up for acting suspiciously in the vicinity of a murder scene. Further, when asked to do so, you refused to give your name, and then refused to say what you were doing out here in Cowley. You also made an attempt to run away. Do you agree with what I have just said?’

  ‘Yes.’ What else could he say? When would he be able to let his children know that their mother was dead – murdered? He suddenly recalled something that Dora had said, when he had told her about Count Savident’s ‘lucky number’. ‘Tomorrow’s the thirteenth,’ she’d said. ‘Perhaps that will prove a lucky day for us, too!’ It had been her last day on earth. Tears sprang unbidden to his eyes. At the same time, the h
eadache left him.

  ‘It was PC Morton, a police officer, ’ Inspector Corbett continued, ‘who recognized you, and identified you as one Anthony Jardine, living at 7 Culpeper Gardens, Summertown. Do you now admit that you are that man?’

  ‘Yes.’ Had Mrs Green disturbed Professor Gorringe? What would he and Amy think of him? What would Mrs Green and Betty think of him?

  ‘Now I ask you once again, Mr Jardine: What were you doing out here in Cowley tonight? Where had you been? Whom had you been visiting? You were loitering within yards of the body of your murdered wife. Had you, in fact, been with her on that tramcar? You see how vilely you are placed by not answering a simple question, that any honest man would do willingly. Where had you been?’

  It was utterly impossible for him to reply to this question. How could he possibly tell these men that he had been enjoying the company of another man’s wife at their secret rendezvous, where they lived irregularly under assumed names? To betray Rachel would bring about her total ruin. Her wretched bookworm of a husband would cast her off, and from that moment she would be dead to society. For love of her – yes, it was true love – he must bear this burden alone.

  ‘Inspector,’ he said, ‘I cannot tell you why I was out here in Cowley tonight.’ A sudden thought struck him, and he added: ‘Nor can I imagine what my wife was doing here. She had neither friends nor business in this part of town.’

  Inspector Corbett stood up. He looked angry and affronted.

  ‘Very well. I will now place you formally under arrest, and in a moment you will be lodged in a cell for the night. You will be given a meal of bread and butter, and a can of tea, which you will consume in the presence of one of my constables. You will then be locked down. There is a bunk in the cell, with a pillow and blanket. In the morning, you will be taken before the magistrate, and given into the charge of Detective Inspector Antrobus.’

  A constable appeared from another room, took him by the arm, and led him down a flagged passage to one of three holding cells. The floor was damp, and smelt of carbolic disinfectant. The only light came from a naked gas jet in the passage. He removed his outer clothing and left them in a pile on the stone floor. Then he lay on the bunk, wrapped in the coarse blanket, and tried to shut out this hateful, alien world, where drunken ruffians had scribbled illiterate obscenities on the walls.

  Suddenly, he recalled the excitement of discovering Becket’s bones, and the ensuing pleasurable academic ferment, and quite failed to stifle a sob of despair.

  *

  Miss Agnes Henshall, retired Matron and authority on the history of theatre nursing, occupied an elegant little white stuccoed house in Merton Street, facing the ancient college of that name. She boasted two bijou gardens, front and rear, in both of which she was fond of pottering with a trowel and basket whenever the weather permitted her to do so. Merton Street was a quiet, secluded enclave, forming a welcome contrast to the noise and bustle of High Street, lying at the far end of Logic Lane. Her days were meted out by the leisurely and sonorous chimes of the great clock in Merton College tower.

  The morning of 14 November was bright and cheerful, forming a welcome contrast to the heavy rain of the past night. Sitting at breakfast in her tiny sitting room, she glanced across the table at her guest. She had known Sophy since they were pupils together at a boarding school in Brighton in the early fifties, and they had remained friends ever since.

  Sophia Jex-Blake, physician and surgeon, was renowned as a pioneer in the struggle to see women allowed to practise medicine. Firm and bold in the pursuit of that end, she was nonetheless a quietly spoken, courteous woman. At the moment, she was preoccupied in reading The Times, having donned little round gold-framed spectacles to do so.

  ‘What will you do today, Sophy?’ asked Agnes Henshall. ‘It’s still cold, but otherwise it’s a lovely bright morning.’

  Sophia Jex-Blake put the newspaper aside.

  ‘Do you know, Agnes,’ she said, ‘I’m trying to think of some valid reason for calling on Detective Inspector Antrobus in his High Street lair, but for the life of me I can’t think of any course of action that wouldn’t seem crude and contrived.’

  ‘You really liked him, didn’t you? It was so odd that you should have become a kind of honorary constable, working with him on those two celebrated cases.2 He’s still very active, I believe, but he’s only just come out of the Radcliffe Infirmary. He needed artificial pneumothorax again. This time they employed the Forlanini method.’

  ‘Poor, dear man!’ Sophia looked out of the window at the sunny road, where two girl undergraduates were cycling along. Those clever young women, she mused, would complete whatever courses they were studying, but would be denied a degree. Things were changing, but much remained to do done. What a strange, exasperating country England was! She herself, and Agnes, and those girls – none of them were allowed to vote in Parliamentary elections.

  ‘You’re miles away, Sophia,’ said Agnes. ‘What are you thinking of?’

  ‘I’m thinking of the manifold inequalities common to man – or rather to woman. But I would dearly like to see how Mr Antrobus is faring. Yes, I am fond of him. And I have saved his life on two occasions— Ah! Here’s another bicycle. It’s a messenger boy, with a letter in his hand.’ As she finished speaking, there came a magisterial knock on the front door. Agnes rose from the table and went out into the hall.

  ‘Are you trying to break my door down?’ she demanded of the fourteen year old boy standing on the doorstep. ‘I’m not deaf, you know.’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ said the boy, who was clad in a smart brown knicker-bocker suit with schoolboy cap to match, ‘but there are some that are, especially old ladies, meaning no offence. I’m to deliver this letter to a Miss Jessie Blake, and to wait for an answer.’

  ‘And where have you come from?’

  ‘I’ve come from Dr Grossmith at the City Mortuary in Floyd’s Row, ma’am. He knows that Miss Jessie Blake is here, and wants her to read this letter.’ He gave a little patient sigh, and repeated: ‘I’m to wait for an answer.’

  ‘Sophie,’ said Agnes Henshall when she had rejoined her friend, ‘that cheeky boy has brought you a letter. It’s from one of the doctors at the mortuary.’

  Sophia Jex-Blake opened the letter, and gave a cry of delighted surprise.

  ‘This would seem to be an answer to my unspoken prayer,’ she said. ‘Would you like to read it? Not many ladies are sent letters of this nature. What a delightful surprise!’

  Dear Madam (it read)

  If you are free this morning, I should be most gratified if you could attend a forensic post mortem which will be conducted here at half past eleven by Dr Hugh Grossmith, of the Radcliffe Infirmary. He would be very pleased if you would assist him in a professional capacity. If you are willing, tell the boy, and I will send a cab to collect you at half past ten.

  I am, Madam, your obedient servant,

  James Antrobus, Detective Inspector.

  *

  The cab set Sophia Jex-Blake down at the entrance to the Oxford City Mortuary in St Ebbe’s. Waiting for her on the steps of the grey stone building stood a tall, fair-haired young man wearing a long white laboratory coat.

  ‘Dr Jex-Blake? I’m very pleased to meet you. I’m Dr Hugh Grossmith, from the Radcliffe. I was appointed a police surgeon at Mr Antrobus’s instigation last year. He’s waiting to greet you in the office. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go to make the necessary arrangements in the cutting room. Meanwhile, the Inspector will give you the details of this case.’

  As Sophia entered the sparsely-furnished mortuary office, Detective Inspector Antrobus rose to greet her. He shook her proffered hand, and bowed gravely. It was more than a mere formal greeting: though each considered the other as a friend, Antrobus had formed a special regard for the woman who had twice saved his life.

  ‘Now, Mr Antrobus
,’ said Sophia, ‘how did you know that I was in Oxford? Did you set your spies upon me?’

  ‘We have our methods, madam,’ said Antrobus, and they both laughed. Then the inspector motioned to one of a number of Windsor chairs dotted round the bleak room, and Dr Jex-Blake sat down.

  ‘Late yesterday evening, ma’am,’ Antrobus began without preamble, ‘the body of a woman in her mid-forties was discovered dead – murdered – in a tramcar that had just turned into the terminus depot in Cowley Road. A preliminary examination showed that she had been stabbed in the left side with what must have been a very sharp instrument, as it had passed cleanly through the thickness of her overcoat. We quickly established the woman’s identity. She was a Mrs Dora Jardine, the wife of one of the Fellows of St Gabriel’s College. That lady is now lying dead in the cutting room.’

  ‘Why did you send for me? It was very good of you to do so, and I shall be very interested in examining the body with Dr Grossmith once he has opened it.’

  ‘I know that you both will determine the exact cause of death, ma’am,’ said Antrobus, ‘but I’m hoping that you will look for the presence in Mrs Jardine’s body of substances that may have weakened her constitution – wrongly prescribed medicaments, for instance.’

  ‘Really? “Wrongly prescribed medicaments”? Well, sir, I can see beyond your circumlocutions to what you actually mean. You won’t be more explicit?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Very well. And where is my friend Sergeant Maxwell? I call him “friend” because he and I occasionally worked together in the past to save you from your own follies.’