“Yes,” said Miss Haydock, “I expect the Third Year said the same about us when we first came up. But it’s a fact that we had none of this trouble before we had this bunch of freshers in.”
Harriet did not contradict this, not wishing to focus suspicion on either the S.C.R. or on the unfortunate Cattermole who (as everybody would remember) was up during the Gaudy, waging simultaneous war against despised love and Responsions. She did ask, however, whether any suspicion had fallen upon other students besides Miss Cattermole.
“Not definitely, no,” replied Miss Millbanks. “There’s Hudson, of course-she came up from school with a bit of a reputation for ragging, but in my opinion she’s quite sound. I should call the whole of our year pretty sound. And Cattermole really has only herself to thank. I mean, she’s asking for trouble.”
“How?” asked Harriet.
“Various ways,” said Miss Millbanks, with a caution which suggested that Harriet was too much in the confidence of the S.C.R. to be trusted with details. “She is rather inclined to break rules for the sake of it-which is all right if you get a kick out of it; but she doesn’t.”
“Cattermole’s going in off the deep end,” said Miss Haydock. “Wants to show young what’s-his-name-Farringdon-he isn’t the only pebble on the beach. All very well. But she’s being a bit blatant. She’s simply pursuing that lad Pomfret.”
“That fair-faced goop at Queen’s?” said Miss Fowler. “Well, she’s going to be unlucky again, because Flaxman is steadily hauling him off.”
“Curse Flaxman!” said Miss Haydock. “Can’t she leave other people’s men alone? She’s bagged Farringdon; I do think she might leave Pomfret for Cattermole.”
“She hates to leave anybody anything,” said Miss Layton.
“I hope,” said Miss Millbanks, “she has not been trying to collect your Geoffrey.”
“I’m not giving her the opportunity,” said Miss Layton, with an impish grin. “Geoffrey’s sound-yes, darlings, definitely sound-but I’m taking no chances. Last time we had him to tea in the J.C.R., Flaxman came undulating in. So sorry, she had no idea anybody was there, and she’d left a book behind. With the Engaged Label on the door as large as life. I did not introduce Geoffrey.”
“Did he want you to?” inquired Miss Haydock.
“Asked who she was. I said she was the Templeton Scholar and the world’s heavyweight in the way of learning. That put him off.”
“What’ll Geoffrey do when you pull off your First, my child?” demanded Miss Haydock.
“Well, Eve-it will be awkward if I do that. Poor lamb! I shall have to make him believe I only did it by looking fragile and pathetic at the viva.” And Miss Layton did, indeed, contrive to look fragile and pathetic, and anything but learned. Nevertheless, on inquiry from Miss Lydgate, Harriet discovered that she was an exceptionally well-fancied favourite for the English School, and was taking, of all things, a Language Special. If the dry bones of Philology could be made to live by Miss Layton, then she was a very dark horse indeed. Harriet felt a respect for her brains; so unexpected a personality might be capable of anything.
So much for Third-Year opinion. Harriet’s first personal encounter with the Second Year was more dramatic.
The College had been so quiet for the last week that Harriet gave herself a holiday from police-duty and went to a private dance given by a contemporary of her own, who had married and settled in North Oxford. Returning between twelve and one, she garaged the car in the Dean’s private garage, let herself quietly through the grille dividing the Traffic Entrance from the rest of College and began to cross the Old Quad towards Tudor. The weather had turned finer, and there was a pale glimmer of cloudy moonlight. Against that glimmer, Harriet, skirting the corner of Burleigh Building, observed something humped and strange about the outline of the eastern wall, close to where the Principal’s private postern led out into St. Cross Road. It seemed clear that here, in the words of the old song, was “a man where nae man should be.”
If she shouted at him, he would drop over on the outer side and be lost. She had the key of the postern with her-having been trusted with a complete set of keys for patrol purposes. Pulling her black evening cloak about her face and stepping softly, Harriet ran quickly down the grass path between the Warden’s House and the Fellows Garden, let herself silently out into St. Cross Road and stood beneath the wall. As she emerged, a second dark form stepped out from the shadows and said urgently, “Oy!”
The gentleman on the wall looked round, exclaimed, “Oh, hell!” and scrambled down in a hurry. His friend made off at a smart pace, but the wall-climber seemed to have damaged himself in his descent, and made but poor speed. Harriet, who was nimble enough, for all she was over nine years down from Oxford, gave chase and came up a few yards from the corner of Jowett Walk. The accomplice, now well away, looked back, hesitating.
“Clear out, old boy!” yelled the captive; and then, turning to Harriet remarked with a sheepish grin, “Well, it’s a fair cop. I’ve bust my ankle or something.”
“And what were you doing on our wall, sir?” demanded Harriet. in the moonlight she beheld a fresh, fair and ingenuous face, youthfully rounded and, at the moment, disturbed by an expression of mingled apprehension and amusement. He was a very tall and very large young man; but Harriet had clasped him in a wiry grip that he could scarcely shake off without hurting her, and he showed no disposition to use violence.
“Just having a beano,” said the young man, promptly. “A bet, you know, and all that. Hang my cap on the tip-top branch of the Shrewsbury beeches. My friend there was the witness. I seem to have lost, don’t I?”
“In that case,” said Harriet severely, “where’s your cap? And your gown, if it comes to that? And, sir, your name and college?”
“Well,” said the young man, impudently, “if it comes to that, where and what are yours?”
When one’s thirty-second birthday is no more than a matter of months away, such a question is flattering. Harriet laughed.
“My dear young man, do you take me for an undergraduate?”
“A don-a female don. God help us!” exclaimed the young man, whose spirits appeared to be sustained, though not unduly exalted, by spirituous liquors.
“Well?” said Harriet.
“I don’t believe it,” said the young man, scanning her face as closely as he could in the feeble light. “Not possible. Too young. Too charming. Too much sense of humour.”
“A great deal too much sense of humour to let you get away with that, my lad. And no sense of humour at all about this intrusion.”
“I say,” said the young man, “I’m really most frightfully sorry. Mere lightheartedness and all that kind of thing. Honestly, we weren’t doing any harm. Quite definitely not. I mean, we were just winning the bet and going away quietly. I say, do be a sport. I mean, you’re not the Warden or the Dean or anything. I know them. Couldn’t you overlook it?”
“It’s all very well,” said Harriet. “But we can’t have this kind of thing. It doesn’t do. You must see that it doesn’t do.”
“Oh, I do see,” agreed the young man. “Absolutely. Definitely. Dashed. silly thing to do. Open to misinterpretation.” He winced, and drew up one leg to rub his injured ankle. “But when you do see a tempting bit of wall like that-”
“Ah. yes,” said Harriet, “what is the temptation? Just come and show me, will you?” She led him firmly, despite his protests, towards the postern. “Oh, I see, yes. A brick or two out of that buttress. Excellent foothold. You’d almost think they’d been knocked out on purpose, wouldn’t you? And a handy tree in the Fellows’ Garden. The Bursar will have to see to it. Are you well acquainted with that buttress, young man?”
“It’s known to exist,” admitted her captive. “But, look here, we weren’t-we weren’t calling on anybody or anything of that kind, you know, if you know what I mean”