Dorothy Sayers - Gaudy Night

“Bless you!” exclaimed the young man, fervently.

“Don’t be in a hurry. You’ll have to tell me about this. Who’s the girl, by the way?”

The patient here gave another groan.

“Oh, dear!” said the undergraduate.

“Don’t worry,” said Harriet. “She’ll be sick in a minute.” She walked over and inspected the sufferer. “It’s all right. You can preserve a gentlemanly reticence. I know her. Her name’s Cattermole. What’s yours?”

“My name’s Pomfret-of Queen’s.”

“Ah!” said Harriet.

“We threw a party round in my friend’s rooms,” explained Mr. Pomfret. “At least it started as a meeting, but it ended as a party. Nothing wrong whatever. Miss Cattermole came along for a joke. All clean fun. Only there were a lot of us and what with one thing and another we had a few too many, and then we found Miss Cattermole was rather under the weather. So we got her collected up, and Rogers and I-”

“Yes, I see,” said Harriet. “Not very creditable, was it?”

“No, it’s rotten,” admitted Mr. Pomfret.

“Had she got leave to attend the meeting? And late leave?”

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Pomfret, disturbed. “I’m afraid-look here! Its all rather tiresome. I mean, she doesn’t belong to the Society-”

“What Society?”

“The Society that was meeting. I think she pushed in for a joke.”

“Gate-crashed you? H’m. That probably means no late leave.”

“Sounds serious,” said Mr. Pomfret.

“It’s serious for her,” said Harriet. “You’ll get off with a fine or a gating, I suppose; but we have to be more particular. It’s a nasty-minded world, and our rules have to remember that fact.”

“I know,” said Mr. Pomfret. “As a matter of fact we were dashed worried. We had a devil of a job getting her along,” he burst out confidentially. “Fortunately it was only from this end of Long Wall. Phew!”

He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

“Anyhow,” he went on, “I’m thankful you aren’t a don.”

“That’s all very well,” said Harriet austerely; “but I’m a Senior Member of College and I must feel responsibility. This isn’t the kind of thing one wants.”

She turned a cold glance on the unfortunate Miss Cattermole, to whom the worst was happening.

“I’m sure we didn’t want it,” said Mr. Pomfret, averting his eyes; “but what could we do? It’s no good trying to corrupt your porter,” he added ingenuously; “it’s been tried.”

“Indeed?” said Harriet. “No; you wouldn’t get much change out of Padgett. Was anybody else there from Shrewsbury.”

“Yes-Miss Flaxman and Miss Blake. But they had ordinary leave to come and went off at about eleven. So they’re all right.”

“They ought to have taken Miss Cattermole with them.”

“Of course,” said Mr. Pomfret. He looked gloomier than ever. Obviously, thought Harriet, Miss Flaxman would not mind at all if Miss Cattermole got into trouble. Miss Blake’s motives were more obscure; but she was probably only weak-minded. Harriet was fired with a quite unscrupulous determination that Miss Cattermole should not get into trouble if she could prevent it. She went across to the limp form and hauled it to its’ feet. Miss Cattermole groaned dismally. “She’ll do now,” said Harriet. “I wonder where the little fool’s room is. Do you know?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I do,” replied Mr. Pomfret. “Sounds bad, but there-people do show people their rooms, you know, all regulations notwithstanding and all that. It’s somewhere over there, through that archway.”

He waved a vague hand towards the New Quad at the other end of nowhere.

“Heavens!” said Harriet, “it would be. I’m afraid you’ll have to give me a hand with her. She’s a bit too much for me, and she can’t stay here in the damp. If anybody sees us, you’ll have to go through with it. How’s the ankle?”

“Better, thanks,” said Mr. Pomfret. “I think I can make shift to stagger a bit. I say, you’re being very decent.”

“Get on with the job, said Harriet, grimly, ”and don’t waste time in speeches.”

Miss Cattermole was a thickly-built young woman, and no inconsiderable weight. She had also reached the stage of complete inertia. For Harriet, hampered by high-heeled shoes, and to Mr. Pomfret, afflicted with a game ankle, the progress across the quads was anything but triumphal. It was also rather noisy, what with the squeak of stone and gravel under their feet, and the grunts and shufflings of the limp figure between them. At every moment, Harriet expected to hear a window thrust up, or to see the shape of an agitated don come rushing out to demand some explanation of Mr. Pomfret’s presence at that early hour of the morning. It was with very great relief that she at last found the right doorway and propelled Miss Cattermole’s helpless form through it.

“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 tom-fool 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.