The Eternal Investigator: An Oxford Key Mysteries Novella

by Lynn Morrison

  “Penny, is that you?” a voice calls from the inner office. “Can you pop in here once you’ve put your things down?”

  “Of course, Dr Gardner. I’ll only be a moment.”

  As Penny shrugs off her coat, I let my gaze wander. I know this place well. I’ve wiled away many an hour in this reception room, waiting for one meeting or another. But I usually have a stack of papers or Penny herself to occupy my attention.

  Despite being a dream, the room seems to be a perfect replica of the original. Penny’s desk with her typewriter and a pile of papers is exactly where it should be. On my right is a group of chairs. I frown when I spot one which looks particularly inviting, remembering the loose spring inside which pokes into your arse should you dare to sit on it. Maybe in my dream the vicious spring doesn’t exist?

  A display of framed photos on the nearby bookshelves catches my eye. Each photo captures a different moment of college life - a visiting dignitary, a graduation day, a high table dinner and a guest speaker.

  The photos have been there for years, growing in number, but I’ve never taken the time to really stop and look at them. It doesn’t take me long to spot my tall, dark-haired form standing amongst the others. Sometimes I’m in the forefront, on hand to welcome a guest. In another, I have to hunt around to find myself hidden away within the crowd of attendees. My clothing switches abruptly from suits to uniforms as the dates of the photos grow more recent.

  “Clark is right,” I mutter, “I have spent all of my adult life here at St Margaret. Look how young I am in this photo.” It must be from my first year here, when I joined as the junior bursar, fresh from my studies. The young man in the photo looks so bright-eyed and eager, unaware that another war looms on the horizon.

  The most recent photo is from last year’s Christmas party. I remember well how Dr Gardner refused to take no for an answer, insisting to the military officers that the tradition of the annual Christmas party must be kept, even in the middle of a war. With her backbone of steel, the Major eventually fell into line. She is the real boss here, no matter what the army might say.

  The sound of a drawer closing pulls me back to the present. I spin around in time to see Penny slip into Dr Gardner’s office.

  ❖

  I follow Penny through the open door into Dr Gardner’s inner chamber.

  An antique Edwardian hardwood desk dominates the space. Penny settles onto one of the claw-footed chairs placed in front of it, her notepad and pen in hand.

  As Dr Gardner begins reviewing her appointments for the day, I realise this must be their morning routine. I can’t imagine why my dream world would include such an unimportant scene, but I force myself to pay attention anyway.

  Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the walls, much of the shelf space requisitioned to hold the mountains of paperwork the army brings along with itself. In many ways, the bookshelves perfectly illustrate the college’s current challenge. The dining hall is now a hospital ward and the classrooms are used for training. Yet the students at St Margaret somehow find a way to fit in their studies while trading shifts nursing the soldiers returning from the warfront. I can still see a small selection of the principal’s books, valiantly holding on against the steady creep of the army.

  It dawns on me with absolute certainty that I owe my continued presence at St Margaret to Dr Gardner. While she could hardly refuse an official request to turn over the college’s precious space, she has done everything she can to hold together the bare bones of the college. I wish I could have been a fly on the wall for her negotiations with the Major. No doubt, he assumed he could march in and lay claim to whatever he wanted. Instead he found a domineering bulwark blocking his path.

  My mind drifts off as Dr Gardner begins dictating a letter, the contents so ordinary that it is impossible to pay attention. I wait with anticipation for my dream to offer something more interesting.

  A life-size portrait of a man in an old-fashioned white wig hangs above the walnut fireplace mantle. I step closer, trying to read the name on the brass plaque, but it’s no use. The curtain from the window is positioned exactly right to cast a shadow over it. I decide that my mind must not know whose portrait it is, and therefore cannot fill in the blanks in my dream.

  Thus reassured that this is indeed nothing more than the product of my nighttime imagination, I survey the room with a new eye. What have I always wanted to do in here?

  Dr Gardner leans back in her chair, the metal frame groaning. I have always wondered what it would be like to sit on the other side of the desk. Would the world look different from her position of power?

  There’s only one way to find out.

  I stride around the room, coming up on Dr Gardner from behind. Her hair is pulled up in some sort of knot, the top of it sticking above the chair. I inch closer to the back of her chair, plagued by a few lingering doubts. Reaching forward, I wave my hand in front of her face. She carries on with her dictation.

  I pull my hand back and decide to try something else. This time, my hand slides through the back of the chair and emerges on the other side of her body. Left, right, makes no difference. I can’t feel anything and, apparently, neither can she.

  Fired up by my success so far, I take a deep breath, one giant step forward, and then I lower myself to hover in a seated position.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Dr Gardner’s arms lying on the armrests. Penny raises her head from her paper and looks me dead in the eye, but she doesn’t blink. I pull a face, then stick out my tongue. Nothing. She returns her attention to her paper, her hand moving furiously as she takes notes.

  I soon grow bored with the game, finding it much less fun without anyone seeing me. What’s the point of sitting in the seat of power if no one acknowledges that you are there?

  I still cannot figure out why my dream has carried me here. The conversation is so mundane, it would put me to sleep if I wasn’t already. Can you fall asleep in a dream? And if so, how would that work?

  I rise up from my seated position and move to the window. Outside, Private Vernon sits in the sunshine, his wheelchair positioned to catch the maximum rays. I shudder, wondering what that would be like, to go from a hale and hearty soldier into a paraplegic confined to a wheelchair in the span of a moment, or even like Philip, forced to use a cane for the rest of his life.

  I’m lost in thought when I hear the sound of my name coming out of Penny’s mouth.

  “There’s one last item, ma’am. Bartie Kingston.”

  I hurry over to her side, peeking over her shoulder to see what she has written on the pad. There’s nothing there other than my name. Could this be the moment my brain wants me to see?

  I shift my gaze over to Dr Gardner, surprised to see a frown on her face.

  “Ahh, yes. I have to say, Penny, I’m terribly disappointed.” Her mouth turns down even further as her finger taps on the desk.

  Penny sits up straighter. “I can’t believe it. He wouldn’t do it.”

  “Do what?” I ask, but no one replies.

  Dr Gardner sighs. “I know, I don’t want to believe it either, but what other reason can there be?”

  “Reason for what?” I shout, unable to stop myself. “What do you think I did?”

  Penny shifts in her chair, her gaze turning to focus on the thick carpet covering the floor. Her discomfort is palpable, even to a dreamland figure like myself.

  Dr Gardner schools her features. “Over a hundred pounds is missing from our bank account…”

  I rock back in shock. “How do you know that? I haven’t told anyone…”

  “… and no one has seen hide nor hair of him since Saturday a week ago.”

  “A week?” I look down at my watch, as though it will somehow provide the date instead of the time. “I was here yesterday? What are you on about?”

  Dr Gardner rests her head upon her hand, looking weary. “Fourteen years here at St Margaret with not even a hint of a problem. I considered him part of my family. Then he
and Clark disappear into the wind with a stash of our funds lining their pockets.”

  “I’m here!” I shout as I jump up and down, doing everything I can to stop this dream turned nightmare.

  “If he was worried about getting sent to the front, he should have come to me. I saved him before, and I would have done everything in my power to keep him safe here with us.”

  Penny fishes a handkerchief from her pocket and sniffles into it. “It’s such a shame, ma’am, but I refuse to believe it’s true. There must be another explanation for where he has gone.”

  Dr Gardner raises her head and stares blindly in my direction. I beg and plead with her, offer up anything if she will stop this nightmare and let me wake up in my own bed.

  “I hope there is, but I fear any other reason may only be worse.”

  “Like what?” Penny and I ask in unison.

  “He could be dead.”

  Chapter Three

  Dead?

  The word strikes me like a lightning bolt to the centre of my chest. I sway on my feet before slumping down to the floor. Bent over on all fours, I struggle to catch my breath. I tell myself over and over that this is a nightmare, the phrase on a continuous loop in my head.

  I sit up on my knees and raise my hand to my heart, desperate to feel the comforting beats, it should be racing in my panicked state. I feel nothing. I cover my mouth, but no air whispers between my fingers. My mind spins in circles, searching desperately for some explanation why I cannot wake up.

  How can I be dead?

  I rewind back to the last thing in my memory. I was with Clark. We went to the nightclub in London. The train didn’t derail. No one was struck by a car. We made it inside, where we sat and enjoyed a drink.

  Others there, strangers I couldn’t have conjured in such detail. I can still hear the lingering sounds of the jazz band in my head.

  Clark waved to a pair of women. They came to sit with us, chatting away about their short stay in London and upcoming departure for the front lines. We raised our glasses in a toast and then… and then…

  Nothing.

  Nothing until this morning when I walked into the gates of St Margaret.

  No one can see me. No one can hear me. It is as though I don’t exist… as though I am dead.

  I say the words out loud, trying them on for size. “I, Bartholomew Kingston, am deceased.”

  The words linger in the air, hanging there like a proclamation. I can feel the panic rising again in my chest, but I grab a tight hold of it and shove it down. If I am indeed dead, and all signs point to this being the case, there is little I can do about it. But there must be a reason I’m here. Am I a ghost? I must be. My mind darts away from the words, but I force myself to confront them.

  Nothing I’ve read or heard has prepared me for this half-life, of being so close to the living world and yet not a part of it. I thought I’d spend eternity floating on a cloud, carefree, not walking these familiar halls. Instead, I feel trapped, forever a step away from those I know and love.

  Why has this happened to me? Am I doomed to play out my life over and over again? Why haven’t I seen any other ghostly beings walking the hallways? Are there any others? I’m hardly the first employee, student, or faculty to pass on in the history of the college.

  What brought me back here? And why?

  The thought of floating in perpetuity along these hallways is more than I can bear. There must be a reason, my return as a ghost must have a purpose. I simply have to find it.

  I find the strength to rise to my feet once more and to stride through the walls until I stand again in the main hallway outside of Dr Gardner’s reception room and office. In the hallway, as a group of soldiers march past. I step aside out of instinct, but I needn’t have done so. They pass through my ghostly form, leaving me shivering in amazement.

  I debate my next move. I have too many questions and too few answers. Maybe I need to take a day to listen, much as I’ve just done in Dr Gardner’s office.

  Spinning around, I am now growing less and less disconcerted by the sight of people walking through me. I tromp forward, crashing through a group of senior officers as though they were nothing more than a bit of fog in my pathway. I eschew the doors and poke my head through the walls, peering in to see what everyone is doing. People are working diligently in every office, eyes focused on their typewriters or papers.

  The main hallway soon clears of the remaining people as the last of them steps into their offices or classrooms. Before I know it, I’m the only one left, the long wooden floor stretching in front of me, leaving me wondering what to do next.

  A stern female voice echoes from down the hallway.

  “Bartholomew Kingston? Is that you?”

  I leap into motion faster than I knew possible, my eyes darting left and right in a frantic search to find the person who called my name. A woman steps into view up ahead, her form somehow both familiar and not.

  The woman comes closer until her profile catches a ray of sunlight shining through the window which sits in between the twin staircases, turning her white hair into a halo.

  “Are you…” I stammer. “Are you an angel?”

  The strange woman bursts into laughter, the wrinkles on her face revealing themselves to be laugh lines. Her stern gaze softens and her eyes twinkle with delight. “I am far from being an angel. If I’m honest,” she says, “I’m somewhat disappointed you don’t recognise me given how many years you’ve walked past my portrait.”

  Her portrait? My eyes narrow and then spring wide when I finally make the connection. “Catherine Morgan?” I ask, my voice filled with wonder.

  “One and the same, young Bartholomew. It’s my pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

  “But, you’re long dead,” I blurt before I can stop myself.

  Her gaze grows heavy as she reaches out a hand and rests it on my arm. “My dear Bartholomew, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but so are you.”

  ❖

  Maybe it is because I’d already come to the realisation, or perhaps it is the gentleness in her tone, but hearing Catherine pronounce my death doesn’t hurt as badly as it should.

  “It’s okay,” I reassure her, “When I arrived here this morning, I thought I was having a dream, but eventually the dream became too specific to be anything other than real. I knew then that something must have happened to me, but I don’t know what. Or when.” I look over at Catherine, my eyes wide. “Do you know how I died?”

  She shakes her head no, her upswept white hair not daring to move a centimetre. Her blue eyes glide over me from head to toe, as if she is searching for signs of trauma or some other indication of my cause of death. I match her searching gaze with one of my own as I try to make sense of the woman standing before me. She seems as solid to me as I am, although I can’t imagine how that could be the case. The strangest part is seeing her face make an expression - any expression other than the Mona Lisa smile which I’m accustomed to seeing. Her cheeks are flushed pink with life, and her grey gown, normally flat with a single tone, seems deeper and richer with the interplay of light and shadows.

  Catherine takes my hand in a firm grip. “You know me as Catherine Morgan, former benefactor of St Margaret. Now, however, I am better known as an Oxford Eternal. You may call me by my first name. After all, we’ve an eternity in front of us, so there is no point in standing on false ceremony.”

  “Eternity?” My voice stutters. “But I assumed… I mean I thought I must be here for some purpose and then I’d move on…” My voice trails off as I try to grasp with the weight of the word.

  “Oh Bartie, there I go again, overwhelming you. And on your first day here. Maybe it is best if I slow down and start at the beginning.” She points down the long hallway, back towards Dr Gardner’s office and the exit into the college gardens. “Will you walk with me?”

  “Of course,” I reply, extending my arm out of habit. She slips her hand through and steps into place at my side before l
eading me on our way.

  “Unbeknownst to all of its living inhabitants, there is a magical plane here in Oxford where only certain people come back to life as ghosts. We call ourselves Eternals. Many of the statues and portraits speak and books can help you find the information you seek.” She pauses in front of her portrait, turning us to stare at its position on the wall of the main hall. “As I never studied or worked here, it is my portrait which anchors me to this place.”

  I expect to see an empty canvas, but her likeness still sits, same as always, on a stool in a sunny room, a shelf of books behind her. I flip my eyes back and forth, trying to make heads or tails of her statement. “How can you be there and here?”

  “Look carefully, Bartie,” she encourages me.

  I turn again, sharpening my gaze as I search her painted face. Now that I’m looking for it, I note tiny differences. In the painting, her smile seems less warm, her eyes flat of any hint of mirth. “Yes, I see it now. It’s amazing, really. How many times have I wandered past and failed to note these changes?”

  ‘Dozens of times, young Bartie. You can hardly expect a woman to spend all of her days sitting on display, now can you?” She winks at me and then spins us back on our way along the corridor.

  “Magic,” I exhale, full of wonder. “Does anyone know about this magic? Why does it exist? Is it only at St Margaret.”

  “One question at a time,” Catherine chastises me. “I must confess I know little about the magic. I died an old woman, in my bed in my own home, and as far as I can tell, months went by before I awoke here in the college. Had I known I’d be forever immortalised in this form, I’d have sat for the painting at a much earlier age.”

  I make the appropriate replies to her statement, assuring her she still looks lovely.

  Catherine waves off my compliments and returns to her explanations. “There are two other women here, a former student and a former instructor, both joining our ranks after their deaths. Samantha, the former student, claims to have spoken with someone - a person who called themselves a praefectus.”