“Yes, Violet Despuis, and this is Cassie Coburn,” Violet said. He held out a hand and we each shook it in turn.
“Jessie Hadid. Amelia’s my roommate. You’re that private detective that’s in the news sometimes, right?”
“That is me, yes. I don’t know if you’ve been told, Jessie, but Amelia died last night in the hospital.”
“Damn,” he said, running his hand through his hair again. “Poor girl. I liked Amelia. She was nice. Never really pictured her to be the type to do that sort of thing to herself, you know. I thought when I forgot my phone and I found her, that it may have been a stroke of luck. That maybe it would have been enough to save her.”
“So, you were the one who found her?” Violet asked, and he nodded.
“Yeah. I’d gone out to the gym maybe fifteen minutes earlier. I work out at Gymbox in Covent Garden, so it’s only about a ten-minute walk from here. When I got there, I realized I’d forgotten my phone, and I hate working out without it so I jogged home to get it. When I got in I called out to her, but she didn’t answer. Her shoes were still sitting by the front door, and I knew she was just planning on having a quiet afternoon in working on her maths stuff, so I thought it was weird. I went to knock on her door, but it wasn’t latched, so it opened and I found her hanging there.” Jessie Hadid shook his head. “It was the worst thing I’ve ever seen. I ran over to her and held her up for a minute, then ran to the kitchen and grabbed a knife and a chair and managed to cut her down. I called 999 and had them on speaker, the lady told me to try and find a pulse, and I did. They got here fast, and I hoped it was fast enough but I guess not.”
“Do you always go to the gym at the same time?” Violet asked.
“Yeah, every day at two. Except Thursdays, I’m at college then. But why does that matter? She could have just waited until I’d gone to class.”
“Amelia didn’t kill herself; she was murdered,” Violet replied, and I watched Jessie Hadid’s face closely as the news sunk in. His eyes widened slightly, and he put his hand to his mouth before running it through his hair once more.
“No way. Seriously?”
“Yes,” Violet nodded.
“Why aren’t the coppers here, then?”
“Well, the police and I are currently having a disagreement about the cause of death. But do expect them to arrive eventually.”
Jessie made his way to the small two-seater couch and sat down, staring at the floor. “Who would want to kill Amelia, though?”
“I was hoping you would be able to answer that question for us,” Violet replied.
Jessie looked up at her and shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. Amelia was a normal girl, really. She was super smart, one of those genius types, studying maths at Oxford.”
“And she was staying in the city?” Violet asked, and Jessie grinned.
“I know, I thought the same thing. But she doesn’t mind. Didn’t mind. She grew up in the country, somewhere in darkest Nottinghamshire, so for her the city was big and exciting. I thought she was insane commuting to Oxford a few times a week, but she didn’t seem to mind. Besides, she always told me the train she took to get up to Oxford was always empty, since she was always traveling the opposite way of most people. That was Amelia through and through, always looking for the good things in life.”
“Do you know if she had a boyfriend?” I asked, and Jessie nodded.
“She did, yeah. They hadn’t been together long though; I haven’t met him. She met him a few weeks ago, at her work.”
“Where did she work?” I asked.
“British Horseracing Authority, she worked part-time at their head office in Holborn, doing administrative stuff. Mainly on weekends, when she didn’t have classes on. She didn’t work there much, but it gave her enough money to go out with her friends a few times a week.”
“Who was her best friend?” Violet asked.
“Layla Chen, for sure. Another Oxford student. I’m not sure if she studies maths though. I didn’t really see her much; as you can imagine this isn’t exactly a prime setup for bringing home friends,” Jessie said with a small smile.
“Do you mind if I look around Amelia’s bedroom?” Violet asked, and Jessie indicated for her to go ahead. The two of us made our way into the spartan room; it was so small the double mattress took up the whole width of the room along the window. The plain white walls were left completely undecorated apart from a single postcard of Nottingham thumb tacked to the wall, featuring a building that looked a lot like the US Capitol building with a fountain in front of it and some pretty brick buildings on the left-hand side of the photo. Gothic red letters spelled out “Nottingham” in the middle of the postcard.
A small, plain white desk and chair took up the rest of the room; a laptop was on one side and several books about mathematical theory sat on the other. A cute Michael Kors purse sat against the side of the desk; like her clothes, Amelia had gone for a quality, mid-range designer brand for her choice of purse. Going by the amount of scuffing on the bottom, I would have guessed it was a couple years old. Amelia Waters had obviously been an extremely organized person. Going through her stuff revealed nothing much: there was some lint, an old receipt and a couple of tiny pebbles in one of her jacket pockets, and her purse had a few pens and notepads with some mathematical equations scribbled on them. An old iPhone in a Lifeproof case sat on top of the books; Violet immediately made her way to it and unlocked it in a matter of seconds, then tossed it to me.
“See if you can find the mystery boyfriend in there,” she ordered as she looked through Amelia’s purse, and I sat down on the bed and scrolled through Amelia’s contacts list while Violet put on a pair of latex gloves before sitting down at the computer and opening it up. She made quick work of the password to gain access to the computer, as well.
“People, they are too predictable,” Violet lamented as the computer’s background came to life. “It would be a bigger challenge if they used passwords more difficult to guess than their birthdate.”
I smiled to myself as I scrolled through the contacts. I found Layla Chen and jotted down her number on a post-it note I found in the desk drawer.
“Ah, mais c’est interessant,” Violet muttered to herself as she looked at the computer.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It appears as though someone has been here and deleted most of the data off this laptop,” Violet said. She closed the lid and unplugged it, taking the cord and putting it in her purse. “Right. We are going, we need to find out what was on the laptop. Bring that phone with you as well.”
“I have Layla Chen’s phone number, we can organize a meet with her,” I suggested.
“Good,” Violet nodded. We made our way back into the main room where Jessie was waiting.
“If the police come by and look for Amelia’s computer and phone, tell them that they are in my possession. They know how to find me.”
“Sure. Hey, find who did this, will you? Amelia was too nice a person to have this happen to her. Whoever did it deserves to rot.”
“Oh, do not worry. I will find Amelia’s murderer. I am much smarter than nearly every criminal on this island.”
“I thought you weren’t supposed to promise results to friends and family,” I said as we made our way down the stairs. “That’s what every TV show about crime says.”
“That only applies when there is a chance that the detective will not solve the case,” Violet replied confidently. “Me, I can promise to find the murderer, and I do not have to worry about breaking my word.”
I laughed as we continued back down towards the street. Violet was just so arrogantly confident sometimes it was unbelievable.
Chapter 5
Half an hour later Violet and I were sitting in the first-class carriage on the 10:43 from Paddington Station to Oxford, with Violet assuring me the trip would take just over an hour. She was leaning back in the seat with her eyes closed; I knew she was going through what facts we already knew in her h
ead. Instead of bothering her, I turned my head out the window and admired the scenery as we left London; the skyscrapers soon turned into beautiful rolling fields, thatched-roof houses, and horses who didn’t raise their heads from the grass on which they grazed as the train rolled past. It was postcard-quaint, and I made a mental note to come out this way sometime; after all, as amazing as London was, there was an incredible country here for me to explore as well.
When the train pulled into the station, Violet and I began the walk toward the city center.
“Layla Chen will meet with us when her classes finish for the day, at just after two this afternoon,” Violet told me. “I thought that first, we should perhaps speak with her tutor at the college, and see what it was that Amelia was working on.”
To be completely honest, I was only half listening to what Violet was telling me. We were just coming into Oxford center now, and my mouth dropped open as I saw the skyline. I thought the buildings at Stanford were impressive, but they had absolutely nothing on Oxford.
Tall, white-stone spires shot toward the sky, mingling with ancient-looking buildings. It was like walking into a cross between a medieval village and castle; it was as if the town and the university had both grown around each other and were now intertwined, like one couldn’t live without the other.
“Amelia studied maths at Magdalen College,” Violet told me. “Oxford, unlike other Universities, is split into a variety of different colleges. Each student attends a specific college. Amelia had the Magdalen College pin on her jacket hanging at the apartment.”
“This place is amazing,” I replied as we walked down High Street; everything about this place oozed class. Boutique hotels and modern cafés intermingled with The Oxford University Press Bookshop and art galleries. When we passed an ancient-looking stone building, with a thick wooden door topped with elaborate statues of horses surrounding blue-and-gold crests, I had to stop and admire the architecture. Steep gables on either side of the large tower that centered the building topped elaborate gothic windows and Juliette balconies; I stared in open wonder at the sophistication of the design which had to have been here for hundreds of years, at least.
“That is Brasenose College,” Violet informed me as I stood there, mouth gaping open while a handful of students came out from the door, talking and laughing to each other, thick textbooks in hand. “And if this is the reaction you are going to have at every part of the college, please do let me know so that I can text Layla to push back our appointment.”
“Sorry,” I laughed. “I thought after having lived in London for so long that I’d be used to impressive buildings by now, but this place is something else.”
“It certainly is,” Violet agreed.
“How long has Oxford existed?” I asked.
“It is not known exactly when tutelage began here,” Violet replied. “However, education has happened here since at least 1096. When Henry II banned English students from studying at the already-established Université de Paris in 1167, it grew significantly, and it was officially founded in 1248.”
I let out a low whistle; it was almost inconceivable to me that students had walked these paths nearly a thousand years ago in the pursuit of knowledge, and were still doing so today. It was a completely humbling feeling.
A few minutes later we reached the walls of Magdalen College, which was pronounced “maudlin” for some reason. The main building was made of white and beige stone, in the same gothic style as the rest of the college. A large, square tower dominated the scene, rising high from the middle of the building, topped with pointed spires.
We entered through the main doors, made of grey wood with black iron bolts throughout, ducking under an ornate archway over which a statue of–I assumed–Mary Magdalene stood guard, surrounded by crests featuring a gothic letter ‘M’ and the college crest.
As we crossed into the grounds my mouth dropped open and I had to make an effort not to stop and gape once more. It was like we’d just walked into the main grounds of a castle–a castle with manicured lawns, a gorgeous leafy tree surrounded by perfectly maintained ancient walls. It was no wonder so many of the world’s greats came from here; the grounds of this college were nothing if not inspiring.
“Layla told me Amelia’s tutor is a Professor Alan Knightly,” Violet said as she expertly steered us into the building on our left, instantly transporting us into what I could only describe as Hogwarts, without the magic. Violet deftly managed the corridors and staircases as I followed in her footsteps, to the point where I began to suspect that this wasn’t her first visit to this particular college. “While students here have tutors for individual classes, they also have one who oversees a student’s entire studies over the course of their education here in Magdalen College.”
We shortly found ourselves in the office of Professor Knightly, a tall man with a greying beard and a kind face who carried himself with confidence. He smiled at us when we came in, his eyes betraying his curiosity. I couldn’t help but look at the office more than the man: The walls immediately behind us, lining either side of the door, made up a large bookcase, which was filled with volumes about maths. The professor sat in front of a large, old-style mahogany desk which sat on top of a deep red rug. Behind him, between two high windows which filled the room with warm light was a nice painting of some flowers on the water, and in the corner was a blackboard with figures on it, a piece of chalk sitting in a holder below.
Violet introduced us and he motioned for us to sit.
“I’m not sure what I can do for a detective,” he said in a self-deprecating manner. “Unless you happen to have some trouble that requires expertise in maths.”
“I’m afraid it is nothing so trivial,” Violet replied. “One of your students was murdered yesterday.”
“No! Murdered?” he exclaimed. “Oh, that’s terrible news. Who was it?”
“Amelia Waters. I understand you were her tutor.”
Professor Knightly nodded sadly. “Yes. Amelia is–was–an extremely gifted scholar, and quite a nice human being. Have her parents been notified?”
“I am afraid I do not have that information. That is for the police,” Violet replied.
“Of course, of course. I assume they will be by shortly as well. What can I do to help?”
“Tell me about Amelia’s studies. What was she working on?”
Professor Knightly took his glasses off and pressed his fingers together in thought. “Amelia took part in her usual courses, which this semester were all mathematics-related. On top of that, however, along with a group of other students in the department, she was working on a mathematic algorithm. It was designed to determine algorithms to determine probability. Dear me. I imagine it won’t ever be finished now.”
“Why not?” I asked. “Aren’t there other students in the group?”
Professor Knightly looked at me sadly. “Unfortunately, Jeremy Claridge was killed in a car accident back in March, and Amir Nader had a family emergency back in Egypt and had to fly home about two months ago. I believe his mother fell ill. And now this. I suppose Peter Alcott could continue with their project all on his own, but I wouldn’t blame him if he wanted to abandon it.”
“That does seem very unlucky,” Violet said. “So this group had been working on this project for some time?”
Professor Knightly nodded. “Yes, they started on it at the beginning of the winter semester, so it’s been about six months. I encouraged them; it was a challenging project but they worked well together. I was especially proud of them for continuing on after Jeremy’s death. I’m afraid I don’t know how close they were to completing it. I imagine after Amir left they must have taken a break from it.”
My phone buzzed in my purse. Looking at the screen, I saw it was Jake calling, and I excused myself and made my way into the hallway.
“Hey,” I answered.
“Hi, how are you feeling?” Jake asked. “I assume you’ve been discharged and are hunting down a murderer with Viole
t?”
“You know me too well,” I laughed. “We’re at Oxford right now. Amelia Waters was a student here, she was getting a degree in math.”
“Well, I hope you find whoever did it. Unfortunately, on my front I have some bad news: I tried to get the body assigned to me, but since I left work as soon as Violet called me yesterday morning, I think my boss decided to take it out on me by saying no.”
I sighed. “Well, that sucks. On the bright side, the other coroner will still call it a homicide, right? At Amelia’s apartment Violet went through her computer, and she said someone had gone through it and deleted a bunch of stuff.”
“Unfortunately, my esteemed colleague is rather old school, and has a tendency to do whatever the police tell him to do. In this case, Detective Inspector Carlson made a visit to the morgue this morning, and after he left I went to speak to the doctor examining Amelia Waters’ body. He’s not going to label it as a murder.”
“Even if it’s obvious that’s what it is?” I asked, incredulous.
I could almost feel Jake shrugging his shoulders on the other end of the line. “What can I say? Unfortunately, idiocy exists in all professions, even this one. I’m going to kindly suggest to my boss that he perhaps should review the cause of death finding on Waters’ body, but I can’t make any guarantees.” Jake paused, then continued. “Anyway, can you text me when you and Violet come over here? I think I’m going to need forewarning on this one.”
“Sure,” I laughed. “Wait a minute! You’re calling me instead of her because you don’t want to have to be the one to tell her that her case isn’t being declared a homicide.”
“Sweetheart, I love to hear your voice at any time of the day, but yes, that’s at least 80 percent of the reason I called you with this info and not her.”
Strangled in Soho Page 3