The Oxford Inheritance

by Ann A. McDonald

  In the hallway, Cassie gasped for air. A whirlwind of guilt and sorrow and unexplained rage was storming in her chest, drowning everything out, demanding release. She stumbled down the corridor, blind to everything, feeling the dark clutches of the past threaten to take hold of her and never let go. No, she told herself. Not now, not here. She’d held those demons at bay too long to fall apart now.

  Then she heard it, through the thunder of her heartbeat. The sound of a piano. Bach. One of her mother’s favorite symphonies, playing melancholily through an open doorway farther down the hall. The delicate notes washed over her, bittersweet, bringing with them the faded memories of a sun-drenched room, tulips in a vase on the mantel. Her mother’s sweater, soft against her skin.

  Slowly, Cassie’s heartbeat slowed.

  The darkness fell back, just enough for her to breathe again. The world steadied on its axis.

  She took a few more steps down the hallway and pushed the door open.

  Cassie stopped. Hugo was sitting in the dark room, his head bent away from her over the piano, fingers moving slowly over the keys. He missed a note, discordant, and hit it again, letting out a twisted laugh as he reached for the whiskey bottle balanced on top of the piano.

  She pushed the door wider; the hinge squeaked. He turned. “Cassandra, Cassandra . . .” he drawled, sloppy. “Don’t you look lovely tonight?”

  Cassie’s anger returned, sharp in her gut. He was hiding away back here, too cowardly to face them at the funeral. “You skipped the service,” she said, icy.

  “Miss me?” Hugo slammed the piano lid closed and spun around on the stool.

  “You should have paid your respects. Her parents were there.”

  “You think they’d want to see me?” He met her gaze, lifting the bottle in a bitter toast. His face was pale and gaunt in the dim light, but she could see the shadows under his eyes. “Figured I’d cut the bullshit, give her an Irish wake.”

  Cassie shook her head in disgust. “How can you just sit here like this?” Her fury grew. “Just laze around feeling sorry for yourself, when, when—”

  “When it’s all my fault,” Hugo finished for her. “That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?” he demanded, rising. “That’s what they’re all saying. Trust me, there’s nothing you can throw at me I haven’t already told myself.” He closed the distance between them until she could see the tension trembling in his jaw, feel the energy radiating from his body. “You think I don’t lie awake at nights, going over it time and time again?” His voice rose. “You think I don’t ask myself what I could have done differently? If I’d only seen what was happening, if I’d known . . . I should have seen it. I should have known how far gone she was. I could have stopped her, I could have made it different.” His eyes were full of misery, guilt turning his dark irises black. Cassie recognized it better than anything: her own emotions, mirrored right back at her. The ache of regret, of wishing it could be any other way. The shame of knowing it was all her fault.

  She exhaled in a rush. Her anger slipped away, leaving her empty again. Cassie took the bottle from Hugo’s hand and stepped around him, walking over to the dark windows, looking out across the gardens illuminated by the floodlit lamps. She took a long drink of the whiskey, feeling the burn snake down her throat, warming her whole body. “We failed her,” she whispered, staring out at the dark.

  She felt a movement beside her, and then Hugo was there, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I did,” she admitted softly, pressing her fingertips to the cold glass. “I saw what was happening to her. She was depressed, erratic.” She swallowed back a sob. “I knew the signs, I just didn’t want to believe it.”

  “You’re wrong,” Hugo said firmly. “You couldn’t have known.”

  “And you could?” Cassie turned. “I was her roommate, I was right there. I was the only one, not you or Olivia or anyone else.”

  Hugo’s jaw clenched. “What about Olivia? What did she say to you?”

  “Nothing.” Cassie shook her head. “That’s what I’m trying to say. You guys, you weren’t to know. She pretended everything was fine, but I was the only one who saw the truth about how bad she was. I should have told someone.” She felt a sob well in her throat. “I could have stopped it this time.”

  She realized too late the mistake she’d let slip. She tried to turn away, but Hugo lifted his hand to her cheek, stopping her. “What do you mean, this time?” he asked quietly, his eyes searching hers.

  Cassie looked away. She’d forgotten the happy family of her cover story, the lies she was tripping over.

  “Cassie?” Hugo whispered softly. The sound slipped over her, and Cassie felt the fight ebb from her limbs.

  “My mother slashed her wrists in the bathtub when I was fourteen years old,” she said quietly. “I didn’t see it coming,” she added, her voice cracking. “But this time . . . I know what to look for. I can’t believe I didn’t . . .”

  Her words were swallowed up as Hugo pulled her against his body, enveloping her in a sudden embrace. Cassie flinched from the contact, but he held her tight, and after a moment, she surrendered, relaxing into his warmth. She could hear the beat of his heart through his chest, could smell whiskey on his breath. A curious sensation overwhelmed her: a sense of comfort, but edged with something more, an awareness of him and his body, unwelcome but impossible to ignore.

  A moment of weakness, Cassie told herself, resting her forehead against his shoulder. That’s all it was. All she was allowed.

  Hugo didn’t move or speak, and neither did she. They just stood there, holding each other in the silence and the dark, until there was a sound in the doorway.

  They broke apart.

  “There you are.” Olivia stared, taking them in. Then her face changed. “Jesus, Hugo, look at you.” She strode toward them, reaching to pull Hugo away. “I’m so sorry for my cousin,” she apologized. “He’s been like this all day. I told him to pull himself together, but . . .”

  “It’s okay,” Cassie said quickly, but Olivia turned back to Hugo, her lips set in a thin line.

  “You stink of booze,” she hissed, “and everyone’s asking for you. I can’t believe you’d do this, today of all days—”

  “I’m sorry I’m missing your perfect little party.” Hugo scowled, the bitter look back on his face. “I guess I’m not so good at pretending everything’s fucking fine!”

  “I can’t talk to you like this,” Olivia said grimly. “Go sober up and pull yourself together.” She turned back to Cassie, forcing a taut smile. “Come on.” She linked her arm through Cassie’s and steered her from the room. Cassie glanced back at Hugo, but he was slumped, raising the bottle to his lips, so she let Olivia lead her away, back out into the hallway. “I really am sorry,” Olivia apologized again. “He didn’t make a nuisance of himself, did he? Evie’s death really hit him hard. I mean, it shocked all of us, but he’s been a total mess since it happened. It was all we could do to get him out of bed.”

  “I . . .” Cassie was still recovering from the strange embrace. “No, it’s fine.”

  “Good. Will you come have a drink? I’m so glad you came.” Olivia squeezed her hand warmly, but Cassie couldn’t imagine returning to the wake, not now.

  “I should be getting back,” she excused herself instead. “I have to pack up Evie’s things, for her parents . . .”

  “Oh God.” Olivia’s blue eyes widened. “How awful. Do you need any help?”

  “No, I’ll be okay. But, thank you,” she added. Olivia had been one of the only people to speak to her after the service. To acknowledge Cassie’s grief as part of all the group’s loss, instead of acting as if she was an alien, stranded alone with her feelings.

  “Where are you staying now?” Olivia asked, accompanying Cassie to the staircase.

  “What do you mean?” Cassie replied. “I’m still in the attic.”

  Olivia stopped. “You mean, they’re keeping yo
u there?” She gasped. “You have to go there every day, to where . . .” She trailed off, her words fading. Then she recovered. “It’s ridiculous. You’ll stay here, with me. I’ve plenty of room, and the couch pulls out—”

  “It’s okay,” Cassie cut her off. “There’s no need, I’m fine where I am.”

  Olivia shook her head. “I’ll speak to someone, they can’t possibly expect you to—”

  “Don’t.” Cassie stopped her. “I appreciate the offer. But I really need to get going. This was a nice idea,” she added softly. “Evie would have liked it.”

  She left Olivia and hurried down the stairs, hearing the echo of her own footsteps fill the hall. Outside, rain was spitting, cold against her face, but Cassie couldn’t face returning straight to the attic. Despite everything she’d sworn to Olivia, the room was too full of shadows and dark ghosts for her to take, not with her nerves still weak from the service.

  Instead, Cassie looped back toward the chapel and peeked inside. It was empty now, the echoing space deserted, candles flickering in a golden line along the altar, flowers still lining the walls. She took a breath, then stepped inside, the heavy door swinging shut behind her. There, in the hush of the stained glass and candlelight, she felt some semblance of her self return. Churches always helped center her. It was strange, for she had no time for organized religion, the rituals and rules of services with their mandated prayers and response. But the buildings, great and powerful things, built as safe havens, shelter—those always felt like a relief, filled as they were with the hopeful prayers of believers who knew the security of a faith she could only envy.

  Cassie wandered the aisles, drawing closer to the altar. The memorial display still adorned the platform: Evie’s photograph blown up on a poster board, surrounded with flowers and candles. She looked happy. She looked free.

  A sound came from behind the altar, startling her. “Hello?” Cassie called out. A moment later a workman emerged, dressed in overalls. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”

  “Just finishing up with the engraving,” he replied, lifting a box of tools. She must have looked puzzled, because he nodded in the direction that he’d come. “The in memorandum wall. They keep a tribute to all the students who died during their time here. I’m sorry for your loss,” he added, awkward, before tipping his cap and exiting.

  Cassie pushed aside the heavy velvet drapes to reveal the space at the back of the vestibule, a bronze plate set in the wall, neat lettering engraved in a list.

  William Randall Jefferson. 1840–1862. Scholar and friend.

  Jeremiah Saracen Hargreaves. 1880–1901. Deeply missed.

  And so it went on. Cassie reached out and traced the names, imagining what fates might have taken them so young. There was a cluster around 1918, and through the 1940s. War had touched even the ivory towers of Oxford. But aside from the tragic roll call during those dark years, the names were infrequent.

  Juliet Annabeth Hopkins. 1963–1980. Beloved daughter RIP.

  Rose Caitlin Smith. 1976–1995. In heaven we will be reunited.

  Cassie stopped, her fingertips pressing against the shallow etching. Her mind raced as she read it again. Rose. Her mother’s roommate, Margaret’s best friend.

  Feeling a sudden chill, Cassie backed away from the wall. Rose had died in 1995, the same year Margaret had fled Oxford across the ocean, changing her name and casting off all hints of her former life—except one final tribute to her former friend.

  Cassandra Rose Blackwell.

  She’d been searching for the reason her mother left. Now, Cassie knew in her bones that she’d found it. The key was right there in front of her, etched in brass on the chapel wall.

  Rose’s death was the beginning of everything.

  19

  “IT DOESN’T SAY HOW SHE DIED.”

  Cassie squinted at the screen with tired eyes. It was Sunday afternoon, and she and Elliot were the only people left in the archives room downstairs at the Radcliffe library. He was shelving returned books with a weary sigh while she painstakingly spooled through the microfiche of local newspaper stories from the month of Rose’s death.

  “‘Police have called off the search for missing Raleigh undergraduate Rose Smith, following a three-day search by divers in the river Cherwell. Miss Smith’s coat and belongings were discovered by the bridge early Sunday morning, prompting the search.’” Cassie read aloud from the faded newsprint on the slide. “‘A spokesman said she was now presumed dead, and that nobody was being sought in connection with the death. It is not thought to be suspicious.’” She looked up. “What does that mean? She accidentally drowned?”

  Elliot got down from the stepladder and joined her, his gaze scanning over the print. “No, she killed herself.”

  Cassie shivered. “How do you know that?”

  “It’s press policy not to report suicides,” Elliot said, going back to his task. “They think it’ll trigger copycats, or something, so it’s all coded and discreet. If it was an accidental death, they would have said so. In the absence of suspects, it can only mean one thing. She topped herself.” He caught himself, looking back at Cassie with panicked eyes. “Shit, I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I forgot. I mean, I didn’t think—”

  “It’s okay,” she told him, feeling a dull ache in her chest. “You didn’t mean it.” She swallowed the pain down, turning back to the screen. It had been days now since Evie’s funeral, a week that Cassie had survived only by throwing herself into this new task of digging up every last scrap of information on Rose Smith that she could find. She’d wanted distraction from her feelings of helpless guilt and shame, the low wooden beam she passed every morning in the living room, and the hushed whispers around college, but nothing she discovered had done anything to ease the nervous twist in her stomach and the terrible feeling she had that something was terribly, seriously wrong.

  Rose had been the girl in the photograph with her mother, raising a chalice in a smiling toast. They were roommates, friends, teammates on the field-hockey squad, scattered through yearbooks and listings—but only until May of 1995.

  That was the month Rose died. One week later, Cassie’s mother had left Oxford, packed up her things and fled: changed her name and never uttered one word about what she’d left behind.

  Margaret. Rose. Evie. Another dead girl, another wretched suicide. Another life cut short, with no rhyme nor reason to the tragedy. It was too close to home for Cassie, with Evie’s things still sitting boxed around the attic, waiting to be delivered back home. And instead of giving her clarity and purpose, this newspaper report only raised another dozen questions.

  “This is interesting.”

  Cassie glanced over. Elliot was perched at a terminal now, scrolling through the internal library records. “Your Rose is listed as an author on one of the books in the catalog.”

  “But she was an undergraduate.” Cassie frowned. “She barely had two semesters here before . . . before she died.”

  “I know, it’s rather strange, except . . .” Elliot typed briefly, then clicked the mouse. “Ah. That explains it. The Raleigh anniversary collection.” He looked over. “Every college does it. They hit a big centennial, or whatever, and have students submit things for a big display. You know, florid first-year poetry about the snow glinting off the deer park.” He rolled his eyes. “Or a dozen photographs of the clock tower at sunset. Raleigh had its four-hundredth-year celebration, and Rose must have done something for that.”

  “Can you find out what?” Cassie asked.

  “Sure.” Elliot shrugged. “I’ll pull the record. But . . .” He paused, a wary look flitting across his face. “How much further down the rabbit hole do you want to fall?”

  “What are you talking about?” Cassie snapped her notebook shut and got up, stretching her aching limbs.

  “I mean . . .” Elliot hesitated. “We started with Margaret. Just an old family friend, you said. Now we’re chasing after this Rose girl too, an
d don’t tell me it’s just curiosity. What’s really going on?”

  Cassie paused. For a moment, she thought about telling him the truth about her search. But then she remembered the ominous print on the back of that photograph, the unanswered questions that haunted her in the night. Black is the badge of hell . . . “It’s nothing,” she finally replied, meeting Elliot’s gaze with what she hoped was a blank smile. “I mean, I guess I’m just looking for something to make sense. After . . .” Deliberately, she allowed her words to trail off. “It helps,” she added truthfully. “To have something to focus on outside of college and work and all that. Maybe I have been getting a little obsessive. But Christmas vacation is coming soon, and I just want to wrap all this up before the break.”

  Elliot gave her another look but seemed to be satisfied by her explanation. “I get it. It’s easy to get carried away digging around in these files; it’s like a puzzle. And they said Wikipedia holes were addictive.”

  Cassie managed a laugh. “Right. It’s the challenge.”

  “Okay.” Elliot got to his feet. “I’ll look this one up for you tomorrow, see what I can dig up about the mysterious Rose Smith.” He waggled his eyebrows dramatically.

  “Thank you.” Cassie reached out and squeezed his arm as he passed. “Not just for this but everything. The job, getting me off campus . . . I really needed it.”

  Elliot looked uncomfortable. “My pleasure. Now can we please go take a break aboveground before I go cross-eyed and make like one of your American postal workers?”

  After snatching a quick coffee with Elliot, Cassie made her way to Thessaly’s office across town. She’d told the counselor she wouldn’t need another appointment—but that had been before Evie’s death. Now she’d received another letter summoning her to therapy—Tremain’s work, she guessed—and with so many questions and guilt gnawing at her, Cassie didn’t have the heart to resist. She had nobody else to talk with.