by H. Y. Hanna
I scanned the space around me, then did a double take as I saw the four small figures swaying by the side of the cinema. They were dressed in some kind of outlandish hippy outfit—all tie-dyed head scarves and long fringed skirts, which clashed badly with the M&S woolly cardigans they had kept on for warmth—but I would have known them anywhere. The Old Biddies.
I marched over to them. “Mabel! Glenda! Florence! Ethel! What on earth are you doing?”
Glenda, who was the one singing—no, make that trying to sing—paused long enough to give me a bright smile, then continued warbling on. I winced as she hit a particularly high note with a loud screech. Next to her, Ethel and Florence shook tambourines with great enthusiasm but absolutely no rhythm, whilst Mabel hopped from foot to foot in some grotesque parody of a tap dance and thrust a cap under the nose of an unfortunate passer-by, who reeled back in fright, stuffed a pound coin into the cap, and hurried away.
Mabel turned and shoved the cap at me. “Donations, please.”
I laughed incredulously. “What? You’re not serious! What are you doing here?”
Mabel staggered through a pirouette, then thrust the cap at me again. “Give us a pound and we’ll tell you.”
I scowled. “Don’t be ridiculous!”
Mabel sniffed. “Suit yourself.” And she turned away, whilst Glenda began a new song.
“All right, all right…” I grumbled, digging into my pocket and producing a gold pound coin which I dropped into the cap. “There. Now tell me what you’re doing.”
Mabel beckoned me closer and said, in a dramatic whisper, “We’re undercover.”
I gaped at her. “You’re what?”
“Undercover. You know, like in disguise,” said Florence helpfully, in between shakes of the tambourine.
I stared from her to Mabel to Ethel to Glenda and back to her. “But… why?”
Ethel leaned towards me. “To get information, dear. So we can help Seth… by finding the real murderer.”
I didn’t really see how caterwauling in the street while looking like bad imitations of old hippies would help Seth. “But… how?”
Mabel gave a sigh of impatience, as if I was being particularly stupid. “We needed a way to blend in with the street people, so we decided that busking was as good as any… It lets us spend time out here in the street, mingle with the homeless, ask questions about that tramp—you know, the one who was seen on the CCTV footage. Apparently, his name is Jim.”
“How on earth did you know—?” I sighed. “Never mind. So, have you found out anything about him?”
“Not yet,” said Mabel. She glowered around the square. “No one seems to want to come near us.”
Yeah, I wonder why, I thought, wincing as Glenda’s voice rose in a screech again.
“How did you find out about Jim?” Mabel looked at me suspiciously. “Did Inspector O’Connor tell you?”
“No,” I said shortly. “I mean, yes, Devlin did mention him but I found out the rest myself from a Big Issue seller.”
“Ooh, what did he tell you?”
I hadn’t intended to say anything but they were looking at me like a group of eager puppies and I didn’t have the heart to say no. I repeated what Owen had told me.
“The canal, eh?” said Mabel. “Right! We’ll come with you—”
“No, no,” I said irritably. “I’m going by myself and you—”
We were interrupted by a harassed-looking man in a cheap suit coming out of the travel agent on the other side of the street. He hurried up to us.
“Look,” he said to Glenda, a desperate expression on his face. “If I give you some money, will you please shut up?”
“Don’t worry, dear, we’re packing up now,” said Mabel, hustling the others into action. “We’re going to the canal.”
“No, you’re not—!” I protested but it was to deaf ears.
I thought I’d make a run for it but I hadn’t realised how quickly the Old Biddies could move when they wanted to. In less than five minutes, they were trundling after me, fringed skirts, tambourines, and all. I sighed. Great. So much for trying to keep it low key so as not to scare Jim off—I couldn’t have been more conspicuous if I tried.
We made our way across to Hythe Bridge—fittingly named as “hythe” was Old English for wharf or landing place, and this was where an ancient wharf had once marked the beginning of the Oxford Canal. A tow path ran alongside the canal and we started down this narrow dirt path, taking care to avoid the muddy patches. We hadn’t had any snow in Oxford this winter, but plenty of sleet and rain, and the ground was wet and slippery in places. I wondered how on earth the big work horses had once managed to come this way when they used to tow canal boats and barges up and down the waterway. Weird to think that the canal had once been the fastest way to transfer coal, stones, and timber from the Midlands to London. Looking at the slow, peaceful surface of the water now, it was hard to imagine it as the fastest route to anything.
We hadn’t been walking long when we came across a lock—an artificial “chamber” with gates at both ends, where the water level could be raised and lowered, so as to help boats navigate between two different stretches of water or across a land obstacle. This particular lock joined the Oxford Canal to a tributary of the River Thames and enabled canal boats to access the bigger waterway.
Locks were deep and could be treacherous—in fact, many drownings often happened in the locks, when a careless step on the side of a narrowboat could take you plunging into the swirling waters, to be crushed against the side of the boat or drown in the swell from the sluices.
But this one looked peaceful and idyllic in the winter sunshine as we approached it, spanned by a cast-iron bridge—Isis Bridge—and surrounded by the soft green of weeping willows. The tow path went over the bridge and continued on the other bank of the canal. Beyond the bridge, the water wound its slow, lazy way onwards into North Oxford, curtained on either side by hawthorn and crack willow, field maples, elder and ash trees.
There was a crowd milling around the bridge, which was obviously a popular photo spot, from the number of people taking family portraits and selfies. A young couple—the father wrangling a boisterous toddler and the mother pushing a stroller—came down the ramp towards us, followed by a woman walking a collie dog pulling eagerly on its leash.
“Morning!”
“Hello…!”
We nodded and exchanged smiles as we passed. Then we were climbing the ramp onto the bridge. A trio of young men—backpackers from the look of it, all wispy beards and shaggy long hair—gave me a cheerful smile and stood back respectfully for the Old Biddies as we passed them on the bridge. Then we were across and continuing along the tow path.
I was surprised at the number of people walking along the canal—perhaps the rare day of winter sunshine had prompted many of the locals to join the tourists along the waterway. It made the going much slower than I expected, having to dodge around families and dog walkers. Plus I found myself continually distracted by the pretty sights around the canal—the weeping willows forming graceful arches over the water, the brightly painted canal boats moored along the edge, and, as we approached Jericho, the tall Italianate tower of St Barnabas Church looming up on the opposite bank. I almost had to remind myself that I was here on a hunt for a murderer and not a scenic walk in the Oxfordshire countryside!
Finally, I paused and looked around, wondering if I should continue. We’d been walking for nearly half an hour now and had come a fair distance down the tow path. If we kept going, we were going to end up by Port Meadow, the huge area of ancient grazing land which had been left unploughed for four thousand years and was a free common ground on which local horses, ponies, and cattle grazed. At this time of winter, it was probably flooded and muddy and full of marsh birds, and I wasn’t particularly looking forward to wading through that.
I peered down the tow path. We’d just passed a little humpbacked bridge and now, in the distance, I could see a large, modern, red-bri
ck bridge, covered in parts with ugly graffiti. I wracked my memory. That was Frenchay Road Bridge, I remembered, and it was the last big bridge for a while until the canal reached Wolvercote. I’ll walk to there before I give up, I decided.
I started forwards again, conscious of the Old Biddies who were still puffing along the tow path several hundred yards behind me. Then, just before I reached Frenchay Road, I saw him, hunched in the shadows underneath the bridge, smoking a cigarette. There was no mistaking that tall bulky figure and grizzled red hair, streaked with grey. He looked to be in his late forties or early fifties, with a long, mobile face and hard, suspicious eyes.
“Jim?” I said, approaching him with a smile.
He glanced up, his expression unwelcoming. “Yeah, whaddaya want?”
“I… um…” For a moment, I debated coming up with some story, then decided that for once, I was better being blunt and honest.
“You probably heard that Professor Barrow has been murdered.”
He grunted but didn’t say anything.
“I understand that you were outside Wadsworth College around that time?”
He gave me a contemptuous look. “Yeah… so? It’s a free country.”
“Was there any particular reason why you were hanging around there?” I persisted.
“None of your sodding business.”
I tried a different tack. “I also heard that Professor Barrow was opposed to the Domus Trust housing project? That he was trying to block it?”
Jim’s face twisted into an ugly expression. “He was a bloody son-of-a—”
“You didn’t like him,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah, I didn’t like him… So what?” he snarled. “Doesn’t mean that I killed him!”
“I’m not saying you had anything to do with the crime at all,” I said soothingly. “I just wondered… since you were around the college at the time of the murder… whether you saw anything suspicious?”
“No.”
I bit my lip. Bloody hell, this man was hard work. I had run out of ideas for conversation. Behind me, I heard heavy breathing as the Old Biddies caught up with me at last. They peered around my back at Jim, who glared at them.
“Whaddaya staring at?” he snapped at Glenda, who gave a squeak and took a step backwards. But Mabel wasn’t intimidated. She pushed her way in front of the others and looked Jim up and down disapprovingly.
“Young man, you need a good wash. And did you know that smoking is bad for you?”
I groaned inwardly. Antagonising Jim was not going to persuade him to talk!
The tramp stood up and pushed past us roughly. “I don’t need to listen to this sh—”
“Wait! Please!” I said, grabbing his arm. “Look, my friend, Seth Browning, has been arrested for the murder. I’m just trying to help him.”
The homeless man’s face softened slightly. “Yeah, I know Seth. He’s a good bloke. Does a lot for the homeless.” He swung around to face me. “But I can’t help you. To be honest with you, I’d like to shake the hand of the person who killed that bloody drunk!”
“But do you have any idea who that might be?” I persisted. “Anyone who hated Barrow enough to kill him?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you! Why should I help the police catch the bloke who did us all a public service, getting rid of that bastard?”
He made a sound like a horse snorting, then turned and stalked away, heading down the tow path towards Wolvercote. He walked with a limp, I noticed, and it would have been fairly easy for me to catch up with him again, but I decided to let him go. I didn’t think I’d get anything else out of him anyway.
“What an unpleasant piece of work!” Mabel stood staring after him, her arms akimbo. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was the murderer. Look at him! All unshaven and unkempt and skulking under bridges… ”
I was almost inclined to agree except that I was uncomfortably reminded of Seth’s accusation the night before: about how prejudiced people could be against the homeless. Jim might have been surly and hostile—and he could sure have done with a shave and a wash—but that didn’t necessarily make him a criminal.
Just as a posh Oxford background didn’t necessarily make you innocent either, I thought. Barrow had been an Oxford professor. The murder had taken place in an Oxford college. Somehow, I had a feeling that the key to this mystery was not out here in the homeless community but much closer to home.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Church bells were tolling the evening service across Oxford as Lincoln escorted me through the front gate of Wadsworth College and across the main quadrangle to the hall where the Oxford Society of Medicine dinner was to take place. We were slightly late as Lincoln had been delayed by an emergency case at the hospital, and when we stepped into the antechamber, it was already crowded with people and buzzing with the hum of conversation.
It was a typical Oxford event with all the men in “black tie”, looking suave and elegant in their dinner jackets, snowy white shirts, and black bowties, and the women in glittering cocktail dresses and sumptuous evening gowns. As soon as I stepped in, I did the usual female ritual: an anxious inspection of the women around me to make sure that I wasn’t overdressed or underdressed. Whew. It looked like I was okay. I had worn my trusty “little black dress” with long sheer sleeves and a flared hem, and I noted that several ladies had opted for their LBDs too. A flash of colour on the other side of the room caught my eye—a glimpse of turquoise chiffon and the sparkle of gold embroidery—I couldn’t see her properly but I silently applauded the woman who had dared to stand out from the pack.
A waiter approached bearing a tray of drinks. Lincoln chose a dry sherry and I took a glass of champagne, then we mingled. Or rather, I should say, he mingled and I tagged along, trying to join in the polite conversation. Many of the guests were obviously old colleagues or friends of Lincoln’s and I saw several of them eye me speculatively. I groaned inwardly. Great. I hoped that my coming as his date tonight wouldn’t fuel any rumours. I didn’t need anything else to help my mother’s machinations.
Somehow, I got separated from Lincoln and found myself at the edge of a group who were having a good old argument about the best college at Oxford. I laughed to myself. This was almost like my student days again. What was it about humans—no matter which walk of life—they just loved belonging to a “tribe” and competing against each other! Inter-college rivalry was rife at Oxford and several of the colleges had long-standing feuds that spanned generations. And of course, there was the usual resentment towards the bigger, wealthier colleges—like Magdalen, St John, and Christ Church—which tended to monopolise the limelight.
“Anyone would think that all there was to Oxford was Christ Church!” one of the men was saying in disgust as I joined the group. “Every blasted movie is filmed there and everyone I meet who has visited Oxford seems to only talk about Christ Church. I overheard a conversation at Heathrow Airport the other day on my way back from a conference—two tourists…and one of them had obviously just visited Oxford and was telling the other about it. She was making all these sweeping statements about ‘Oxford colleges’ and I felt like leaning over and saying, ‘What you’re saying only applies to Christ Church!’ Not every college has a cathedral or those custodians with bowler hats!” He shook his head.
The woman next to him bristled. “As it so happens, Christ Church deserves its fame. It is one of the grandest Oxford colleges and has some of the most famous figures in literature and history amongst its alumni. Visitors love the stories. That concealed staircase, for example, through which dons come up into the dining hall to sit at High Table—that was supposed to be Lewis Carroll’s inspiration for the rabbit hole in Alice in Wonderland—”
“Oh, not that old story again!” groaned the man. “Anyone would think that none of the other Oxford colleges have secret passages or fascinating stories and legends. What about Exeter College, where Tolkien studied? In the library there is a book on Finnish grammar
which is what first inspired him to start inventing languages—including Elvish for The Lord of the Rings. No one ever talks about that!”
“Well, I still think—”
A roar of laughter from the other side of the room distracted me and I glanced over. The crowd parted momentarily to reveal a woman surrounded by several men. She was clad in a floor-length turquoise gown, with long, wide sleeves and exquisite Middle-Eastern-style embroidery around her neck and cuffs. This was the woman I had glimpsed earlier, I realised, and even without her stunning gown, she would have eclipsed every other woman in the room. Not that she was conventionally beautiful—no, she was probably what one would have called “handsome” in the old days. She had strong features, a large, slightly hooked nose, dark brows, and big eyes with ridiculously thick eyelashes. Her mouth was wide and generous, outlined with vivid red lipstick, and she had big hair. I don’t just mean a bit of volume—I mean seriously big: massive waves springing from her forehead and curling around her shoulders, like a lion’s mane. I wondered how many gallons of hairspray had gone into that creation.
She was saying something and making everyone around her laugh uproariously. Suddenly, I knew that this was Leila Gaber. Her charm was palpable, even from across the room. I had to find a way to talk to her.
Casually, I drifted across and inserted myself into the edge of Leila Gaber’s group. They were still laughing and it was easy to pretend to laugh along with them. It was a trick I had picked up during numerous networking parties in Sydney—by the time they stopped laughing, they’d already accepted you into the group and thought you were part of the conversation. I sidled up to Leila and at the first pause, I turned to her and used the line that usually worked with academics: