by Plum Sykes
“God,” said Otto. “Mister!”
“Otto!” scolded Ursula. “What are we going to do?”
The two of them stood in silence for a few moments, as though in mourning. Then Otto said, “You know what you were asking me earlier?”
“What?” asked Ursula.
“About the Gridiron Club. I nominated you as a Potential Babe when we were deciding which girls to invite to the party.”
“God, Otto, you are so shallow!” she admonished him. “This is not the moment to be thinking about parties.”
He looked thoroughly embarrassed. “Sorry, you’re completely right. It must be the shock of everything.” Then he said, hopefully, “You will come, though?”
* * *
CHERWELL, EST. 1920 read the shiny brass plaque positioned on the white-rendered wall of an old Tudor cottage in the city center. Underneath, someone had stuck a Post-it note on which they had scrawled the words “Editorial meeting—third floor.” Ursula rested her bicycle against a pile of others propped along the wall, locked it, and pushed open a tiny, creaky medieval door studded with enormous iron nails. It led into a wonkily cobbled courtyard with a rickety staircase on the left. She headed up and soon found herself at Cherwell HQ—an unnecessarily formal description for a couple of cramped attic rooms, a loo, and a corridor piled with old copies of the student newspaper.
Ursula hadn’t known what to do with herself that morning. On the one hand, anxiety and fear overwhelmed her, as her mind kept flashing back to the sight of India’s bloody, wounded neck. On the other, she found herself behaving in incredibly ordinary ways. It felt peculiar, almost surreal, to be buying a midmorning Kit Kat from the vending machine in Kitchen Quad. She watched with a sort of dazed amazement as other students chatted, argued, and smoked as though it was a perfectly average Monday morning. Death, Ursula realized, did not interrupt the humdrum business of life, or the eating of Kit Kats.
As she munched on her chocolate, Ursula wondered what her grannies would do in her situation. Vain Granny would certainly have taken to her boudoir for at least a week. But Plain Granny would have remained unbowed. As she had told Ursula throughout her childhood, in difficult situations the only thing to do was Keep Going. (This advice was regularly interchanged with “Kick On,” a phrase Plain Granny would screech loudly at complete strangers on the hunting field.) Ursula would Keep Going. However unsettled she felt, she must stick to her original plans for Monday, like the Cherwell meeting she’d signed up for. She needed something, anything, to help distract her, even temporarily, from the horrific scene that morning.
Determined to be as professional as possible, Ursula had brought her old school satchel, in which she had carefully arranged a yellow legal pad, a reporter’s notebook, and several pens and newly sharpened pencils. Her heart beating fast with anticipation, she squeezed her way along the corridor towards the sound of voices coming from one of the attic rooms. She peered shyly round the doorway, and took in her first glimpse of the Cherwell offices. The main editorial room, with its low, sloping ceilings, cracked magnolia paint, and institutional-looking, tatty blue carpet, was shabbier than Ursula had expected. But she could just glimpse the sparkling Oxford rooftops from two cobweb-covered dormer windows that looked out north over the city.
Along one side of the room a beaten-up collection of desks and tables, piled with the detritus of student journalism, had been pushed against the wall. Bliss, she sighed to herself as she took in the sight of the surfaces overflowing with stacks of black-and-white photographs, old magazines, newspapers, rough layouts, pencil sharpenings, empty crisp packets, stained tea mugs, and Coca-Cola cans. A couple of prehistoric-looking typewriters peeked out from under the mess. To Ursula, it was a paradise of creative chaos.
A gaggle of students—Second and Third Year writers and editors, Ursula assumed, and mainly boys, she couldn’t help noticing with a frisson of excitement—was grouped round a large layout table in the center of the room. They were leafing through back issues of the newspaper, gossiping like mad while consuming cigarettes and mugs of tea at a rate of knots. She spotted Horatio, legs crossed, perched on a high stool with a smoldering Sobranie cigarette (purple, naturally) in one hand and Interview magazine in the other. As Ursula wandered in, he looked up and blew her an extravagant kiss. Oh God, she thought, Horatio doesn’t know yet. He’s been here all morning, and no one’s told him what happened to India.
Over the next few minutes, a dozen or so wannabe Fresher journalists arrived and drifted hesitantly to the farthest corner of the room, where they clustered in a nervous huddle. Ursula smiled shyly at the other students as she wandered over. No one smiled back: there was an atmosphere of unspoken but intense competition.
Eventually, an auburn-headed boy with the lanky proportions of a stick insect stood up. He had a black hardback notebook in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other. Dressed in drainpipe jeans and a maroon sweatshirt with the words “Magdalen College” emblazoned across the front, he also wore clunky Clark Kent–style glasses and had a layer of soft, pale pink fluff on his chin, as though he had not quite developed real stubble yet. The students around the table quieted down as he began to speak.
“Hello. Right. Yup. Er. Well . . .” He scratched his head, as though he had forgotten what he was going to say. “Er, yup, what I mean is, I’m Jago Summers and, erm . . . I’m the editor . . . of Cherwell . . . this term. Yup.”
He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, as though pondering his next move. The group waited expectantly. Jago took another drag. By his third drag of the Marlboro Red, he was ready to continue.
“Right, yup, yup! Sorry. Freshers,” he said, aiming a long gaze at the group of wannabe writers in the corner, “first of all, let me warn you, many of you will be disappointed today. Not for one reason, but many. We are generous with our allocation of misery here.”
The Freshers giggled, but more out of fear than real amusement.
“Er, yup, so your first problem: there is a strict hierarchy here at Cherwell. Even though, well, I really hate hierarchies, they’re completely anachronistic, but, er, I mean, that’s sort of the way it is, right?”
“Apparently his nickname is Vague-o,” whispered a Fresher behind Ursula. The group stifled their chuckles.
“. . . so, it’s like, each section has an editor, and each section has, like, a deputy section editor, and under them, feature writers, leader writers, copy editors, subeditors. And, I mean, it’s really hard, but no one gets to write for a section until they have written for news. By which I mean, forget about writing about anything glamorous like arts or movies until you have cut your teeth on local news issues, and local news issues include such intriguing matters as the allocation of, like, public toilets on Cornmarket or the fate of the rotting beams in the ceiling of Wadham’s Great Hall. Woodward and Bernstein did not start out with Watergate as their first story.”
Ursula noticed two Fresher students pick up their bags and attempt to slip out of the meeting unnoticed. Jago waved one stick insect arm at them. “I totally get it if the whole hierarchy thing’s getting to you,” he called after them as they left. Then to everyone else, he added, “Sad, really sad. Right, the next disappointment I would like to announce is that not all of you will get to write something every issue. Anyone else want to leave?”
He glared at the group of deflated Freshers. No one moved a muscle.
“Okay, awesome. The next tragedy is that even if you are lucky enough to be commissioned and actually write something, it will probably be killed.”
Ursula and the other Freshers, severely intimidated by now, didn’t dare ask what he meant by “killed.” But their mystified faces prompted Jago to pick up a sheet of text off the layout table, scrumple it into a ball, and aim it correctly at the bin.
“Oh, right,” gulped Ursula.
“In fact, it will take most of you an average of four or five attempts at stories before one gets run,” said Jago.
“Harsh,” m
urmured the Fresher standing beside Ursula.
“Right, let’s allocate some stories,” the editor continued. “Usual procedure is that anyone who’s interested in writing something, just put your hand up.”
A scruffy young man dressed in baggy shorts and a sweatshirt that read “Hertford College Ultimate Frisbee” on the front and “Fear the Deer” on the back grabbed a piece of chalk and headed over to the large blackboard propped in the corner of the room.
“Everyone, this is Michael, our managing editor,” said Jago.
“Yeah,” said Michael while frantically leafing through a notebook for article ideas. He then scribbled a list of upcoming stories on the blackboard. Ursula scanned the list for something she might be able to volunteer for. Among many other topics, she read:
—Trinity students steal boat club megaphone to shout abuse at Japanese tourists
—Ancient Philosophy don at Pembroke resigns to become plumber
—Emperor Hirohito’s grandson seen doing own washing on first day at Merton College after bodyguard shows him how to use machine
—First woman fellow elected at All Souls after 545 years
As Jago read each idea out loud, pretty much every hand in the room went up. I don’t stand a chance, thought Ursula. Only one idea was allocated to a Fresher—the story of a cat who had given birth to three kittens in the Jesus College organ.
“Right, don’t worry if you didn’t get a story,” said Jago as he came to the end of the list. “There’ll be other chances. If you did get a story, congratulations. You may come and use the typewriters here in the office at any time. There’s only one rule. The deadline for all stories is ten o’clock on Sunday mornings, we go to print on Sunday afternoon, publish on Mondays. Anyone who misses the deadline gets fired. Meanwhile, keep an eye out for stories. Sometimes things that don’t seem like news turn into a great story. Do your trawls . . .”
“What are trawls?” asked a ballsy Fresher.
“Sorry,” said Jago. “A trawl is fishing for information. Everyone needs to make at least three visits a week to someone important in their college or the university societies to talk to them, get the gossip—”
“And speaking of gossip,” interrupted Horatio, “proper gossip comes straight to me. I’m Horatio Bentley and I’m writing the gossip column—John Evelyn’s Diary.* So if you hear any tales of backstabbing, debauchery, misdemeanors, drunkenness, inappropriate sex—well, you can find me in the Bodleian Library most mornings or in my rooms at Christminster College at tea times. Right now the hunt is on for Pushy Fresher of the Week. If you have any suggestions for candidates for the most odious and offensive First Year in the university, be so kind as to let me know.”
“Thanks, Horatio,” said Jago. “Right—”
He was interrupted by the arrival of a breathless girl wearing a CND T-shirt and cutoff denim shorts and tights. She had turquoise hair and a ring through her nose.
“Late again, Karen,” huffed Jago. “Everyone, this is Karen Porter, our news editor.”
“Jago, I’ve got something,” said Karen, ignoring his irritation. “There’s a rumor that a male undergraduate died this morning at Christminster. Some kind of accident.”
“What? Who?” cried Horatio.
“No names yet,” replied Karen.
“Shit,” said Jago. “The story’s yours.”
Should she say something? Ursula wondered. She knew the high provost had forbidden her and Otto from talking about India’s death, but clearly, everyone was going to know about it sooner or later. If she was going to be a Cherwell writer, she could hardly hold back information that might be crucial to a story. In the name of Truth, of Proper Journalism, of Full Disclosure (and a teensy bit for the sake of Personal Ambition, if she was being totally honest), she must make Jago aware of Karen Porter’s mistake. If Woodward and Bernstein hadn’t stuck up for The Truth, well . . . it didn’t bear thinking about. Gingerly, Ursula raised her hand.
No one noticed.
“Excuse me,” she said.
Jago looked at her quizzically. “Yup?”
“Well, it’s just, I think I may have some information relevant to the Christminster story.”
Karen Porter frowned. I don’t need help from some Fresher, her expression seemed to say. If Jago sensed her displeasure, he chose to ignore it.
“Go on,” he said, his full attention now focused on Ursula.
“Well, the dead undergraduate, in fact, it was a girl.”
“How do you know?” asked Karen with a scowl.
“I found the body.”
There was a shocked silence. Ursula soon realized that twenty or so faces were staring at her expectantly. But she knew she shouldn’t say much more now.
“Great scoop,” said Jago. “Right, er, what’s your name?”
“Ursula Flowerbutton.”
“I like it. Good name for a writer. Ursula, I’m reallocating the story to you.”
“But it’s Karen’s story . . .” Ursula started to say. She’d only wanted to help the news editor, not snatch her scoop.
“You’re at Christminster. It makes sense for you to do this story, Ursula. Karen’s got plenty else to do, haven’t you.” It wasn’t a question.
Karen smiled a little too brightly. “Yeah, loads,” she replied.
“Okay, thanks, everyone, I look forward to receiving your copy at the end of 1st Week,” said Jago, dismissing the meeting. “Ursula, Horatio, wait behind please.”
As the other students were leaving, Horatio dashed up to Ursula. “Someone died in college? Who?”
“It’s India.” Ursula could hardly bear to say what she knew she had to. “She’s dead.”
Horatio whitened. He gulped, unable to speak.
Jago shut the office door after the last of the students and editors had left.
“Did you say India?” he asked. “India Brattenbury is dead? That pretty, posh, actressy girl? What happened to her?”
Ursula could barely hold back tears as she told Jago and Horatio about finding India’s lifeless body on the chaise longue, the slit across her throat.
Horatio shook his head in disbelief. “Oh God,” he whispered sadly.
“I don’t think it was an accident,” said Ursula.
“You’re saying this is a murder?!” said Jago, almost hyperventilating with glee. “Ursula, this could be huge for Cherwell. You and I need to have a meeting. Why don’t we meet tonight? Somewhere private. Somewhere like . . . my rooms. Come to Magdalen at six. My room’s in the cloisters.”
Horatio lit another cigarette, took a long drag, and regained his composure. He then pursed his lips, cocked his head to one side, and stared dubiously at Jago, who ignored him, saying, “We can discuss the piece. The tone. Your reporting skills. How to cover a police investigation . . . that sort of thing.”
“I’ll be there,” said Ursula.
“I think you may well need a chaperone,” suggested Horatio, raising one eyebrow archly.
“Horatio, don’t even think about nicking this story off Ursula,” Jago informed him. “It’s hers. Officially.”
“No need to worry about that, I’d much rather stick to the party reporting. Crime’s not my style—not enough champagne or gossip on offer. I was just thinking that Ursula may need a companion at her meeting with you tonight,” said Horatio.
Jago crossed his arms. “Sometimes I wish you’d naff off and stop interfering, you old queen.”
“I take enormous offense at that homophobic slur,” retorted Horatio. “I am not an old queen. I’m a young one.”
Chapter 9
Monday, 1st Week: Lunchtime
Brideshead, bonbons, cucumber sandwiches—and now a murder. Ursula’s sepia-hued fantasy of Oxford had been dramatically interrupted by India’s death. After bidding farewell to Horatio and Jago, she sped back to Christminster on her bicycle, her brain buzzing with questions. For now, the Cherwell assignment had done the trick—her fearful mood was, if not dissipated, edg
ing to the back of her mind for the moment. Although she had intended to spend the afternoon in the library, she was soon diverted from her plan: the sight of an ambulance parked at an acute angle on the apron in front of Christminster called for immediate investigation. She threw her bicycle against the college railings, grabbed her satchel, and dashed into the gate tower.
A small group of somber-looking students stood gazing at the ambulance and talking to each other in low tones. Ursula caught snatches of their conversation.
“. . . Apparently it’s a Second Year . . .”
“. . . Some kind of accident . . . Wentworth Wychwood’s Opening Jaunt . . .”
“. . . Blood all over the walls . . .”
The group suddenly fell silent as Julius Scrope, accompanied by two paramedics, came into view. Head down, he was marching determinedly along the cloister towards the gate tower, his heels clicking against the stone flags, the medics barely able to keep up with his snappy pace.
“. . . I am afraid, High Provost,” Ursula heard one of them saying, as they came closer, “we will need to alert the police now. We have delayed far too long this morning already—”
“There’s no need for the police, surely?” Scrope looked agitated. “The, ahem . . . disruption to undergraduates. Work. Police crawling all over the college—not conducive to academic studies. The dons would never allow it. I think it would be more . . . civilized to take her straight to hospital.”
“No can do, sir,” said the other paramedic, rather too gleefully, thought Ursula, as he and his colleague followed Scrope under the cloister.
The provost stopped beneath the gate tower. It was only then that he noticed the small audience of undergraduates gathered there, who were clearly enjoying the proceedings immensely. He glowered at them.
“I presume you are all en route to lectures or the library,” said Scrope.
The group rapidly dispersed, while Ursula, from her spot in the shadows, slipped unnoticed into the porter’s lodge, conveniently forgetting to completely close the door. Feigning an unnaturally keen interest in the hockey fixtures on the notice board, she listened as the negotiations between the high provost and the paramedics became more fraught.