“Should we go back and ask the doorman what he noticed about Hutchison’s and Ogilvie’s comings and goings?”
“He wouldn’t tell us even if we did,” Christopher said, looking left and right to cross the street. “Better to tell Tom what Hutchison said and have him ask. The porter would have to tell Tom the truth, I assume.”
I would assume the same, although, as we all know, it can be dangerous to rely on assumptions.
“You spent a bit of time talking to Graham Ogilvie before the whole thing fell apart last night,” I said. “At Rectors and in Blanton’s flat later. What was your impression of him?”
Christopher didn’t answer immediately, and I added, “Did he strike you as someone who could commit murder? Or as someone who uses dope? Just because Blanton and Gladys were the only two people Rivers fixed up last night, doesn’t mean that some of the others might not be indulging, as well. Once Montrose was discovered to be dead, everything else fell by the wayside.”
Christopher nodded. “It was loud in Rectors, so it wasn’t as if we could have much of a heart to heart. He mostly asked whether I went to the balls a lot, and whether I always got dressed up, and things like that. I avoided being specific, since you never know who you might be talking to…”
He trailed off with a grimace. “He didn’t strike me as a constable in mufti—not that intoxicated and with the group of friends he had—but it never hurts to be careful.”
No, it didn’t. The buggery laws are still on the books, and arrest and conviction can result in anything from fines to hard labor. Admitting to anything at all would have been quite stupid of Christopher, and he’s not.
“Did you form an impression as to why he was asking?” I wanted to know.
He shot me a look. “I got the impression that it was more of a personal interest.”
“Oh, really?” I smirked.
“Not like that, Pippa. He wasn’t trying to flirt with me. It was more that he was interested in the balls and the lifestyle than in me personally.”
“For his own sake?”
“Or someone else’s,” Christopher said. “And to answer your question, he didn’t strike me as particularly homicidal. Or even particularly upset with Frederick Montrose. He didn’t sit there and scowl at him or anything of that nature. As far as I can recall, he didn’t say a single word about him. No, wait…”
“Yes?” I said.
“He asked me whether I knew him. I said no, that Crispin was the one who had gone to Cambridge with Montrose, not me.”
I tucked my hand through his arm. “We went to Oxford.”
Christopher nodded and patted it. “We did.”
“And I got a degree.” I smiled, self-satisfied.
“You did,” Christopher agreed. “You wouldn’t have done if you’d gone to Cambridge.”
No, I wouldn’t. A year after Oxford matriculated the first woman in 1920, Cambridge University had held a vote on doing the same thing, and instead of awarding women degrees, the day—October 20th, 1921—had ended with fourteen hundred male students rioting at Newnham College, breaking down the gates and threatening the two-hundred-odd female students.
In fact, here we were, in the summer of 1926, almost five years later, and female Cambridge students still weren’t full members of the university.
“I wonder if St George was there,” I said thoughtfully. “He was at Cambridge in the fall of 1921, wasn’t he?”
“We were at Oxford in the fall of 1921,” Christopher answered, “so I assume so. What?—?”
I told him, and he shook his head. “Oh, no. I hardly think he would have taken part in terrorizing women students, Pippa.”
“He’s quite fond of terrorizing me,” I pointed out, even if, perhaps, calling it terrorizing was a step too far.
Christopher slanted me a look. “He’s not really, you know. He respects you. Perhaps not to your face?—”
There was no ‘perhaps’ about that.
“—but he’s not a chauvinist. He may play fast and loose with a lot of girls’ affections…”
“May?” I inquired.
