Oxford Whispers

by Marion Croslydon

  That was one question she hadn’t expected, one question she didn’t want to answer.

  “No. I mean, not yet,” she mumbled. “I wanted to, but then we found my room burglarized, the Bible. And after, I never had the time.” That was a lie. She hadn’t told Rupert because she didn’t want to lose him.

  “Didn’t have the time?” Jackson sat back on his chair. “The truth is that you don’t trust him.”

  Madison hit the kitchen counter with her fist. “You have no right to talk about him that way. You don’t know him.”

  “I know people like him.”

  “Oh yeah, like that ex-girlfriend of yours who got knocked up by your best friend.” Shame heated her cheeks and she covered her mouth to stop herself from being such a bitch.

  Jackson flinched but recovered. “As far as I know, that boyfriend of yours could be the lunatic stalking you.”

  “It’s impossible. Rupert was with me when my room was broken into.”

  Her fingers curled into compact fists, Madison was on her feet before she knew it. Then she forced her hands to straighten out.

  “You mean a great deal to me. For the first time I feel like I’m in control of my powers. And it’s thanks to you. Don’t ask me to choose between you and Rupert.”

  Jackson kept on shaking his head. She wasn’t sure he had understood her.

  The urge to get away from the doubts he had awakened overwhelmed her. She gathered herself enough to say goodbye and left the room. Guilt and confusion were storming inside her head. Madison hurried along the corridor without looking back. She grabbed her duffel coat and bag she’d abandoned at the foot of the table in the hallway.

  Carefully opened envelopes were piled on the table’s lacquered surface. Her eyes settled on the letter at the top, with the logo of a European airline on it. She read the first few words:

  Dear Doctor McCain,

  Please accept our apologies for your cancelled flights following the severe winter snow storm …

  She stopped spying on Jackson’s personal life and wrapped her woolen scarf around her neck. In a rush to leave, she opened the door wide. She was about to step out when her brain sent a wave of unease coursing through her body.

  Backtracking, she checked that Jackson wasn’t anywhere near, and gave the letter a second look.

  Scanning through the formal excuses, she flicked to the next page, where the airline had attached a return travel voucher for his cancelled flights. A flight from London to Geneva Airport and back.

  He hadn’t gone to Switzerland for a seminar, after all. Therefore he had already been back in Oxford on the night of the burglary.

  Jackson was the only person she had confided in, the only one who knew about Peter.

  Chapter 43

  PETER COULDN’T wait any longer. The time had come for punishment. For justice. The plan would have to change. The Varsity Race was too far away, and today Sarah had taunted him in a manner that demanded retribution.

  Sarah would die first, tonight. The roses he sent her would cover her deathbed. The nobleman would have to witness her violent demise, would have to grieve all over again, until his turn came for death.

  This time Peter entered her room without damaging the door. When he had stolen her key and made a copy of it, she had not noticed. The pride over his ingenious deception caused him to thrust out his chest and pull back his shoulders.

  As always, her private universe appeared neat and tidy when he paced through it. He rolled his neck around to relax his muscles. In vain. His hands touched his lips. His head was spinning and his mind whirled. Peter’s time here, in this feeble embodiment, was coming to an end.

  He wandered to her desk, then returned to the armchair and sat down, the body he occupied aching. The comic and artificial sounds of pop music filtered up from the room below. He would wait here for her return. He would wait here for his revenge.

  THE BLACK CAB rushed through the streets of Belgravia. Not fast enough for Rupert’s taste. He had to catch Archie before the old chap left the Vance’s townhouse. Rupert had come to London to sign the contract for his summer internship at the Times. The visit had come in handy. The genealogist was scheduled to meet the Earl of Huxbury on that very same day at his London residence.

  Witnessing Madison’s near death while “sleepwalking” had hardened Rupert’s resolve. His gut told him something was wrong, what with the burglary, her weird obsession with his ancestor, and roses delivered from an unknown admirer. He might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but Madison seemed to be in a pickle. A massive pickle.

  Getting out of the cab, he hurried inside. As he flung the heavy entrance door wide open, he collided with the professor.

  Black leaped back and let out a small squeal. “Oh, Rupert.”

  Archie Black was one of the few members of the human race Rupert could look in the eye. They were of equal height.

  “Good to see you, Archie. I wanted to talk to you. I assume my father has left.”

  “He preceded me through that door. Lord Vance was in a hurry to get to another meeting.”

  Of course. Rupert had wasted his childhood making appointments with his own father. “Let’s go somewhere more private. It won’t take long.”

  Directing his guest toward Hugo’s study, Rupert closed the door behind them. The wall-mounted TV was still on. He switched it off with a snap. The scent of his father’s cologne haunted the room.

  Professor Black remained erect, his tweed coat hanging from his sinewy arms, as he awaited Rupert’s question.

  “I wanted to check with you how your research with my friend Miss LeBon is going.” Rupert gazed at the genealogist, then sat. Not in his father’s seat, but in one of the padded walnut chairs offered to guests. He pointed Black to another chair.

  Black gave a series of rapid blinks and sat. “Well. We’re focusing on the illegitimate child of Robert Dallembert, a daughter named Rose, born in June 1651. A complex affair.”

  Madison had no reason to be interested in this family secret that had been buried for centuries. It wasn’t relevant to her research on McCain’s book in any way that Rupert could think of.

  “How complex?”

  “I was confident I had found the lady involved in this whole saga. A certain Anne Alspeth from Norwich. But Miss LeBon made a very pertinent discovery.”

  “What kind of discovery?” Rupert tapped his foot. Archie had never been able to get to the point.

  “Well, that lady couldn’t be the mother of Robert’s daughter. So I had to immerse myself again in the mysteries of history, of your history.” He cleared his throat and added, “You were very clear I should help your friend in any way I could.”

  Rupert rubbed his brow to ward off a headache.

  “On the marriage certificate I discovered in Anne’s parish register, I found Anne’s maiden name. She was the daughter of a certain Robert Barnaby, from Oxford. Robert Barnaby had two daughters, Anne and Sarah.”

  The headache had settled deep inside his skull. He saw no point in prompting the professor anymore. The man would go on in his own time-taking pace.

  “I haven’t told Miss LeBon yet, but I found some very relevant and scandalous information about that Sarah Perkins.”

  Chapter 44

  RUPERT REMAINED silent as Black forged on. “She died in childbirth in June 1651, in Oxford, where she was buried in St. Giles Church. But the baby survived, little Rose.”

  Rupert’s interest peaked. “So, you’re saying Robert had a child with Sarah, not Anne. I don’t understand why Anne ended up raising the kid. I would have thought that Sarah’s father would have forced her into marriage with someone, anyone, as a cover-up for his daughter’s affair with Dallembert.”

  “He probably did.” Archie Black drew a square notepad from his inner jacket pocket and flicked through the worn pages. “Sarah Barnaby married at the end of December 1650. Her daughter was born seven months later. This smells suspicious to me.” The genealogist giggled, and p
ointed at his nostrils to illustrate his point. “She seems to have brought bad luck to her spouse, because he died one month after her, in July of the same year.”

  “That explains why Rose’s care was entrusted to a close relative.”

  Black nodded. “Indeed, Peter Perkins might not have had any other close family.”

  A brutal coolness hit Rupert at the core. “The name of her husband, what was it?”

  “Peter Perkins.”

  Peter. The name Madison had been whispering like a mantra before she threw herself in Magway’s staircase. Controlling his voice, Rupert thanked Professor Black.

  “I know the way out. No need to bother yourself.” He stood and had almost closed the study door, when he peeked back through the opening. “By the way, Miss LeBon is very well informed. She knew about the connection between your family and William Shakespeare Burton. Very few do. I always thought Robert Dallembert looked like the Cavalier.” At that last statement, Black’s owlish face disappeared.

  Rupert didn’t lose time, heading straight for his father’s desk. He bumped into the wastebasket on the way. The chair squeaked when he sat. Switching on the Internet, he Googled the name Archie Black had pronounced: William Shakespeare Burton.

  The same scene appeared on the computer screen, over and over again. The painting was indeed by Shakespeare Burton and titled The Wounded Cavalier. Rupert had seen it before. Where?

  He clicked on it and enlarged the painting: three people—two men, one girl—set during the English Civil War. The costumes of the characters spoke for themselves. Cavalier against Puritan.

  His eyes squinted to focus on each character, from left to right, starting with the Cavalier.

  His heart started to gallop.

  The blond features of the Cavalier were familiar, a mix of the face he had looked at so many times at Magway, that of Robert Dallembert, and one which he had stared at even more often. His own.

  THE SPRINGS OF Madison’s desk chair jutted against his back and Peter shifted his upper body forward. He scratched at his twitching cheeks. The voices, the voices that weren’t here, echoed in his soul. They hadn’t given him any respite. Jumping out of the seat, he headed to her bed. He could have a rest there.

  But no, he couldn’t. His eyes stumbled on a picture on Madison’s bedside table, next to her makeup and hair ties. The smiles of her family. His shoulders curled toward his chest and he started rocking on his feet. But fury and jealousy kicked him out of his defeated state. His fists grabbed at handfuls of hair on each side of his head and he screamed.

  He screamed, only it wasn’t his own voice that he heard; his wasn’t so high pitched. Throwing himself against the wall, his fists started pounding the solid surface. Pain radiated through his bones.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The question reached his brain, but with a delay. Peter didn’t have to turn his head to know the identity of the intruder. Miss Lindsey.

  “You shouldn’t be here, in Miss LeBon’s absence. How did you get in?”

  The spinster stood on the threshold between the study and the bedroom, staring down at him. Either her mind was sharper than the angles of her face, or his own expression gave him away.

  “You’re the one who broke into this room before.” She must have realized how futile her words were. “I’m calling for help.”

  She spun around and headed back to the bedroom door. Peter couldn’t let her escape.

  Panic gave him added strength. With haste, he grabbed the picture frame from Madison’s bedside table. Even in this borrowed form, the fear of seeing his plans destroyed was enough to make him grab Miss Lindsey’s shoulders and hit her head with the angle of the frame. Blood splattered.

  Peter threw the censor’s willowy body onto the threadbare carpet. He covered her attempted scream with his hand.

  “Quiet, woman.”

  Her head was shaking, in a desperate effort to shout for help. Her nails scratched at his skin.

  Peter had no choice.

  His hands slid from her mouth to the sides of her cheeks and down her neck. They circled it and applied forceful pressure. More and more pressure.

  While Peter strangled Miss Lindsey, Sarah’s scent—a tender blend of bergamot—drifted into his nostrils. The last time he had enjoyed her scent had been when he had killed her.

  The woman beneath him stopped moving. She was dead.

  Taking the shattered picture frame with him, he left. The censor lay splayed across the center of the room. Her neck was forced against her shoulders at a distorted angle.

  The coppery taste of blood spread throughout his mouth. Peter had failed in today’s plan. But soon, he would execute his still-pressing need for justice.

  Chapter 45

  JACKSON MCCAIN was the last person Rupert expected to see waiting for him on his doorstep back in Oxford.

  The journey from London had taken ages with road construction along the way. The delay had given Rupert too much time to chew over Archie Black’s revelation.

  Stepping out of his Morgan, he gave a brief nod toward McCain, but the American held Rupert’s gaze all the way from his car to the porch of his house.

  “What can I do for you?” Rupert asked, fearing something had gone awry in his class work. Again.

  “We need to talk. About Madison.” The American’s voice had an unusual, guttural quality to it.

  Rupert tensed his muscles to withstand some impending attack. The guy hadn’t come around for afternoon tea and scones. But no way would Rupert let this self-righteous, pompous arse lecture him about his relationship.

  On the other hand, the professor was Madison’s friend. Pissing him off could mean upsetting her.

  “Please come in.”

  They made their way inside, then onward into the living room. Jackson sat on the Chippendale sofa, a spider lamp haloing the top of his head. Nervous about what was to come, Rupert slipped his hands into his pockets. Continuing to stand, he leaned a little way toward the glass coffee table marking the divide with the American.

  “Do you want anything to drink?” Rupert asked.

  “Leave Madison alone.” McCain’s terse words filled the room.

  Delaying his response, Rupert grabbed a chair and straddled it. “How is she any of your business?” He had adopted his father’s technique of answering all approaches with a counterattack.

  “With your track record with girls, you’re not what … who Madison needs.” McCain raised his chin, as if inviting Rupert to punch him.

  “And I take it you are what she needs.” Rupert’s suggestion dripped with sarcasm.

  McCain shook his head. His hands formed into a peacemaking gesture and he replied, “Madison is my student, and whatever my feelings toward her, I won’t act upon them. But there are some things about her you don’t know. She has issues to resolve before getting involved with anybody.”

  Like being suicidal, or having a stalker on her tail.

  “I’m aware of what’s going on in Madison’s life. Therefore your warning isn’t necessary.” Rupert stood to signal the end of the conversation.

  So did Jackson. But the American had clenched his fists, his knuckles white, ready to strike.

  Instead of lashing out physically, McCain assaulted Rupert with words.

  “Why don’t you ask Madison about her powers? The fact that she can talk to dead people, see them, feel them.”

  An empty laugh erupted from Rupert’s mouth.

  “That is absurd. Madison is the first one to dismiss her grandmother’s mumbo jumbo.” Rupert started biting the inside of his cheek. Actually, Madison never said that exactly.

  McCain seemed to revel in his confusion. He crossed his arms over his chest in satisfaction. “That’s the reason she’s so obsessed with your ancestor, Robert Dallembert.”

  “Oh yes, that painting. The Wounded Cavalier.”

  The professor’s eyebrows furrowed and betrayed his surprise.

  Take that, McCain.
/>   “Yes.” The American warded Rupert off with a hand and dismissed his questioning. “The last thing she needs is a smartass player who can’t offer her support.”

  “What makes you think I can’t?”

  “Come on, Vance. You think she’s a whacko. It’s written all over your face.”

  “You’re wrong.” Haunted houses, knocking on tables by spirit guides, tarot cards telling the future. All that wasn’t his thing.

  McCain turned his back and headed for the exit, his body now relaxed. When he reached the threshold between the living room and the hallway, he swiveled and held his index finger aloft. “Madison doesn’t trust you entirely. She knows you’ll leave at the first chance. So do her a favor and bugger off.”

  After these words of warning, the professor left.

  Rupert buried his face in his hands and let out a massive sigh. Then looking up and staring at the door, he rummaged through his hair.

  His limbs grew heavier and heavier. Numbness settled into his mind and throughout his whole body. He moved over to the wall, leaned his back against it and slid to the floor.

  Madison had confided in the American. But she hadn’t even given the beginning of a hint to him. Not that night at the Turf before Christmas, not when they’d found her room burgled, and not even when he had saved her at Magway right after they’d made love for the first time. She had opened up to her history professor, but not to him.

  Anger replaced the gut-wrenching sensation of knowing she lacked faith in him. Didn’t she consider him strong enough to help her?

  The door opened wide, letting the crisp wind swirl inside the house.

  Monty stepped in, still wrapped in his padded winter jacket, his hair tousled wild. “You look like shit.”

  Rupert stared at his friend, but couldn’t find anything to say. Then Monty threw his jacket on the Chippendale and knelt near Rupert on the antique oriental rug.

  “Dude, tell me what’s going on.”