Autumn, 1934.
Chapter One
On the arm of Dr. Harry Bascombe, Catherine Tregowyn pulled her sable coat around her and exited Oxford’s Sheldonian Theater into the chilly night.
“That was brilliant,” she said. “George Ann made an inspired Ophelia. I’m so glad we came.”
“Nothing like a remedial dose of Hamlet. At least they weren’t costumed in pajamas this time,” said Harry. He looked absolutely marvelous in evening clothes with his piratical Douglas Fairbanks appearance.
“Pajamas?”
“And dirty socks. The last time I saw the play—in Stratford, believe it or not—that was their idea of modern dress.”
Catherine shuddered. Then she stopped. A hunched figure stood before her. “Wills! What are you doing here?”
Her brother, William, stood there, hands thrust in his coat pockets. “Cherry told me where to find you. I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, Cat, but I need your help. A friend of mine is in trouble.” After kissing her on the cheek, he stuck his hand out toward her companion. “Harry. Good to see you. Sorry about this.”
The men shook hands.
Catherine said, “How can I help?”
“It’s Emily. Do you remember meeting her at the pub last month? The nurse from the Infirmary?”
“Oh, yes. The woman with the knock-out smile. I didn’t know you were seeing her.”
“We’re just friends at the moment. She’s been arrested for murder.”
“My heavens!” said Catherine.
“A fellow she was keen on. Chap called James Westfield. Died of a drug overdose. Detective Chief Inspector Marsh came and arrested her from her flat.” He kicked an invisible stone on the street. “Fortunately, I was there at the time. I don’t know what the evidence is against her, but she didn’t do it. She’s not that sort of person at all.”
By the lights still coming through the theater door, she could see Wills’ classically handsome features, his lowering forehead reflecting his concern.
Her heart softened with worry for him. As far as she knew, her elder brother had never been in love. The idea of the police suspecting someone you knew so well of such a heinous crime must be a shock. “I’m not a solicitor, Wills,” Catherine said. “What do you want me to do?”
“The same thing you did in the Chenowith business. Find out who the real culprit is.”
Catherine felt the weight of this expectation settle on her shoulders like a shroud. She protested, “Are you serious? I’m no detective.”
Harry said, “Let’s go talk about this over a drink.”
They took a cab from the theater to The Eagle and Child, and Wills led the way through the raucous crowd to a table in the back. A fug of cigarette smoke hung in the air as usual. Harry went for their drinks.
Catherine took off the fur that exactly matched her dark brown waved hair and hung it on the nearby hat tree. When she was facing her brother across the table, she said, “If you’re serious, I guess you had better begin by telling me about Emily.”
The gloom on her brother’s face lifted a bit. His confidence in her abilities was daunting. “Well, you probably remember that Emily was born in Kenya. Her parents are ex-pats. They have a coffee plantation. But she went to boarding school and nursing school here.” He paused and appeared to be searching for words. Wills was not comfortable discussing his feelings. Catherine had never had a discussion like this with him about a woman. He went on, “She decided to be a nurse for the same reason I’m pursuing pathology. The dying and sick children in Kenya. After she finishes her training, she wants to go back there and help. I’ve told you about all the disease there. Typhoid, cholera . . . you name it, we’ve seen it. It fairly broke my heart, and I’m a hardened case.”
“You are certainly not hardened!” she exclaimed.
Harry returned with a pint of lager for himself and Wills and a shandy for Catherine. She caught him up on the conversation.
“I can see where you’d be attracted to someone like that,” Harry said. “She shares your passion.”
Catherine also remembered the girl’s unusual beauty. Emily had large features and looked as though she belonged on the screen with her high cheekbones and perfect teeth.
Wills sipped his drink. “Her father is the younger son of a viscount who lives in Hertfordshire.”
Since Wills was the only son of a baron, Catherine doubted this would be a problem in their relationship, if it were to progress.
“Is her grandfather still living?” asked Harry as he sat with his arm stretched along the back of the bench.
“I don’t know,” answered Wills.
“Maybe he or her uncle will see that she gets a solicitor,” said Harry.
She knew her brother had been shaken up by his year in Kenya, but Catherine thought it a good thing. His life now had a direction and purpose that rescued him from idleness. He wouldn’t end up like Rafe. But it troubled her to see him so upset.
“What do you know about the victim?” she asked.
“Not a lot,” Wills said. “I know he’s doing post-grad work somewhere in Oxford. I wouldn’t think he took it too seriously, however. He plays saxophone in a dance band. You may have heard them on the weekends at the Town Hall.” He pulled a face. “Buckets of charm. It always seemed to me that he was a player. I was hoping Emily would see that eventually. It’s odd. She doesn’t seem the sort who would be carried away by this chap’s brand of charm.”
“That doesn’t seem like he’d be a good match for anyone,” remarked Catherine, sipping her shandy.
“I know,” said William. “I’m always waiting for her to wake up and see me standing there, but now this has happened.”
“How do they figure he was murdered if he took an overdose?” asked Harry.
