by Plum Sykes
“Prince,” Ursula corrected him.
“Eh?” The DI frowned.
“It’s Prince Otto Schuffenecker. He’s an Austrian royal—at least he would have been if they hadn’t abolished them after the First World War. He gets very offended if anyone calls him mister.”
“Right, er . . . thank you. So you were saying, this prince fellow, he’s gone down to the lodge to alert the porter?
“Yes, and—”
But Trott’s attention had been diverted. “Hello, Doc!” he exclaimed, signaling to a very tall white-haired gentleman who had just entered the JCR.
“Who’s that?” asked Ursula.
“Home Office pathologist,” replied Trott. “Dr. Euan Rathdonelly. Everyone just calls him Doc.”
Despite his advancing years, Doc, who was dressed in an immaculate Prince of Wales–check suit, strode energetically across the room towards Ursula and Trott. He possessed the sort of pink-cheeked vigor and beaming demeanor of the jolly headmaster Ursula had so adored at pre-prep school. His elegance was marred only by an ungainly black duffel bag weighing down his left shoulder.
“Marvelous murder you’ve got here!” declared Doc gaily, sounding like a cheerfully excited father who’s just watched his child in their school pantomime. “I had a quick peek. Hope you don’t mind.”
“All right to get on?” asked Trott, shaking Doc’s hand warmly.
“Right away,” the pathologist replied.
He plonked the duffel bag on the floor, unzipped it, and retrieved a pair of Wellington boots, a large leather apron, and some black rubber gloves. By the time he had put the items on over his Savile Row suit and lit a cigar, he looked, thought Ursula, like an upmarket butcher. Next he rifled around in the duffel and retrieved swabs, tweezers, and a few plastic bags, revealing the sharp blade of a scalpel glinting from inside the holdall. Ursula gulped.
“Right, miss, you stayed in the room while your friend went down to the porter’s lodge. Correct?” Trott continued.
“Yes,” replied Ursula. “And while I was waiting, that’s when Dr. Dave arrived. He was due to give me my first tutorial on—”
She stopped, noticing from the corner of one eye that an officer was clearing away the remains of Claire Potter’s tragic Crosswords and Ice Cream party. Ursula jumped up from her chair and dashed across the room towards the table beneath the Gothic windows.
“Wait!” she gasped. “Don’t move a thing!”
A rather surprised-looking officer froze, a pot of melted ice cream in one hand and a black trash bag in the other. “Sir?”
“Miss, I’d appreciate it if we could continue with your statement,” responded Trott, impatiently checking his watch.
“But—the ice cream—it’s a clue,” said Ursula.
An agitated Trott harrumphed, “Cool it, Nancy Drew.” (Ursula was secretly flattered by Trott’s remark. After all, when it came to girl detectives, Nancy Drew was her heroine.)
“Trott, just a minute,” Doc said, bounding over to where Ursula was standing. “If there’s a clue in the ice cream, I would like to know what it is.”
Trott’s usually stony face twitched very slightly with irritation, and he looked at Ursula coldly. Then he turned to his tape recorder and stated for the record, “Interview temporarily suspended. Witness believes there is something of significance in . . . ice cream.”
Frowning, he turned off the tape recorder and headed over to the table beneath the Gothic windows. He indicated to the officer that he should return the pot of melted ice cream to its former position.
Ursula seized the moment.
“It’s not exactly in the ice cream, this clue,” she stammered excitedly, “but, look, if you sit down here . . .”
She slid into one of the two chairs that had been drawn up to the table, with the two empty tubs of ice cream in front of them. From the corner of her eye, she saw Trott raise an eyebrow skeptically.
“. . . you can see that someone sat here while they were eating ice cream,” she continued, pointing out the two pots on the left-hand side of the table, which were, indeed, scraped clean. Each tub would have contained enough ice cream for one person. The pink plastic spoon that Ursula had noticed earlier was still resting inside one of them. “But no one touched the pots at the other end of the table, they’re full of melted ice cream—”
Trott rapped his fingers impatiently on the tabletop, but, undaunted, Ursula continued.
“You see, Claire Potter—a Fresher—held her first Crosswords and Ice Cream Society party in here last night. But it looks like only one other person came, because Claire sat here, with that person, and, well, they ate one small pot of ice cream each.”
Trott sighed. “Shall we get back to the interview now, miss?”
“Sorry. I’m not being clear,” said Ursula. “If you were sitting here last night, eating ice cream, perhaps all alone, waiting for someone, or perhaps with someone . . . well, anyway, look!”
From her seat, she pointed through the tall Gothic windows and out towards the lawn of Great Quad below.
Trott reluctantly squatted beside her. “Nice view,” he said curtly.
“Whoever was here could see exactly who was coming and going across Great Quad all evening.”
“In the dark?” said Trott.
“It was a full moon last night,” she said. “Beautiful and bright. India was at a party in the Old Drawing Room—I know because I saw her there—which is almost directly across the quad from here. At some point she must have crossed it to get to Dr. Dave’s rooms. Whoever was sitting in these chairs might have seen her.”
Trott looked at Doc and jerked his head to him. They moved off for a moment and conferred in low voices.
Within minutes, an officer was dispatched to track down and interview Claire Potter, and the police photographer was summoned from Dr. Dave’s rooms to the JCR. After the photographer had snapped photographs of the table, chairs, and ice cream tubs, Doc used a pair of tweezers to place the used tubs and single plastic spoon in clear bags and label them. Officers started delicately dusting the table and chairs with powder for fingerprints. A cigar wedged into the side of his mouth, Doc then headed off into Dr. Dave’s rooms to examine India’s body.
“I think you’d better tell me all about this party,” Trott said to Ursula.
“Of course,” she said. “It was lovely. It was Wenty’s party. Lord Wentworth Wychwood. He’s a Second Year. Rowing Blue. That’s why he has the Old Drawing Room, it’s a privilege for Blues. He’s terribly pleased with himself, being an earl and Blue—you can imagine, Inspector.”
Trott concurred. “I know the type.”
“Anyway, the party was, I suppose, a sort of first-night-of-term thing, everyone in white tie and ball gowns.”
“Very nice,” commented Trott tartly.
“Yes, Detective, it was heavenly, I mean, there were pink bonbons and matching pink champagne. My American classmate Nancy thought it was very unhygienic that Wenty—that’s Lord Wychwood’s nickname—used dirty champagne saucers because his washer-uppers had disappeared. Nancy’s from New York, so she’s terrified of mono.”
“You say this, er”—Trott looked down at his notes—“Lord Wychwood served alcohol in champagne saucers?”
“Yes,” said Ursula.
“Only saucers, not flutes? Or wineglasses?” asked Trott.
“Saucers. I’m sure of it. Wenty is far too much of a snob to use flutes.”
Trott beckoned an officer over. “Track down a Lord Wentworth Wychwood for interview. He’s a Second Year here. Person of Interest.”
“Yes, sir,” said the officer, dashing off.
“Oh, you don’t think—Wenty?!” Ursula gasped, the horrible image of India’s bloody neck zooming back into her mind. “He was in love with India, he wouldn’t want to . . .”
“So Wenty was Lady India’s boyfriend?” continued the DI. “Oh dear me . . . that makes him a Person of Great Interest.”
Ursula’s mind sud
denly flashed back to Trott’s earlier comment. What had he said? “Look close to home. It’s usually the husband or the boyfriend.” But Wenty? Ursula suddenly found herself feeling defensive.
“I don’t think he’d ever harm her. Wenty genuinely cared about India.”
“How do you know?”
“When she got upset about something—” here Ursula paused. Instinct told her it wouldn’t be wise to elaborate on India’s reaction to hearing Wentworth call another girl Unforgettable. “—and ran out of the party, he chased after her.”
As Trott scribbled his notes, Ursula noticed the door to the JCR being slowly pushed open. First, a very large bottom came into view, then an enormous tea trolley containing a huge, steaming tea urn and piles of cups and saucers. The owner of the significant bottom, a pudgy boy dressed in cheap bleached jeans, an anorak, and an old pair of grubby sneakers, dragged the trolley all the way into the room. He was followed by a group of six students clutching clipboards, posters, drawing pins, and various lists.
“. . . you see, this is why I am not happy about First Years holding events in here. What a mess!” the pudgy boy was complaining loudly, seeing the table still covered in pots of melted ice cream. “And guess who gets to clear up? Yours truly, the JCR president.”
“Your committee will help,” volunteered a girl dressed in a tie-dyed tunic and clogs, with a ring through her nose and long, matted blond dreadlocks. She grabbed a bin bag from the bottom of the trolley and started chucking the pots into it.
An officer dashed forward. “Excuse me, miss, please don’t touch those.”
Seeing his uniform, the girl backed away from the table and twisted a dreadlock nervously. Trott stood and strode over to the interlopers, saying, “I’m afraid you can’t come in here.”
The pudgy boy drew himself up to his full height, summoning all the courage he could muster.
“Sorry, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m Ben Braithwaite, JCR president,” he said, then paused, as though waiting for some kind of recognition of his authority from Trott. None was forthcoming.
“Anyway, I—well, we—the JCR committee, have this room booked from four till six for the Freshers’ Tea,” Ben went on, trying to sound as official as he could.
“I’m Detective Inspector Trott. Thames Valley Police Criminal Investigation Department. Unfortunately, a homicide has taken place in college today. We’re using this space as a temporary incident room.”
Ben and his committee looked appalled.
“So it’s true? A murder? In college? I thought it was just people starting silly rumors,” said Ben.
“I’m heading up the inquiry,” replied Trott.
“Oh. What a shock.” Ben seemed stunned for a moment, then looked at his watch. “Problem is, eighty Freshers are due to arrive here in . . . gosh . . . less than five minutes . . . to meet their College Parents. Detective, I’m afraid there’s not much I can do about that now.”
“Detective Inspector,” added the dreadlocked girl with a pleading look, “it is crucial for the welfare of the Freshers that they each have a College Mother and Father.”
Trott raised his eyebrows and sighed. “All right, get on with it,” he huffed. “I’m going to clear our lot out of here. We need to get a proper incident room set up down at the station anyway.”
Ben nodded gratefully and reached down to the bottom tier of the tea trolley, from where he procured a plate piled high with dry-looking cookies.
“Custard cream, Detective?”
For the first time, Ursula detected the glimpse of a smile on Trott’s face.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, gobbling one down. “And I’ll have a cup of tea while you’re at it.”
Ben hurriedly produced one, and after a few gulps, looking satisfied, Trott told Ursula, “Right, Miss Flowerbutton. I’m going to suspend my interview with you for now. I’ll want to talk to you again, most likely. Don’t leave Oxford without letting me know.”
Thank goodness, she thought to herself. The interview session had been surprisingly tiring. She still had so much to do today: she needed to get to the library after the tea and find the article Dr. Dave had assigned, get to Jago’s room by six for her editorial meeting with him, and then back to her room and spend the evening reading, as planned.
While the JCR committee prepared for the tea party, Ursula perched on one of the windowsills overlooking Great Quad. Her mind was whirring, and she hastily jotted a few notes on her pad:
—India crossed Great Quad last night. Her white dress and tiara would have been hard to miss in the moonlight. If Claire Potter and her mysterious ice-cream-eating companion had seen her, could they have followed India into Dr. Dave’s rooms?
—But why would Claire Potter, or her unknown friend, have any interest in disposing of India Brattenbury—
Ursula suddenly stopped writing. The tiara! What on earth had happened to the tiara?
Chapter 12
Monday, 1st Week: Teatime
The clank of cheap teacups interrupted Ursula’s cogitations. She looked up from her notebook. The police team had started to relocate from the JCR, but she had to speak to Trott before he left. She speedily weaved her way through the bewildered-looking Freshers who were gradually filling the room and helping themselves to cups of tea.
“Excuse me, Detective Inspector,” Ursula said, spotting him by the door. “There’s something I forgot to tell you. India was wearing a tiara at the party—pearls and diamonds, I think it was some sort of family heirloom—but it wasn’t with her this morning when I found her.”
“Hmmmm,” Trott mused. “We’ll investigate.”
After he left, Ursula joined a group of Freshers clustered around a trestle table where the tea urn had been set up along with plates of custard cream biscuits and a few packets of malted milks. She grabbed a cup, sighing wistfully to herself as she sipped the overstewed PG Tips. The JCR tea wasn’t exactly the comforting gateaux fest she’d been hoping for. Still, she hadn’t eaten since breakfast and was starving. She devoured a cookie.
While the tea got under way, Ben Braithwaite and the dreadlocked girl pinned an elaborate family tree on the JCR notice board. Maybe, Ursula mused, it would be fun to have a mother and father for a change. Having said that, her friends at St. Swerford’s had only ever mentioned their own parents with an agonized roll of the eyes and pretense at vomiting.
Ursula wandered over to the family tree to learn her fate, and saw that the dreadlocked girl was now pinning up a garish orange poster on the board next to it. In large, black lettering it screamed:
STRESS?! ANXIETY? DEPRESSION?
SPEAK TO YOUR WELFARE OFFICER
Beneath the words were grainy black-and-white headshots of the girl along with Ben Braithwaite and the rest of the JCR committee. Already, Ursula noticed, the welfare officers were hungrily prowling the room, as though each was hoping to be the first to land a Fresher who was suffering from Stress! Anxiety! or Depression!
The Freshers did not seem to have been afflicted by the aforementioned psychological conditions. Rather, they had been struck by a highly contagious case of Murder in the Dark. The news of India’s death had clearly spread rapidly through the college already. The Freshers were jittery, but the death had also added a frisson of excitement to things. The possibility that any one of the students standing in the JCR at that moment could be next had brought a heightened sense of drama to their first week at Oxford. The questions that usually dominated these events—Where did you go to school? What subject are you studying? Did you take a gap year?—were replaced by darker gossip. As Ursula scanned the family tree for her name, she overheard ever more hysterical outbursts among the Freshers around her.
. . . I heard a Third Year say she was queen of the Yars. Must have been a lefty who did it . . .
. . . thirty-five stab wounds, she was unrecognizable, apparently . . .
. . . strangled. A homeless drunk broke into the don’s rooms looking for port and
throttled her with baler twine . . .
Ursula turned her attention back to the family tree, an extraordinarily detailed diagram of College Mothers, Fathers, Sons, Daughters, and even Grandparents. It took Ursula ages to find her name, positioned next to those of her siblings. She had two “brothers”—Paul Davies, Medicine, and Matt Owen, Geography. Her “sister” was Claire Potter.
Ursula traced the line upwards to her parents. Her “father,” it turned out, was Ben Braithwaite, the JCR president. He seemed perfectly nice, if a bit officious. Finally her finger landed on the name of her “mother”—someone named Jocasta Wright.
The dreadlocked girl, who had now finished putting up her welfare sheet, looked over at Ursula and said, “Man! I’m your mum!”
Jocasta Wright then enveloped her in an enormous hug, nearly suffocating her. She reeked so strongly of joss sticks that Ursula sneezed violently.
“Sorry!” she said, extricating herself from Jocasta and her tie-dyed tunic.
“No, don’t be. I don’t want you to be sorry for anything. That’s like a total waste of head space. I’m here for you, man. Great, man,” Jocasta said in a low, languorous voice.
“Thank you,” said Ursula sincerely.
“No, man, don’t thank me. It’s my duty to be here for you. My College Mum . . .” Jocasta broke off and looked wistful. “She was, yeah, totally uninterested. I met her at the tea and never saw her again. But I’m going to be a proper mother to you, I promise.”
What did that entail? Ursula wondered.
“So, right, any probs, I’m here. I’m chairperson of the OSSTDAC—sorry, that stands for the Oxford Student Sexually Transmitted Diseases Advisory Committee—so any worries on that front, honestly, you can talk to me. In confidence. Herpes, VD, AIDS, contraception, abortion, family planning clinics . . . Personally, I prefer the coil to the Pill . . .”