“Why were you so upset about Dr. Grove?”
Instantly I could see the caution come over her face, and I feared was about to be subjected to another one of her outbursts. So I held up my hand to prevent it.
“Please do not think me malicious. I ask for a good reason. I must tell you that there is some cause for concern about his death, and it has been said that you were seen in the college that same evening.”
She still looked stonily at me, so I continued, half wondering why I was taking such trouble. “It may well be that someone else will ask you the same questions.”
“What do you mean about concern?”
“I mean that there is a small possibility that he died of poison.”
Her faced turned pale as I spoke, and she looked down in thought for a few seconds before staring blankly into my eyes. “Is that so?”
“As I understand it, he had discharged you from his employ recently?”
“True. And for no good reason.”
“And you resented it?”
“Very much. Of course. Who would not? I had worked hard and well for him, and never for a moment deserved any reproach.”
“And you approached him in the coffee house? Why?”
“I thought he would have had a good enough heart to help my mother. I wanted to borrow money from him.” She looked at me angrily, daring me either to pity or criticize.
“And he turned you away.”
“You saw that for yourself.”
“Did you go to his room the night he died?”
“Does someone say I did?”
“Yes.”
“Who says this?”
“I don’t know. Answer the question, please. It is important. Where were you?”
“That is none of your concern.”
We had reached an impasse, I could see. If I kept on pressing, she would walk out, and yet she was very far from satisfying my curiosity. And what possible reason could she have for not being frank? Nothing was so important that it was worth encouraging suspicion in any form, and she must have known by now that I meant her well. I tried one last time, but again she blocked my enquiry.
“Was there any truth in these stories?”
“I know of no stories. Tell me, doctor. Is someone saying Dr. Grove was murdered?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. There is no reason to think so at the moment and he is to be buried this evening. Once that has taken place, the matter will be closed. Certainly the warden genuinely believes, I think, that there is nothing suspicious about the occurrence at all.”
“And you? What do you believe?”
I shrugged again. “I have heard of many men of Grove’s age and appetites dying suddenly of a fit, and apart from that it is of little concern to me. My main concern is your mother, and the treatment I have given her. Has she passed any stools?” She shook her head. “Make sure you collect them if she does,” I continued. “They will be of great importance to me. Do not let her up, and make sure she does not wash. Above all, keep her warm. And if her condition changes at all, let me know instantly.”
14
The funeral service for grove was a solemn and dignified affair which began shortly after darkness had fallen. All through the day, I imagined, the preparations were made—the college gardener excavated a space in the cloister next to the chapel, the choir of boys practiced, and Woodward prepared the eulogy. I decided to attend once Lower told me he thought there would be no objection; Grove was, after all, one of the few people I had known in the town. But I insisted on his coming as well; there are few things more distressing than being in a religious ceremony and not knowing what to do next.
He grumbled about it, but eventually agreed. The regime in New College, I gathered, was not greatly to his liking. When it began—the chapel full, the attendant priests in vestments—I could see why, from his point of view. “You will have to explain,” I said in a whisper during a lull in the proceedings, “what the difference between your church and mine is. I must say I can discern very little.”
Lower scowled. “There is none here. Why they are not open and pronounce their obedience to the whore of Babylon—apologies, Cola—I do not know. They all want to, the scoundrels.”
There were, I guessed, about half a dozen or more of Lower’s persuasion, and not all were as well behaved as he. Thomas Ken, the man who had disputed with Grove over dinner, sat ostentatiously through the whole service and talked loudly during the requiem. Dr. Wallis, who had been so rude to me, sat cross-armed and with the disapproving quietude of the professional cleric. A few more even laughed at the most solemn moments, earning them ill-tempered looks from others. If the ceremony concluded without degenerating into an open fight, I thought at one stage, then we would be fortunate.
Somehow, though, it came to an end without scandal, and I thought that I could almost feel the relief in the air as Woodward pronounced the final blessing and led the way, white stick in hand, out of the chapel and around the cloister to the open grave. The body was moved over the gaping hole and held up by four of the Fellows; Woodward was preparing the final prayer when there was a scuffling from the back.
I looked at Lower—both of us were sure that tempers had finally boiled over and Grove’s last moments above the earth were to be tarnished by doctrinal dispute. A few of the fellows were scandalized and turned round with angry looks; a murmur ran through the congregation as their numbers were forced aside to let through a portly man with gray whiskers, a thick cloak and a look of acute embarrassment.
“What is this about?” Woodward said, turning away from the grave to face the interloper.
“This burial must stop,” the man said.
I nudged Lower and whispered in his ear. “Who’s that? What’s going on?” Lower dragged his attention away and whispered, “Sir John Fulgrove. Magistrate,” then bade me keep silent.
“You have no authority in this place,” Woodward continued.
“In matters of violence, I do.”
“There has been no violence.”
“Perhaps not. But I am obligated by my position to satisfy myself. I have received an official notice that murder may have been done, and I am bound to investigate. You know that as well as I do, Warden.”
A loud murmur went up once the word murder was mentioned. Woodward stood stock still in front of the grave, as though protecting the body from the magistrate. In fact, he was protecting his college.
“There is no question of murder. I am quite satisfied.”
The magistrate was uncomfortable, but determined to stand his ground. “You know that once a complaint is received, then it must be properly investigated. The fact that this death occurred inside the college is of no importance. Your privileges do not extend that far. You cannot exclude me on such a matter, nor can you dispute my writ. I order that this funeral cease until I am satisfied.”
With the eyes of the college, and a good part of the university, upon him, Woodward swayed to and fro as he considered how best to respond to this open challenge. He was not, ordinarily, a man to hesitate for a moment but on this occasion he took his time.
“I will not cede to your authority, sir,” he said eventually. “I do not accept you have any right to enter this place without my consent, nor to interfere with college business. I am satisfied there is no cause for your presence, and that I could in law order you out.”
The audience looked pleased at this statement, and Sir John bridled with indignation. Having thus satisfied the proprieties and made sure he conceded no ground on matters of principle, Woodward submitted, after a fashion. “Yet perhaps you have testimony of which I do not know. If violence has been done, it is the duty of the college to know the truth. I will hear what you have to say and postpone the interment until I have done so. If I find your complaint to be without justification, it will continue, whether you agree or not.”