by Plum Sykes
Ursula suddenly felt horrible about how she’d treated Claire Potter. She’d cruelly dismissed her as a potential friend because she was so dowdy. She’d written her off as a plain Jane just as cavalierly as the Hoorays would. Ursula vowed to make an effort with Claire. She was probably fascinating, regardless of her sad short hair.
“I’m definitely not going,” she told Horatio. “I want to do some reading tonight.”
“Well, I’ll be there, so if you change your mind—come!” he exclaimed. “Don’t forget, it’s the Cherwell meeting at twelve today. I’m going down to the offices now to sort everything out. Toodle-oo!”
As the clock on the gate tower chimed nine, she stuffed the cards into her satchel and knocked on Dr. Dave’s thick oak door.
No answer.
Two minutes passed, then three, four. No sign of Dr. Dave. Not being a lemon, Ursula reminded herself, was crucial if she were to make a good impression. The heavy door groaned as she gingerly pushed it open. Inside, Dr. Dave’s rooms were quiet as the grave, and the only light was a white sliver of sharp morning sunshine that curled around one of the curtains. Ursula could vaguely make out the familiar outlines of Dr. Dave’s armchairs, sofa, and the chaise longue opposite. The silhouette of the great argus loomed ominously in the half darkness.
“Oh!” Ursula gasped, suddenly noticing a large, person-shaped mound on the chaise longue. Surely Dr. Dave hadn’t slept there? How embarrassing, she thought.
Perhaps if I noisily open the curtains, Ursula decided, he’ll wake up of his own accord. That would avoid a mountain of awkwardness. The thought of disturbing the author of From Constantinople to Jerusalem from a snooze on his own sofa was simply too dreadful. She went over to the window and flapped the drapes unnecessarily wildly as she drew them back. Light flooded the room, picking up the gleaming red lacquer of the walls and glinting here and there off Dr. Dave’s Eastern trinkets. Ursula could now see that a thick Turkish blanket was pulled up over the sleeping figure.
But the mound was still motionless.
“Dr. Dave?” she said brightly. “Good morning?”
Silence.
Ursula sighed. In the daylight she could see that a pool of fabric was spilling onto the floor from beneath the Turkish blanket at one end of the chaise longue. As she looked more closely, she realized that the fabric was white satin, beaded with pearls. There was no mistaking the fabric or the gown—it had to be the extraordinary dress that India had been wearing at Wenty’s party last night. But why was she asleep here, in Dr. Dave’s rooms?
Ursula tiptoed closer to the sleeping girl. It must have been freezing in here last night—India had pulled the Turkish blanket up so high over her body that only the top part of the back of her head was visible. A hand was peeking out from beneath the blanket and grazing the floor. It appeared to be clutching a champagne saucer.
Ursula cleared her throat. “Erm . . . hello?”
Nothing.
“Excuse me, Lady India?”
The girl didn’t stir. Ursula stole closer. There wasn’t a sound, a sigh, a movement coming from her.
Ursula could hardly breathe as she rushed around to the far side of the chaise longue. Now she was behind it, she could see India’s face. The Turkish blanket was drawn right up to her chin. Her eyes were closed, as though she were taking a nap. But this was not a peaceful sleep. India’s cheeks were colorless, her complexion dulled to the chalky pallor of stale pastry.
At that moment Ursula was enveloped by fear as the sickening thought dawned that there might be no life in the girl before her. India’s once-crimson lips, still posed in their customary haughty pout, were now the bluish hue of a nasty bruise.
Stop being a lemon, Ursula chided herself. There was no time to waste. She must get help, and fast. As dire as the situation seemed, perhaps India could be revived. Ursula turned and rapped as violently as she could on Dr. Dave’s bedroom door, shouting his name. He must be in there, she thought, pulling the door open. But she was greeted by the sight of an empty, unmade bed. On the side table next to it was the Chanel purse that India had been carrying last night. Ursula dashed out of the little bedroom and threw open the door to the bathroom. Empty. The room smelled noticeably lemony and fresh. She spotted a large bottle of Eau Sauvage cologne on the side of the sink. The lid was off.
Ursula rushed from Dr. Dave’s rooms and out onto the landing. The JCR! she thought, seeing the door was ajar, and sped into the room opposite. Immediately she saw that there was someone in an armchair at the far end. She rushed over.
There was Otto Schuffenecker, sitting bolt upright in a worn wingback chair, still in his tails and white tie from the night before. He was fast asleep. Two glasses and an empty bottle had been kicked over and were lying on the floor next to him.
“Otto!” Ursula yelled desperately.
He didn’t stir. Please, God, don’t let Otto be dead, she prayed. That would be too Agatha Christie for words. She shook the boy by his left arm, as violently as she dared, shouting, “Otto. Otto! Wake up!”
“Ah, India darling, mein Liebling, you are soooooggghhh sveee-ee-et,” he grunted, grabbing Ursula’s waist and burying his head in her kilt.
“Ugh! Otto, get off,” she screamed, whacking him with her notepad.
“Aggghh!” squealed Otto. “Wenty! More champagne.”
“Otto. Wenty’s party finished hours ago.”
Otto screwed up his eyes and squinted at her. “Where’s India?” He looked around the room. “Where am I?”
“You’re in the JCR.”
“No!” shuddered Otto. “How uncool. Please never tell anyone you’ve seen me here, or I’ll be sacked from the Gridiron Club—”
“Gridiron Club?” Ursula butted in. “Was it you who—?” But before Otto could answer, she had refocused on the current emergency. “Otto, I think something terrible has happened. It’s India. She’s . . . unconscious,” Ursula stammered, unable to articulate her worst fear.
“What?” cried Otto, virtually jumping out of his tailcoat. “But . . . last night . . . we were so, she was so . . .” He seemed terribly confused.
“She was so what?” asked Ursula.
“Sexy,” he said, arching one eyebrow provocatively.
“Otto, what on earth are you talking about? Come with me, quick.”
Ursula grabbed his arm and heaved him from the chair, dragging him towards Dr. Dave’s rooms. As they left the JCR, Ursula noticed a pile of blank crossword puzzles stacked neatly on a table near the windows, as well as a cluster of little round tubs filled with melted ice cream. It looked like only two pots had been eaten. Poor Claire. It didn’t look as though her event had been a big success. She’d make it up to her for not going. Maybe she’d invite her for a chocolate digestive in her room or something.
“Ah, it’s so nice to hold your hand,” Otto cooed as he stumbled behind Ursula. “I think I love you as much as I love India.”
“Otto, you’re still drunk,” she reprimanded him, opening Dr. Dave’s door. “Look,” she whispered desolately as they reached India. Otto walked round to the back of the chaise longue. When he saw India’s face, he finally appeared to sober up.
“Christ!” he said. “I must feel the pulse on her neck. If there is any pulse, I will give her the kiss of life . . .”
He gingerly turned the blanket down from Lady India’s chin. As he did so, he let out a bloodcurdling screech, leaping away from the girl like a grasshopper who’d met up with a five-thousand-volt electric fence.
“What is it?!” gasped Ursula, still on the opposite side of the chaise longue. She rushed around it.
Ashen, speechless, Otto pointed at India’s neck. The scene before them was ghastly.
India had a bloody slash wound extending from one side of her neck to the other. A crimson river had oozed down her collarbone and onto her décolletage, where it had coagulated. The top part of the pearl-encrusted gown was soaked with blood. Ursula felt herself almost freeze with shock. The girl ha
d been attacked with no mercy. A monstrous crime had been committed.
“Oh my God,” Ursula cried. “No! It can’t be! India! India!”
She started shaking the girl, hoping, praying, that she would miraculously take a breath. But India was cold, stiff with rigor, unresponsive.
“Let me try,” said Otto.
“There’s no point. She’s gone,” Ursula told him.
“I must try something, anything,” he insisted.
Otto leaned awkwardly over the chaise longue, put his lips on India’s mouth, and blew air into the girl’s lungs as hard as he could, over and over, but it was to no avail. Eventually, he sat on the floor, head in hands. It was hopeless. India was gone.
Ursula sat down opposite him, took his hand, and felt him squeeze it hard. The only thing to do now was to get help.
“Do you think you can manage to fetch the porter?” Ursula asked him gently.
“Er . . .” But Otto couldn’t say more—his face turned a vile shade of green, and he vomited violently on the Persian rug.
“Ooops,” he said, looking at Ursula, mortified.
“Poor Otto,” said Ursula, patting his back comfortingly. “Go and get Deddington. I’ll wait here.”
He nodded numbly, but got up and rushed down the stairs. When the thud of his feet finally faded, Ursula was alone with India’s body, feeling totally dumbfounded. Poor India—killed. But by whom? Why? Was there a murderer on the loose in Christminster? Ursula felt her spine crawl with fear.
The seconds seemed to tick by terribly slowly. Ursula carefully replaced the blanket over India’s body, making sure to cover the terrible neck wound, as if restoring some semblance of peace to the dead girl. It was then that Ursula noticed that the champagne saucer, still clutched in India’s stiff left hand, was broken. Ursula crouched down on the floor to get a closer look: the stem of the glass was intact, but half of the saucer part of the glass was missing.
Ursula’s observations were suddenly interrupted by the sound of footsteps and a voice. She quickly jumped up from the floor and looked around to see Dr. Dave breezily entering the room, holding a stack of history books. He shut the door behind him and acknowledged Ursula, nodding his head to her. He then opened the book on the top of the pile and quoted from it dramatically.
“‘Blood defileth the land, and the land cannot be cleansed of the blood that is shed therein, but by the blood of him that shed it,’” he read aloud.
“Blood?!” she interjected, desperate to explain about the blood situation on the chaise longue. “Dr. Dave—”
But he continued: “Blood indeed! Blood for blood! That was how Ludlow—a Fifth Monarchy fanatic—saw the world. Now, your essay question for the week, Miss Flowerbutton.”
“Dr. Dave, erm, I think, well—that’s India Brattenbury,” said Ursula, gesturing at the body under the blanket.
“A not unusual occurrence,” he replied with a sly grin, and prodded India’s leg. Ignoring the fact that she didn’t respond, Dr. Dave motioned to Ursula to sit in an armchair, impatient to start the tutorial.
“But—” she started.
“Just listen please, Miss Flowerbutton,” he said. “Your moment to speak will come. Now, the Scottish Covenanters. After the Reformation, there is little doubt—”
Dr. Dave stopped abruptly and wrinkled his nose. Like a dog following a scent, he soon found himself staring at Otto’s pile of puke.
“If India parked that custard on my Persian rug—”
A rap at the door interrupted his flow. Dr. Dave sighed. His eyes zipped to the top of their sockets and seemed to stick there—such was his annoyance. “Come in,” he called.
Ursula jumped up from the armchair to see Deddington entering the room.
“Deddington? Something urgent? I’m in a tutorial with Miss Flowerbutton.”
“Yes, very sorry to interrupt you, Dr. Erskine, but it has been brought to my attention that Lady India Brattenbury may be on your chaise longue.”
“Standard procedure,” replied Dr. Dave. “Most mornings there’s a student asleep on my chaise longue. They’re usually able to snooze through the first two tutorials of the morning if they got really drunk the night before. Anyway, since you’ve interrupted me, Deddington, can you make yourself useful and get my scout up here early to remove that?”
Dr. Dave pointed at the yellowing, stinking pile of sick on the floor. It was too complicated at this point, Ursula felt, to explain that Otto Schuffenecker was to blame and not India.
“Absolutely, Dr. Erskine,” agreed Deddington. “But Lady India—”
Just then Otto burst in.
Dr. Dave’s face turned puce with annoyance. “Otto, if you are here to tell me that your next essay is going to be late, come back never!” he snapped.
“It’s India,” said Otto, looking shaken.
“I am well aware that India Brattenbury is asleep on my chaise longue,” Dr. Dave barked.
“But she’s not asleep!” screeched Otto.
“Well, it doesn’t take a doctorate in Aristotelian syllogistic logic from Oxford University to see that the girl’s plainly not awake. Which leads me to deduce that the only other thing she could possibly be is asleep,” said the tutor.
“Or . . . dead,” howled Otto, collapsing on the tartan sofa and shaking uncontrollably.
“Otto, you are clearly under the influence of a hallucinogenic drug!” barked Dr. Dave. “Right, Miss Flowerbutton,” he continued, ignoring Otto’s shivering frame. “After the Reformation, the Scottish—”
“Dr. Dave,” said Ursula, desperate. “Please listen!”
Profoundly fed up by this point, he growled, “What is it now, Miss Flowerbutton?”
“I’m afraid Otto’s right,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “India’s dead.”
Finally, Dr. Dave directed his gaze back towards the chaise longue, walked over to the mound, and put his hand on India’s back, as though to check her breathing. When he got no response, he walked around to the back of the sofa and looked at India’s face. Slowly, he lifted the Turkish rug from the girl’s neck. Shocked, he clutched at his forehead. “My God! Deddington, go and inform the high provost of the situation.”
The porter dashed out of the room while Ursula, Otto, and Dr. Dave stood in appalled silence.
Finally, Dr. Dave said, “Right. Try to remain calm. Ursula, despite the tragic circumstances of our tutorial today, your priority is writing your first essay this week. You may not be able to imagine it now, but work will take your mind off this frightful discovery you have made. So let’s not waste these few minutes of uninterrupted tutorial time before the high provost arrives. Why don’t you start with S. A. Burrell’s article in the Scottish Historical Review. Volume forty-three. Burrell wrote a very famous piece in 1964 called “The Apocalyptic Vision of the Early Covenanters.” Tell me why his argument’s wrong. I’ll look forward to hearing you read out your essay this time next week.”
Ursula took a deep breath. She did need to calm down, or she’d be no help to anyone, least of all herself. Deciding not to admit that she had no idea what an “Early Covenanter” might be, she scribbled the title of the article on her notepad. As she did so, she heard Dr. Dave utter the most awful retching sound. Ursula looked up. Dr. Dave had parked his own custard next to Otto’s.
Alas, she thought wistfully. Today hasn’t been very Brideshead Revisited at all.
Chapter 8
Ten minutes or so after Julius Scrope, the high provost, was alerted to the grisly situation, he appeared in Dr. Dave’s rooms, with Deddington at his side. Ursula observed that High Provost Scrope, a Christminster alumnus who had famously made his fortune as a corporate raider, was dressed today as though he were attending a city board meeting. His slicked-back hair, dapper pinstripe suit, and silvery tie were far flashier attire than was required in the world of academia.
Eyeing Ursula and Otto suspiciously, he took in the scene and summed up the situation as a “Nasty, nasty, er
. . . accident” before asking Deddington to call an ambulance.
“Right, sir. Please send my condolences to His Lordship,” said Deddington, leaving the room.
“I will,” replied Scrope. He then turned to Dr. Dave, saying regretfully, “I’ll have the unhappy task of informing the girl’s father this morning.” Then, as though thinking aloud, he added, “God knows what this means for the legacy.”
“What?” asked Dr. Dave suddenly.
“Oh. Oh, nothing. Nothing whatsoever,” replied Scrope curtly.
“How could anyone call this an accident?” Ursula whispered to Otto while Scrope ushered Dr. Dave to a far corner of the room, where they now consulted in low voices. “I’m going to say something.” She steeled herself. “Excuse me for interrupting, High Provost, but . . . perhaps we should call the police? I mean, in case it’s not ‘an accident’—”
“Miss—?”
“Flowerbutton,” Ursula informed him.
“As I was saying, Miss Flowerbutton. This is clearly a tragic . . . ahem . . . accident and that is the way the authorities will no doubt see it. Now, thank you for your help, but I do suggest that this environment is not suitable for undergraduates and perhaps you and Mr. . . . ?”
“Prince,” said Otto.
“Mr. Prince, thank you, should be getting on with your academic work. And, don’t say anything to anyone about the sad circumstances this morning, eh? There is a vast fortune at stake and the press mustn’t get a whisper of this. We must respect the . . . er . . . privacy of the Brattenbury family at this tragic time.”
The two undergraduates nodded, as they were clearly expected to, and exited the room. At the bottom of the staircase, they stood and looked at each other, both in some kind of shock.