Dorothy Sayers - Gaudy Night

“Well,” said Harriet, “I think I’ll come along next week. There’s a very good reason why I’m not quite the right person to handle this, but on the other hand, I think I ought to come. I’ll tell you why when we meet.”

“It’s terribly good of you. I’m sure you’ll be able to suggest something. I suppose you’ll want to see all the specimens there are. Yes? Very well. Every fragment shall be cherished next our hearts. Do we handle them with the tongs for the better preservation of fingerprints?”

Harriet doubted whether finger-prints would be of much service, but advised that precautions should be taken on principle. When she had rung off with the Dean’s reiterated thanks still echoing from the other end of the line, she sat for a few moments with the receiver in her hand. Was there any quarter to which she might usefully turn for advice? There was; but she was not eager to discuss the subject of anonymous letters, still less the question of what lived in academic towers. She hung up resolutely, and pushed the instrument away.

She woke next morning with a change of heart. She had said that personal feeling ought not to stand in the way of public utility. And it should not. If Wimsey could be made useful to Shrewsbury College, she would use him. Whether she liked it or not, whether or not she had to put up with his saying “I told you so,” she would put her pride in her pocket and ask him the best way to go about the job. She had her bath and dressed, glowing all the time with a consciousness other own disinterested devotion to the cause of truth. She came into the sitting-room and enjoyed a good breakfast, still congratulating herself. As she was finishing her toast and marmalade, the secretary arrived, bringing in the morning’s post. It contained a hurried note from Peter, sent off the previous evening from Victoria.

Hauled off abroad again at a moment’s notice. Paris first, then Rome. Then God knows. If you should want me-per impossible-you can get me through the Embassies, or the post-office will forward letters from the Piccadilly address. In any case, you will hear from me on April 1st.

P.D.B.W.

Post occasio calva. One could scarcely bombard the Embassies with letters about an obscure and complicated little affair in an Oxford college, especially when one’s correspondent was urgently engaged in investigating something else all over Europe. The call must have been urgent, for the note was very ill and hastily written, and looked, in fact as though it had been scribbled at the last moment in a taxi. Harriet amused herself with wondering whether the Prince of Ruritania had been shot, or the Master-Crook of the continent had brought off a fresh coup, or whether this was the International Conspiracy to Wreck Civilization with a Death Ray-all those situations being frequent in her kind of fiction. Whatever it was all about, she would have to carry on unaided and find consolation in a proper independence of spirit.

Harriet drove out to Oxford through a vile downpour of sleet that forced its way between the joints of the all-weather curtains and kept the windscreen-wiper hard at work. Nothing could have been less like her journey of the previous June; but the greatest change of all was in her own feelings. Then, she had been reluctant and uneasy; a prodigal daughter without the romantic appeal of husks and very uncertain of the fatted calf. Now, it was the College that had blotted its copybook and had called her in as one calls in a specialist, with little regard to private morals but a despairing faith in professional skill. Not that she cared much for the problem, or had very much hope of solving it; but she was able by now to look upon it as pure problem and a job to be done. In June, she had said to herself, at every landmark on the way: “Plenty of time yet-thirty miles before I need begin to feel uncomfortable-twenty miles more respite-ten miles is still a good way to go.” This time, she was plainly and simply anxious to reach Oxford as quickly as possible-a state of mind for which the weather was perhaps largely responsible. She slithered down Headington Hill with no concern beyond a passing thought for possible skids, crossed Magdalen Bridge with only a caustic observation addressed to a shoal of pushcyclists, muttered “Thank God!” as she reached the St. Cross Road gate, and said “Good afternoon,” cheerfully to Padgett the porter.

“Good afternoon, miss. Nasty day it’s been. The Dean left a message, miss, as you was to be put in the Guest Room over at Tudor and she was out at a meeting but would be back for tea. Do you know the Guest Room, miss. That would be since your time, perhaps. Well, it’s on the New Bridge, miss, between Tudor Building and the North Annexe where the Cottage used to be, miss, only of course that’s all done away now and you has to go up by the main staircase past the West Lecture-Room, miss, what used to be the Junior Common Room, miss, before they made the new entrance and moved the stairs, and then turn right and it’s half-way along the corridor. You can’t mistake it, miss. Any of the Scouts would show you, miss, if you can find one about just now.”.

“Thank you, Padgett. I’ll find it all right. I’ll just take the car round to the garage.”

“Don’t you trouble, miss. Raining cats and dogs, it is. I’ll take her round for you later on. She won’t ’urt in the street for a bit. And I’ll have your bag up in half a moment, miss; only I can’t leave the gate till Mrs. Padgett comes back from running over to the Buttery, or I’m sure I’d show you the way myself.” Harriet again begged him not to trouble.

“Oh it’s quite easy when you know, miss. But what with pulling down here, building up there and altering this and that there’s a many of our old ladies gets quite lost when they comes back to see us.”

“I won’t get lost Padgett.” And she had, in fact, no difficulty in finding the mysterious Guest Room by the shifting stair and the non-existent Cottage. She noticed that its windows gave her a commanding view over the Old Quad, though the New Quad was out of range and the greater part of the new Library Building hidden by the Annexe Wing of Tudor.

Having had tea with the Dean, Harriet found herself seated in the Senior Common Room at an informal meeting of the Fellows and Tutors, presided over by the Warden. Before her lay the documents in the case-a pitiful little heap of dirty imaginations. Fifteen or so of them had been collected for inspection. There were half-a-dozen drawings, all much of a same kind with the one she had picked up on the Gaudy night. There were a number of messages, addressed to various members of the S.C.R., and informing them, with various disagreeable epithets, that their sins would find them out, that they were not fit for decent society and that unless they left men alone, various unpleasing things would occur to them. Some of these missives had come by post; others had been found on window-sills or pushed under doors; all were made up of the same cut-out letters pasted on sheets of rough scribbling-paper. Two other messages had been sent to undergraduates: one, to the Senior Student, a very well-bred and inoffensive young woman who was reading Greats; the other to a Miss Flaxman, a brilliant Second Year scholar. The latter was rather more definite than most of the letters, in that it mentioned a name: “IF YOU DON’T LEAVE YOUNG FARRINGDON ALONE,” it said, adding an abusive term, “IT WILL BE THE WORSE FOR YOU.”