by Sharon Jones
Poppy shrugged. ‘I don’t think they’re trying to hurt me.’
‘Good. Then we’re just going to have to do what we priests call contextual theology.’
‘Contextual theology?’
‘It’s what we do when we don’t have a bloody clue what’s going on. But I don’t think ignoring what’s happening and hoping it will go away is an option. Tonight, you, me and Mum are going to sit down and talk about what we can do to help you make sense of this. And if we can’t help, we’ll find someone who can. OK?’
‘OK.’
He smiled, his golden eyes holding hers. ‘Come on.’ His arm slid around her and he tugged her across the road, towards the gates of King’s College, where Michael was talking with Professor Madigan.
Fiona smiled as they approached.
‘Thank you,’ Michael said, like a guy who’d just been handed his life back. ‘I really appreciate it.’ He caught Poppy’s eye and nodded.
Poppy launched herself at him. He hugged her tightly and then brushed his lips against hers in the most weak-assed kiss she’d ever known.
She raised her eyebrows at him. ‘What the hell was that?’
Michael’s gaze slid over to her dad.
‘I’m with Poppy.’ Dad punched his shoulder. ‘That was pathetic…although that’s all you can really expect from a King’s man.’
Michael rolled his eyes, but couldn’t seem to help smiling.
‘We really do appreciate it, Fiona,’ Dad said. ‘It was good of you to tell him today.’
Fiona tucked a brown curl behind her ear. ‘I think after everything you guys went through, you deserved a bit of good news. I just hope what happened hasn’t put you off Cambridge.’ She widened her eyes at Michael in mock threat.
‘After all this, he’d better accept the place,’ Poppy said, whacking him with the back of her hand. Michael grabbed the offending hand and squeezed it.
‘Right, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll look forward to seeing much more of you—’ Fiona raised her eyebrows at Poppy ‘—both.’
Fiona touched Dad’s arm before heading back through the college gates. Dad stared after her, a wistful smile on his face.
‘Don’t you think it’s about time you asked her out?’ Poppy nudged Dad. ‘She won’t wait around forever. Hear that sound?’ Dad gave her a puzzled look. ‘That’s the chronophage snapping at your heels. You’re not getting any younger, y’know.’
His tipped his head back and snorted. ‘Come on, my little matchmaker. There’s a detective waiting to talk to us.’ He slung one arm around Michael, one around her, and they began the walk back to Trinity.
Snowflakes lazily drifted out of the sky, slowly covering the icy brown sludge in the road and making it hard to spot the really icy patches. Christmas shoppers bustled in and out of doorways looking harassed, and every now and again Poppy caught a line of a carol drifting out of open shop doors.
There was one thing Ria had said that was still bugging her. ‘Dad?’
‘What?’ Dad asked, squeezing her shoulder.
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘Hey, what it is?’
‘It’s stupid. It’s just…Ria said that you and Chrissie were…’
Dad’s eyes widened. ‘What? No!’ he sighed. ‘The hearing I told you about? There was some trouble earlier in the term when a student got…well, got a bit attached. But that wasn’t Chrissie, it was Lucy. When I didn’t reciprocate her feelings Devon got rather annoyed with me…he told people some stuff. I’d been through something similar before and it had ended disastrously. I was so determined to not hurt Lucy that I ended up handling it all wrong. Bea had me up before a disciplinary committee. It was a mess, but eventually Lucy realised what was happening and she went to Bea to straighten things out. She was very brave.’
‘The time it happened before, was that Lance, Bea’s son?’
Dad let out an astonished laugh. ‘You’ve only been in Cambridge a few days – how the hell have you found out all of this? Do I have any secrets left?’
‘One or two.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ Michael muttered.
Dad smiled. ‘Come on, you two. If we don’t get back soon Detective Inspector Dalca might arrest me again.’
‘How’s Lucy?’ Dad asked, holding the teapot over Detective Inspector Dalca’s cup to offer her more tea.
The detective shook her head. ‘She’s doing better. It’s going to take some time for her to come to terms with what happened, but I think she’ll get there. I popped in on her this morning and she and her friend Devon were talking about Harvard. She seems determined not to change her plans.’
Poppy stared at the detective and couldn’t help remembering the girl who’d sat in that exact place on Dad’s sofa. The way she had laughed and joked. She’d seemed so normal while all the time her soul was being torn apart by grief and madness.
‘How’s Chrissie?’ Poppy asked, cautiously.
The detective stared steadily back. ‘She’s in a secure unit. It’s unlikely she’ll be found fit to stand trial.’
‘What’ll happen to her?’
‘She’ll be sent somewhere to get the treatment she needs. She’s in the right place, Poppy.’
Poppy felt Michael’s warm hand slip into hers. She looked into his serious blue eyes and shuddered at the thought of what might have been lost.
‘I have something for you.’ The detective reached into her bag and pulled out an old leather-bound book. She held it out to Dad. ‘We found this in Chrissie’s room, in an envelope addressed to The Times. My boss said that you would return it to its rightful owners.
‘Is that the Apostles book?’ Poppy asked.
Dad nodded. He took the book and after a moment’s hesitation he handed it over the coffee table to Poppy.
Poppy shot a glance at Michael. He sat forward and looked over her shoulder as she opened the crumbling binding. Some pages listed the members, but most appeared to contain the scribbled minutes of meetings – the subject of the Apostles’ discussion and the outcome of the votes they took. Some of the votes were on a philosophical topic whilst others were downright ridiculous. Michael pointed to one vote that asked: ‘Musicals – are they of the devil?’ Apparently, the Apostles thought they were.
‘I don’t get it,’ Michael said. ‘There’s no great secrets in here, other than the membership.’
‘It’s the Apostles’ silence that has driven people’s curiosity about them,’ Dad replied. ‘At times that silence was necessary to protect members. When Guy Burgess was revealed to be spying for the Russians the security services instituted a witch-hunt – they assumed that all the Apostles were Russian sympathisers. The group became even more secretive. But really, there was nothing to hide, except maybe a trail of nepotism and that’s hardly particular to them. The Apostles is a debating club – nothing more.’
Poppy flicked forward until she found the most recent entries. Weird, but the last question they had voted on had been proposed by Conal: ‘Does life continue after death?’ She suspected he was the one person who had voted no. She ran a finger over his name, hoping he’d discovered he was wrong.
As her dad walked the detective to the gate, Poppy and Michael waited at the corner of Great Court.
Poppy shivered, no longer sure if it was the cold or just an excess of adrenaline still buzzing through her system. She glanced up at Michael. He was staring at her like he’d never really seen her before.
‘Did you insinuate my kiss was lame?’ he said, tugging Poppy to him by the front of her new coat.
She grinned as his arms slid around her, pressing her close enough that she could feel the warmth of him against her chest. She glanced over her shoulder. Dad had disappeared into the porter’s lodge. She turned back to Michael and wiggled her eyebrows.
‘I just call it like I see it, King’s boy.’
Michael groaned. ‘Don’t you start that as well.’ He rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hide the big cheesy grin.
/> She smoothed the collar of his coat down and brushed away the snow that clung there. ‘I’m so happy for you.’
‘If you hadn’t been so damned stupid and put yourself in danger like that…’ He swallowed and his jaw tightened. ‘I should be so angry with you.’
Poppy tucked her head against his chest and hugged him tighter. She was afraid she wouldn’t be able to let him go, ever again.
‘Poppy,’ Michael whispered into her hair. ‘How did you know about the text Nick had sent Chrissie? Was it in the stuff Detective Inspector Dalca sent you?’
Poppy bit her lip. It would be so easy to lie, just to keep things normal. But lies hurt, even when you didn’t want them to.
She shrugged. ‘To be honest, I don’t know.’
Michael took hold of her shoulders and eased her just far enough away that he could look into her eyes. He stared at her for what felt like forever, then took a deep breath and raised his eyebrows. ‘Looks like you’re not the only one who needs to adjust their world view.’
‘Let’s not rush into anything, huh?’
His expression grew serious again. ‘You will talk to someone about what you…saw?’
‘Yeah. Dad’s already warned me that a conversation’s going to happen.’
‘Good. I think we both need to do a bit more of the talking thing.’
Poppy nodded. ‘On the subject of which, about the…fracking.’
His eyes widened. ‘Yeah?’
‘I could so easily lose myself in us…in you…and a part of me really wants to, but another part of me thinks I have too much going on at the moment to really know who I am or what I want. Everything’s moving so fast. And if we go ahead with the…fracking…I’m not sure what’s next. All I’ve ever seen is people breaking up and I don’t want to break up with you. I don’t want that to happen to us. I love you and things are so good when we’re not being shot at. I want us to stay the way we are right now...just for a little bit longer.’
His arm slipped from around her and for a second she thought he was going to push her away. Instead, he caught hold of her hand, lifted it between them and turned it palm up.
With a finger, he slowly traced:
ME 2
HISTORICAL NOTE
You might be interested to know that although I fictionalised them, the Cambridge Apostles are a real secret society that exists to this day. If you’d like to know more about their history you can find plenty of information on the internet or in Richard Deacon’s excellent book The Cambridge Apostles: A History of Cambridge University’s Elite Intellectual Secret Society.
And for those who know Trinity College well, you will know I took some liberties with geography and staffing. For my own nefarious purposes I conflated the role of Dean and Dean of Chapel, and to my knowledge, not many priests are taken on as chaplain for their curacy, but in Jim’s case, strings were pulled!
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to Rebecca Frazer and Rosalind Turner for their wise comments and insights, to Thy Bui for designing such stunning covers for these books, and to all the team at Hachette Towers for their help and support. Endless thanks go to Jenny Savill, agent extraordinaire.
Thanks to Dr (!) Jennie Barnsley and my sister, Gillian Swift, for their support. To Rachel Greene, Victoria Johnson, J’annine Jobling, Teri Terry and Liz de Jager – fabulous women all! Antonia Gray, whose passion for writing continues to inspire me and whose comments and critique were priceless. And most of all to Ellen Renner for her patience and diligence and being the best critique partner a girl could ever have. Thank you!
Thanks to the real Ria Mansey and Conal Preshoe for offering their names up as character fodder! Bet you thought I wouldn’t do it… Needless to say, to my knowledge the real Ria isn’t a member of the Apostles and Conal doesn’t work for MI6…although, who knows! And finally, thanks to the staff and porters of Trinity College for their cheerful assistance when I turned up on their doorstep looking for help.
Have you read the first Poppy Sinclair thriller,
DEAD JEALOUS?
Read on for a sneak peek…
Poppy massaged her tense shoulders and picked her way through the sagging tents, passing a yurt with a door that looked like the entrance to a hobbit house. The dewy grass was slippery beneath her Converse, but was soon replaced by hard pebbles as she reached the water’s edge.
Scariswater. The lake stretched out before her like a swathe of shot silk. The ripples reflected all the colours of the morning; inky blacks and burnt oranges. A ghostly full moon graced the sky, even as the sun was stretching its rays from the east. The scene was so beautiful, so otherworldly, that she almost got it – the need to thank someone or something. She let her eyes fall closed and breathed in the fresh damp smells of the lake and hills. But in a flash, gratitude was replaced with terror. She was back there, in that other lake. The freezing water blinding her. Burning in her lungs. Drowning her.
She forced open her eyes and gasped in air.
Air, not water.
Breathe – breathe!
The lap of water against the pebbles made a hypnotic swishing sound, the lightest of breezes lifted the hair from the back of her neck, blowing away the memory but not the fear.
She’d grown up in Cumbria. Lakes water pulsed through her veins and she couldn’t imagine ever living anywhere else and yet that day, nearly a year ago, a lake just like this one had nearly killed her.
It had been an accident. A freak fricking accident! It wasn’t going to happen again.
She leaned down, quickly undid her laces, pulled off her socks and stuffed them into her Converse. She refused to be afraid of something she loved. She just had to get over it. She’d been unlucky that day, that’s all.
The pebbles felt like dry ice cubes beneath her bare feet. She hopped around for a moment until she could stand the cold. Her jeans were skinny, and she had to yank the denim to get it past her calf muscles, but with her jeans as high as she could get them, she braced herself and edged into the lake.
The shock of the water made her gasp and then giggle. The water tickled as it lapped over her toes. Freezing, but not too bad. She’d been in colder.
As she stepped out, the feel of the pebbles beneath her feet transformed. They were no longer rough, but slippery, covered by a layer of slime. Poppy tried to concentrate on what her feet could feel instead of the frightened voice in her head telling her to get out of there. Sharp edges needled between her toes; moss tickled.
The bottom of the lake sloped gently down, and by the time the water was above her ankles, she was wondering where the inevitable shelf was, where the ground would disappear and she would find herself plunged waist deep and in need of a change of clothes.
Ahead, darkness swirled beneath the surface. It stretched out towards her like a shadow. Maybe this was it – the drop. But no, she could still see shapes beneath the water. She took another couple of steps forward and stumbled. The water hit the back of her knees, like a slap with a wet kipper, and soaked her jeans. A nervous giggle escaped her throat. Or was it a cry?
It’s OK, she told herself. She was safe.
The water was so cold, her feet so frozen, that she almost didn’t feel it – the gentle caress against her skin.
Fish?
She peered down into the water and saw something pale move, just below the surface.
Definitely fish.
She shifted her foot, hoping to get a better look and something cupped her leg. Something even colder than the lake.
It was then she saw it: a pale hand gliding towards her.
She screamed, but it was too late. Her foot slid from under her. She plummeted backwards. Icy cold water filled her eyes and mouth.
And the sky disappeared.
For my mum, Denise Jones.
Happy Birthday!
ORCHARD BOOKS
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First published in 2014 by Orchard Books
This ebook edition published in 2014
ISBN 978 1 40832 757 9
Text © Sharon Jones 2014
The right of Sharon Jones to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
E-pub conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Warwickshire
Orchard Books is a division of Hachette Children’s Books, an Hachette UK company.
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