Gaudy Night (20 page)

“What next?” inquired Mr. Pomfret in a hoarse whisper.

“I must let you out. I don’t know where her room is, but I can’t have you wandering all over College. Wait a minute. We’ll deposit her in the nearest bathroom. Here you are. Round the corner. Easy does it.”

Mr. Pomfret again bent obligingly to the task.

“There!” said Harriet. She laid Miss Cattermole on her back on the bathroom floor, took the key from the lock and came out, securing the door behind her. “She must stay there for the moment. Now we’ll get rid of you. I don’t think anybody saw us. If we’re met on the way back, you were at Mrs. Hemans’ dance and saw me home. Get that? It’s not very convincing, because you ought not to have done any such thing, but it’s better than the truth.”

“I only wish I
had
been at Mrs. Hemans’ dance,” said the grateful Mr. Pomfret. “I’d have danced every dance with you and all the extras. Do you mind telling me who you are?”

“My name’s Vane. And you’d better not start being enthusiastic too soon I’m not considering your welfare particularly. Do you know Miss Cattermole well?”

“Rather well. Oh, yes. Naturally. I mean, we know some of the same people and that sort of thing. As a matter of fact, she used to be engaged to an old schoolfellow of mine—New College man—only that fell through and all that. No affair of mine; but you know how it is. One knows people and one kind of goes on knowing them. And there you are.”

“Yes, I see. Well, Mr. Pomfret I am not anxious to get either you or Miss Cattermole into a row—”

“I knew you were a sport!” cried Mr. Pomfret.

“(Don’t
shout
)—but this sort of thing cannot go on. There must be no more late parties and no more climbing over walls. You understand. Not with anybody. It’s not fair. If I go to the Dean with this story, nothing much will happen to you, but Miss Cattermole will be lucky if she’s not sent down. For God’s sake, stop being an ass. There are much better ways of enjoying Oxford than fooling round at midnight with the women students.”

“I know there are. I think it’s all rather rot, really.”

“Then why do it?”

“I don’t know. Why does one do idiotic things?”

“Why?” said Harriet. They were passing the end of the Chapel, and Harriet stood still to give emphasis to what she was saying. “I’ll tell you why, Mr. Pomfret. Because you haven’t the guts to say No when somebody asks you to be a sport. That torn-tool word has got more people in trouble than all the rest of the dictionary put together. If it’s sporting to encourage girls to break rules and drink more than they can carry and get themselves into a mess on your account, then I’d stop being a sport and try being a gentleman.”

“Oh, I say,” said Mr. Pomfret, hurt.

“I mean it,” said Harriet.

“Well, I see your point,” said Mr. Pomfret, shifting his feet uneasily. “I’ll do my best about it. You’ve been dashed spor—I mean you’ve behaved like a perfect gentleman about all this—” he grinned—“and I’ll try to—good Lord. here’s somebody coming.”

A quick patter of slippered feet along the passage between the Hall and Queen Elizabeth was approaching rapidly.

On an impulse, Harriet stepped back and pushed open the Chapel door.

“Get in,” she said.

Mr. Pomfret slipped hastily in behind her. Harriet shut the door on him and stood quietly in front of it. The footsteps came nearer, came opposite the porch and stopped suddenly. The night-walker uttered a little squeak.

“Ooh!”

“What is it?” said Harriet.

“Oh miss it’s you! You gave me such a start. Did you see anything?”

“See what? Who is it, by the way?”

“Emily, miss—I sleep in the New Quad, miss, and I woke up, and I made sure I heard a man’s voice in the quadrangle, and I looked out and there he was miss, as plain as plain, coming this way with one of the young ladies. So I slipped on my slippers, miss....”

“Damn!” said Harriet to herself. Better tell part of the truth, though.

“It’s all right, Emily. It was a friend of mine. He came in with me and wanted very much to see the New Quad by moonlight. So we just walked across and back again.”

(A poor excuse, but probably less suspicious than a flat denial.)

“Oh, I see, miss. I beg your pardon. But I get that nervous, with one thing and another. And it’s unusual, if you’ll excuse me saying so, miss....”

“Yes, very,” said Harriet, strolling gently away in the direction of the New Quad, so that the scout was bound to follow her. “It was stupid of me not to think that it might disturb people. I’ll mention it to the Dean in the morning. You did quite right to come down.”

“Well, miss, of course I didn’t know who it was. And the Dean is so particular. And with all these queer things happening....”

“Yes, absolutely. Of course. I’m really very sorry to have been so thoughtless. The gentleman has gone now, so you won’t get woken up again.”

Emily seemed doubtful. She was one of those people who never feel they have said a thing till they have said it three times over. She paused at the foot of her staircase to say everything again. Harriet listened impatiently, thinking of Mr. Pomfret, fuming in the Chapel. At last she got rid of the scout and turned back.

Complicated, thought Harriet; silly situation, like a farce. Emily thinks she’s caught a student: I think I’ve caught a poltergeist. We catch each other. Young Pomfret parked in the Chapel. He thinks I’m kindly shielding him and Cattermole. Having carefully hidden Pomfret, I have to admit he was there. But if Emily
had
been the Poltergeist—and perhaps she is—then I couldn’t have had Pomfret helping to chase her. This kind of sleuthing is very confusion-making.

She pushed open the Chapel door. The porch was empty.

“Damn!” said Harriet, irreverently. “The idiot’s gone. Perhaps he’s gone inside, though.”

She looked in through the inner door and was relieved to see a dark figure faintly outlined against the pale oak of the stalls. Then, with a sudden, violent shock, she became aware of a second dark figure, poised strangely, it seemed, in midair.

“Hullo!” said Harriet. In the thin light of the South windows she saw the flash of a white shirt-front as Mr. Pomfret turned. “It’s only me.
What’s that?
”

She took a torch from her handbag and recklessly switched it on. The beam snowed a dismal shape dangling from the canopy above the stalls. It was winging a little to and fro and turning slowly as it swung. Harriet darted forward.

“Morbid kind of imagination these girls have got, haven’t they?” said Mr. Pomfret.

Harriet contemplated the M.A. cap and gown, arranged over a dress and bolster hitched by a thin cord to one of the terminals with which the architect had decorated the canopies.

“Bread-knife stuck through the tummy, too,” pursued Mr. Pomfret. “Gave me quite a turn, as my aunt would say. Did you catch the young woman?”

“No. Was she in here?”

“Oh, definitely,” said Mr. Pomfret. “Thought I’d retreat a bit further, you know. So in I came. Then I saw that. So I came along to investigate and heard somebody scrambling out by the other door—over there.”

He pointed vaguely towards the north side of the building, where a door led into the vestry. Harriet hastened to look. The door was open, and the outer vestry door, though shut, had been unlocked from within. She peered out. All was quiet.

“Bother them and their rags,” said Harriet, returning. “No, I didn’t meet the lady. She must have got away while I was taking Emily back to the New Quad. Just my luck!” She muttered the last exclamation under her breath. It was really sickening to have had the Poltergeist under her hand like that, and to have been distracted by Emily. She went up to the dummy again, and saw that a paper was pinned to its middle by the bread-knife.

“Quotation from the classics,” said Mr. Pomfret, easily. “Looks as though somebody had a grouse against your dons.”

“Silly young fools!” said Harriet. “Very convincing bit of work, though, come to look at it. If we hadn’t found it first, it would have created quite a sensation when we all filed into prayers. A little investigation is indicated. Well, now, it’s time you went quietly home and were gated for the good of your soul.”

She led him down to the postern and let him out.

“By the way, Mr. Pomfret, I’d be obliged if you didn’t mention this rag to anybody. It’s not in the best of taste. One good turn deserves another.”

“Just as you say,” replied Mr. Pomfret. “And, look here—may I push round tomorrow—at least, it’s this morning, isn’t it?—and make inquiries and all that? Only proper, you know. When shall you be in? Please!”

“No visitors in the morning,” said Harriet, promptly. “I don’t know what I shall be doing in the afternoon. But you can always ask at the Lodge.”

“Oh, I may? That’s top-hole. I’ll call—and if you’re not there I’ll leave a note. I mean, you must come round and have tea or a cocktail or something. And I do honestly promise it shan’t happen again, if I can help it.”

“All right. By the way—what time did Miss Cattermole arrive at your friend’s place?”

“Oh—about half-past nine, I think. Couldn’t be sure. Why?”

“I only wondered whether her initials were in the porter’s book. But I’ll see to it. Goodnight.”

“Good-night,” said Mr. Pomfret, “and thanks frightfully.”

Harriet locked the postern behind him and returned across the quadrangle, feeling that, out of all this absurd tiresomeness, something had been most definitely gained. The dummy could scarcely have been put in position before 9:30; so that Miss Cattermole, through sheer folly, had contrived to give herself a cast-iron alibi. Harriet was so grateful to her for advancing the inquiry by even this small step that she determined the girl should, if possible, be let off the consequences of her escapade.

This reminded her that Miss Cattermole still lay on the bathroom floor, waiting to be dealt with. It would be awkward if she had come to her senses in the interval and started to make a noise. But on reaching the New Quad and unlocking the door, Harriet found her prisoner in the somnolent stage of the rake’s progress. A little research along the corridors revealed that Miss Cattermole slept on the first floor. Harriet opened the door of the room, and he did so the door next it opened also, and a head popped out.

“Is that you, Cattermole?” whispered the head. “Oh, I’m sorry.” It popped in Harriet recognised the girl who had gone up and spoken to Miss Cattermole after the Opening of the Library. She went to her door, which bore the name of C. I. Briggs, and knocked gently. The head reappeared.

“Were you expecting to see Miss Cattermole come in?”

“Well said Miss Briggs, “I heard somebody at her door—oh! it’s Miss Vane, isn’t it?”

“Yes. What made you sit up and wait for Miss Cattermole?”

Miss Briggs, who was wearing a woolly coat over her pyjamas, looked a little alarmed.

“I had some work to do. I was sitting up in any case. Why?”

Harriet looked at the girl. She was short and sturdily built, with a plain, strong, sensible face. She appeared trustworthy.

“If you’re a friend of Miss Cattermole’s,” said Harriet, “You’d better come and help me upstairs with her. She’s down in the bathroom. I found her being helped over the wall by a young man, and she’s rather under the weather.”

“Oh, dear!” said Miss Briggs. “Tight?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“She
is
a fool,” said Miss Briggs. “I knew there’d be trouble some day. All right, I’ll come.”

Between them they lugged Miss Cattermole up the noisy, polished stairs and dumped her upon her bed. In grim silence they undressed her and put her between the sheets.

“She’ll sleep it off now,” said Harriet. “I think, by the way, a little explanation wouldn’t be a bad idea. How about it?”

“Come into my room,” said Miss Briggs. “Would you like any hot milk or Ovaltine or coffee, or anything?”

Harriet accepted hot milk. Miss Briggs put a kettle on the ring in the pantry opposite, came in, stirred up the fire and sat down on a pouffe.

“Please tell me,” said Miss Briggs, “what has happened.”

Harriet told her, omitting the names of the gentlemen concerned. But Miss Briggs promptly supplied the omission.

“That was Reggie Pomfret of course,” she observed. “Poor blighter. He
always
gets left with the baby. After all, what is the lad to do, if people go chasing him?”

“It’s awkward,” said Harriet. “I mean, you need some knowledge of the world to get out of it gracefully. Does the girl really care for him?”

“No,” said Miss Briggs. “Not really. She just wants somebody or something. You know. She got a nasty knock when her engagement was broken. You see, she and Lionel Farringdon had been childhood friends and so on, and it was all settled before she came up. Then Farringdon got collared by our Miss Flaxman, and there was a frightful bust-up. And there were complications. And Violet Cattermole has gone all unnerved.”

“I know,” said Harriet. “Sort of desperate feeling—I must have a man of my own—that kind of thing.”

“Yes. Doesn’t matter who he is. I think it’s a sort of inferiority complex, or something. One must do idiotic things and assert one’s self. Am I making myself clear?”

“Oh, yes. I understand that perfectly. It happens so often. One just has to make one’s self out no end of a little devil.... Has this kind of thing happened often?”

“Well,” confessed Miss Briggs, “more often than I like. I’ve tried to keep Violet reasonable, but what’s the good of preaching to people? When they get into that worked-up state you might as well talk to the man in the moon. And though it’s very tiresome for young Pomfret, he’s awfully decent and safe. If he were strong-minded, of course he’d get out of it. But I’m rather thankful he’s not, because, if it wasn’t for him it might be some frightful tick or other.”

“Is anything likely to come of it?”

“Marriage, do you mean? No-o. I think he has enough sense of self-protection to avoid that. And besides—Look here, Miss Vane, it really is an awful shame. Miss Flaxman simply cannot leave anybody alone, and she’s trying to get Pomfret away too, though she doesn’t want him. If only she’d leave poor Violet alone, the whole thing would probably work itself out quite quietly. Mind you, I’m very fond of Violet. She’s a decent sort, and she’d be absolutely all right with the right kind of man. She’s no business to be up at Oxford at all, really. A nice domestic life with a man to be devoted to is what she really wants. But he’d have to be a solid, decided kind of man, and frightfully affectionate in a firm kind of way. But not Reggie Pomfret, who is a chivalrous young idiot.”