by Maxine Barry
Two weeks ago the thought of all that would have seemed as alien to her as living on the moon. Now she knew that it was really going to happen. Here, in her cold old besit, she could see her future as clearly as she could see her own reflection in a mirror.
She sighed blissfully, and settled down to think about Lisle. And she couldn’t think of a better way to pass a dark winter afternoon. She hoped this rosy first glow of new love would last for a good long while, but she was not afraid of the day when it would eventually fade, because she knew that what would replace it would be stronger, more enduring.
She remembered walking in and finding him, pacing about, a ferocious look on his face. Why had he demanded to know, again, about her relationship with Sir Vivian? Obviously, something more must have happened in the murder case. Frowning thoughtfully, she got up to check the downstairs hall. Sure enough, a local paper had been delivered. As far as she could tell, her fellow tenants treated the papers that were delivered more or less as communal property. First to get them read them, then put them back on the table in the hall for the others to grab.
She glanced at her watch and saw it was barely twenty to five. The others wouldn’t start straggling in from work for another half hour. So she didn’t feel too guilty about snaffling a quick peek. She skipped lightly down the uneven stairs and gathered up the Oxford Mail. Back in her room, she settled back in her sofa, and unfolded it.
As expected, Sir Vivian’s murder was still the top story, and the first page screamed the progress, setback, and fortunes of the case. Apparently, one of the psychology Dons at St Bede’s, a Dr Callum Fielding, had been questioned and released.
Nesta frowned, and quickly she read the front page blurb.
Dr Callum Fielding, (pictured right) was unavailable for comment this morning, when we went to his College to ask him about the events concerning Sir Vivian Dalrymple’s death.
Mystery still surrounds his five-hour long interview at Kidlington Police Headquarters with Detective Inspector Lisle Jarvis and another police officer.
A spokesman for the Kendall family has made it clear that the Kendall Prize, awarded to Dr Fielding at the Dinner which the murder victim attended, is in no way linked to the tragic events of later that night.
Dr Fielding is a well-known friend and colleague of the murder victim, Sir Vivian Dalrymple, who was killed on the night of the 4th, after leaving a Dinner held in St Bede’s. He was on the short-list for the Kendall in psychology, along with others, including Dr Julie Ngabe, and Dr. Felicity Ollenbach. Dr Fielding was named as the winner of the Prize at a special announcement at Dinner at High Table in Hall.
This was followed by the fateful cocktail party in the SCR. It was just after leaving this prestigious affair, hosted by the famous supermodel Marcheta, that Sir Vivian was attacked and killed. So far, the police have made no arrests, although a rival paper mistakenly printed that Dr Fielding had been arrested for the crime.
In fact, we can confirm that Dr Fielding was released, after questioning, without charge.
This did not stop Marcheta (pictured below) from issuing a statement to the Press via her PR Company, the moment the false reports of his arrest had been printed.
However, we have heard from several sources that Marcheta was outraged at the police treatment of Dr Fielding, and threatened to bring her considerable clout to bear, and prosecute the Thames Valley Police Force for malicious arrest.
So far, the man in charge of the case, Detective Inspector Lisle Jarvis, an ex Blackbird-Leys resident, has had little comment to make.
Lord Saint-John James, Principal of St Bede’s, has also been most reticent, merely stating that the college was doing everything it could to help the police, and sincerely regretted that such an atrocious act could take place on College grounds.
More intriguing still is the fact that unsubstantiated rumours are beginning to filter through that the method of Sir Vivian’s demise is NOT consistent with a routine mugging after all, and security at the coroner’s office is unduly tight.
The questioning of a man of Dr Fielding’s reputation and standing also seems to suggest that the police are not only following up the idea of a random slaying, but that Sir Vivian was murdered by someone he knew, perhaps even someone at the prize party.
An anonymous source close to the police investigation said this morning that the police had been searching for a certain weapon connected with archery.
Is it possible Sir Vivian was killed with a bow and arrow?
Dr Fielding, as any follower of the sport will know, is an accomplished archer, as are many of St Bede’s illustrious graduates. They boast three Olympic medal winners in the last 35 years. The thing that really puzzles this newspaper, however, is what possible motive there could be for one of Sir Vivian’s friends or colleagues to murder him?
Please turn to page 4.
But Nesta didn’t bother to turn to page four. Instead she felt the paper slip numbly from her hands, but made no attempt to stop it falling to the floor. She stared blankly at the wall for a long, long time, her mind whirling. She felt sick. Giddy. Like she’d just witnessed something horrific—like a plane crash.
She had to struggle to re-arrange all her preconceived ideas. Sir Vivian had been attending a fancy Dinner at St Bede’s. As a psychology student herself, Nesta knew all about the prestigious Kendall Prize. And any winner of it was set for life! And Dr Fielding had won it. But, more importantly, at that same Dinner, Rosemary Naismith had been in attendance. She’d have been bound to be.
Why oh why hadn’t any of the papers thought to print this piece of information before? Her lips twisted grimly. Obviously because it was not spicy enough. Wasn’t interesting enough to help them sell more papers! She felt like screaming in frustration! All this time she’d been thinking it was just a sad case of random violence.
She forced herself to calm down, to think rationally.
Was it just a coincidence? Could it possibly be just a weird twist of fate, that Rosemary Naismith and Sir Vivian had been thrust together, under such tension-making circumstances?
Nesta, without realising it, was suddenly on her feet.
She shook her head, to try and clear it.
Coincidence? How could it be? She just didn’t believe it. And now they were saying that the police suspected someone at the party. And she knew someone at that party had a perfect motive for killing Sir Vivian. And it wasn’t Dr Fielding!
Nesta had her coat in her hand, and for a moment she stared at it blankly. She realised she was colder now, and it had nothing to do with the inadequate radiators. Shock. She was in shock. She’d had vital evidence all along and never known it . . .
Lisle. Of course. She must talk to Lisle.
She walked to the door and clumped down the stairs, all her previous light-hearted skipping totally gone. She felt old, and curiously numb.
She’d never once thought that Rosemary Naismith could be responsible for murdering Sir Vivian. Why should she? Even now the thought was so hideous. Stealing a dead person’s work was surely a long way from committing cold-blooded murder.
And yet . . .
With one newspaper article, Nesta’s whole world seemed to have been set on its head.
If only Lisle had told her about that Dinner and its true importance! And if only she’d realised that Naismith was present when Sir Vivian had been killed! She’d have told him instantly about her father’s thesis. When she thought of all the times they’d been together, and he’d been keeping his police secrets so close to his chest, sweating his guts out trying to solve the mystery, when all the time, the one person who could crack his case for him was right under his nose.
If only he’d trusted her. If he’d told her everything, she could have helped him.
Once again, she felt like screaming at the cruel tricks life could play. She only hoped, now that fate had had its little joke on them, that it would leave them alone in peace in the future, and let them live a relatively care-free life!
As she walked to the end of the road, and the public telephone booth, Nesta quickly began to piece it all together, and as she did so, some of the shock began to wear off. With the resilience of youth, and her psychological training, she began to accept the fact that she was on the trail of a murderer.
Sir Vivian must have cornered Naismith and told her what he knew. She could well understand how Rosemary being at the Dinner when she had no right even to be in Oxford, must have really aroused Sir Vivian’s sense of outrage.
But had nobody heard him accuse her?
No, she thought, opening the door to the phone booth and shutting it behind her. No, Sir Vivian would not make a scene in public. He would want Naismith to go in as quiet and dignified a manner as possible. For the University’s sake more than anything.
She rang Directory Enquiries for the Kidlington Police number, but when she got through there, she was told that Inspector Jarvis was not in the building.
A pleasant-voiced WPC asked if she could take a message.
Nesta hesitated. She really needed to speak to Lisle. On the other hand, she couldn’t keep information like she had to herself for any longer.
‘Do you know where Detective Inspector Jarvis is, please? It’s really urgent.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t give out that information. If you have any knowledge of a crime, however . . .’ the pleasant voice became just a touch sharper, and before she knew what she was doing, Nesta had put the phone down. She stared at the instrument for a while, torn between a desire to pick it back up and another, slightly stronger desire, to go and find Lisle for herself.
She backed out of the telephone booth and stood looking around her. Oxford was choc-a-block with commuters now. The streetlights bounced light off ancient stone walls. The domes of the Sheldonian and the Bodleian library stood out against an inky black, starlit sky. It was all so beautiful, but Nesta had never felt so suddenly alone. Or so laden with troubles.
She walked back to her car and got inside. Her car keys were in her coat pocket and she put them in the ignition and turned on the engine, hearing the little car roar into life.
But where could she go?
‘Damn it, Nesta, think will you?’ she muttered to herself. Where was Lisle likely to be, if not at Headquarters? There was a police station in the city, but she didn’t think he’d be there.
St Bede’s?
Suddenly, Nesta realised that they must have set up an ‘incident’ room. And didn’t they usually do that as near to the scene of the crime as possible? And St Bede’s was a college, which meant it was bound to have a room to spare to lend to the police investigation team.
With a small grunt of relief, she turned the car around, and headed as quickly towards St Bede’s as the traffic would let her.
* * *
As Nesta pulled into the car park of St Bede’s, Rosemary Naismith pulled into what had once been the old Radcliffe Hospital next door to the college, and parked her car. She got out, holding her bag ultra-carefully by her side. She didn’t dare leave it in the car, just in case some car thief took it, or her car got towed.
By rights, if she had any sense, she’d take it home and then come on to St Bede’s, but she had a desperate feeling that she had no time to waste. She needed to see Callum. She just had to know how much he knew. How much he’d learned.
As she walked through the front gates and past the porters’ lodge, Nesta Aldernay cut through Wallace quad, and headed for the lodge from the opposite direction.
Rosemary, who was heading for Callum’s rooms at the far end of the college in Wolsey passed her. The two women, in the dark, barely glanced at each other.
Nesta knew only Rosemary’s name—it was in fact, burned into her soul—but she had no idea what she actually looked like. Why should she? She’d never so much as seen a picture of her.
But both women, on reaching their destinations, found themselves disappointed.
Rosemary knocked and knocked on Callum’s door, reluctant to leave and not wanting to acknowledge that he was out. It was such an anti-climax that she wanted to lean against his door and cry.
Nesta learned from the porter that the police incident room was in the theatre in Webster, but when she went there and stood quietly in the doorway, she could see for herself that Lisle was not inside. So she walked slowly back through Wallace quad, towards her parked car, wondering what she should do next.
At that moment, Rosemary walked under Becket Arch and began to make her way back to the main gates. She’d have to take the bomb back to her house after all, and come back later. Callum, unless he was dining out, would be back to dine in Hall by six, at the latest.
Had not Marcheta also arrived at that moment, what happened next would never have happened at all. Nesta would have gone back to her cold bedsit, to spend miserable hours waiting for Lisle to get in touch with her, and Rosemary would have been arrested. But Marcheta, who’d just come from the Randolph, now stepped out of a taxi and walked through the main gates, quickly heading for Wolsey.
She wanted to see if Callum was back from the Bodleian.
Opposite the entrance to the car park, Rosemary saw the unmistakable tall and leggy figure of the supermodel and hesitated. The woman’s long flowing black hair was a dead give away, and in the well-lit quad, Rosemary had no trouble spotting and identifying her.
And Rosemary instinctively knew that she didn’t want Marcheta Kendall to see her. The tall cross of the War Memorial provided an ideal hiding place, and with a quick side step, she flattened herself against it, becoming all but invisible in the cold night.
At the same time, Nesta, coming out of Webster, also spotted the tall, unmistakable figure of the beautiful woman. She looked just like her photograph in that evening’s edition of the Oxford Mail. She was glad that the poor, beleaguered and unquestionably innocent Dr Fielding had someone fighting his corner.
She was just a second too late, however, to see the furtive figure of the other, blonde woman in the quad slip behind the dark shadowy War Memorial.
Nesta quickened her pace. ‘Miss Kendall?’ she called, and only then wondered what she was doing.
Markie stopped and looked around. She saw a woman with a bell-shaped cap of lovely red hair hurrying towards her. As she stopped and waited for her to reach her, (somewhat impatiently as she was dying to talk to Callum) she saw that the woman’s face was pinched pale with worry. Even in the artificial electric light streaming from the various college windows, she looked haggard and upset.
As she got within a few feet, Markie could see that her big green eyes were large with worry. In the deserted quad, their words carried clearly in the night air, echoing off the ancient walls of the buildings.
‘You are Marcheta Kendall, aren’t you? The one who’s friends with Dr Fielding?’ Nesta asked a trifle breathlessly.
‘Yes. That’s me,’ Markie said, intrigued now.
Nesta came to a halt, and once again wondered why she’d attracted this woman’s attention. She smiled grimly.
‘I don’t suppose you know where Inspector Jarvis is, do you?’ Nesta asked. ‘He’s not in the incident room.’
Had she known it, she’d only missed him by a matter of twenty minutes or so. And right at that moment, he and Jim Neill were frantically searching Rosemary Naismith’s College rooms. For Callum Fielding had telephoned them from the Bodleian not half an hour ago, and had told them everything that he’d discovered.
It was yet more irony piled upon irony.
But now, Markie shrugged and smiled a little grimly. ‘Unless he’s out trying to harass Callum again, I have no idea, sorry,’ she drawled.
Nesta went, if possible, even paler. ‘I’m sorry. You and Dr Fielding must be having a hard time of it, and it’s all my fault.’
Behind the War Memorial Rosemary, who had been waiting impatiently for the two women to move away, suddenly stiffened. Her ears pricked.
The quad was still deserted. At this time of day most students
coming back to the college to dine, entered by the many side and postern gates, nearest to their Houses. Those that did come in through the main gates ignored the women, uninterested in them or their conversation. And all of them missed seeing Rosemary, huddled deep as she was in the shadows.
Markie frowned. ‘Your fault? I don’t understand.’
Nesta sighed wearily. ‘It’s a long story, and rather complicated. And, oh Hell, I need to see Lisle. Where is he?’ she all but wailed.
Markie smiled. ‘You know Inspector Jarvis?’
Nesta flushed tellingly, and Markie felt herself grinning. So, the dour, handsome, gruff policeman had a lover did he? Good for him! It was about time some woman took him in hand. And this woman with the fiery red hair and flashing green eyes looked like she could handle such a man all right. But right now, such speculations, interesting though they were, had to take second place.
‘I still don’t understand,’ Markie persisted, ‘why you should think that any of this is your fault?’
Which was a sentiment, had she but known it, that was being echoed most fervently by Rosemary Naismith in her hiding place.
Nesta sighed. ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Nesta Aldernay.’
Both Markie and Rosemary gasped.
Markie stared at the woman in front of her, unable to make the leap. ‘Aldernay you say? You’re not a relation of Brian Aldernay are you?’
Behind the War Memorial Rosemary’s heart seemed to stop beating.
‘Yes!’ Nesta said, stunned. ‘But how do you know my father’s name?’
Rosemary felt sick. Her father!
Of course, she remembered now, Brian had had an infant daughter. But what was she doing here? She clutched her bag tighter to her in unconscious worry, then realised what she was doing. She broke into a sweat and forced herself to relax, frantically checking that neither of the lights on the side of the bomb were lit up.