by Plum Sykes
As Jocasta listed the various diseases and unwanted outcomes of sex that might afflict her during her time at Christminster, Ursula wondered what her student “mother” would think if she admitted—which Ursula had no intention of doing—that she was a virgin, and a very innocent one at that.
The nearest Ursula had come to sex was a French kiss with her second cousin Reggie Vernon-Hay in the attic at Seldom Seen Farm one Christmas. The snog had occurred more out of Ursula’s sense of desperation than any real attraction. After all, she had reached the age of fifteen and never kissed a boy. This was not out of reluctance, but rather a supply issue. Boys were thin on the ground if you attended an all-girls school and lived on a remote farm with elderly relatives. Snogging Reggie was, for Ursula, the only way she was going to pass the vital First Kiss milestone before she turned sixteen. Otherwise, she feared, she would be doomed to end up like one of Jane Austen’s lonely spinster characters, crocheting doilies in an ivy-strangled cottage.
Despite Ursula concluding, post-snog, that the experience of touching tongues with a boy was only marginally less revolting than that of swallowing the lumpy school mashed potatoes that were served with most of Swerford’s horrid school dinners, she was excited that she had finally snogged someone. Even if it was her cousin, which was sort of incesty, it still counted.
When it came to sex, Plain Granny (a Catholic, strict) had attempted to instill into her granddaughter the belief that sex before marriage was a sin. Vain Granny (Church of England, lapsed) espoused a different view. Her motto—“Don’t have sex before breakfast, you never know whom you might meet at lunch”—was oft repeated in front of her granddaughter.
The result of this eccentric sex education was that Ursula felt free to settle herself somewhere between her grandmothers’ extremes. If she fell in love, she’d have sex, but she wouldn’t have sex just to rid herself of her virginity, and she certainly wouldn’t get married just to have sex. Marriage was a very long way off—and would happen only after her career as a writer had been established. It was 1985, after all, not 1935. Ideally, the falling in love would happen in Oxford and Ursula’s virginity would soon be happily in the past.
“. . . and we offer free packs of condoms to every student, male or female,” Jocasta was saying. “Personally, I find Durex the most reliable, and pleasurable, with loads of K-Y . . .”
Ursula felt herself reddening.
“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, just come and ask me for them, I could get some now for you—”
Luckily for Ursula, who felt as though her face was now the color of beetroot, Jocasta was stopped in her condom-sharing tracks by Claire Potter, now heading towards them with Ben Braithwaite. She pointed at Ursula and said, “There she is.”
“My second daughter,” said Ben, greeting Ursula with a handshake. “Hello.”
“Hi,” said Ursula, relieved to be rescued from Jocasta, and realizing that now was the moment to make up for her mean attitude to Claire. “Look, I’m really sorry I didn’t make it to your crosswords event,” she told her.
“That’s okay. We all had a really, really great time, just like I told that policeman when he came to talk to me earlier,” she said with a wink.
What was that supposed to mean? Ursula wondered. She noticed that Claire had put on makeup for the tea, a thick layer of orangey foundation that only half disguised her acne and a violet-colored metallic lip gloss. Something seemed different about her. She seemed almost cheerful today. Almost.
“Did you get your reading list yet?” Claire asked.
“Dr. Dave didn’t exactly give us a list. He only asked us to read one article.”
“Professor Scarisbrick read out a list of fifteen books on Anglo-Saxon history I have to get through by next week. Luckily I learned speed-reading at school,” Claire said with a slightly smug smile.
Ursula felt vaguely disconcerted. Why was one tutor assigning fifteen books and another just one article?
“If you have any questions about your tutorials, or any problems,” began Ben, “think of talking to me as just like talking to one of your parents. . . .”
Ursula nodded vaguely. She never told anyone her parents were gone unless it came up directly.
“. . . if you need a chat, anytime, just come to my room—”
“I’d love to,” said Claire, fluttering mascara-clogged eyelashes at him.
Jocasta pursed her lips disapprovingly at Ben, who coughed and cleared his throat. “Sorry, not my room—that wouldn’t be appropriate—come and find me, er . . . here in the JCR. I’m always around.”
“Okay,” said Ursula, unable to imagine confiding in Ben about anything personal.
“And don’t forget, you’ll be allocated moral tutors by the end of the week,” added Jocasta. “So there are plenty of people to talk to if, you know, you’re suffering from Stress, Anxiety, or Depression, Sexually Transmitted Diseases—”
“Hi, Moo,” interrupted Ursula, saved by the sight of her fellow historian bounding up to them. The ponytailed blonde had traded her Roedean gear for a dark green tracksuit that bore the name of the college and a pair of crossed oars printed in scarlet on the front. In her left hand she had a clipboard and pen, and in her right, an enormous wooden oar.
“Hi, all. I’m recruiting for the Freshers’ boat. Ursula, you’d make a good Seven with those long legs and arms of yours.”
“But I’ve never rowed,” protested Ursula. Her daddy longlegs proportions had made sport a misery for her at school. She had liked riding and that was it. She had absolutely no intention of joining any kind of team while at Oxford.
“Hardly anyone’s rowed before they come to Oxford,” said Moo. “The Second Years are going to teach us. Apparently it’s really pretty down on the river in the mornings.”
An image of sunrise on the water popped into Ursula’s head then, and suddenly the rowing thing seemed irresistibly romantic in a way that netball and lacrosse never had.
“I’ll give it a try,” she said.
“If you’re doing it, I’ll do it too,” said Claire, grabbing the clipboard from Moo and scribbling her name at the top of the list. “Since we’re sisters now.”
Chapter 13
Parents, sisters, moral tutors, condoms, boats—Ursula suddenly felt overwhelmed. Perhaps it was from being an only child and growing up in such a remote place, but she liked—no, needed—to be alone at times. The silence of the library beckoned alluringly. Perhaps she could escape before her “brothers” appeared.
Ursula managed to slip out of the JCR unnoticed and onto the landing. Dr. Dave’s pile of books was still on the dusty window seat, but he was gone. The constable was nowhere to be seen, and the door to Dave’s set was closed, though semi-audible voices were coming from behind it. Ursula stood as close to the door as she could and put her ear to it.
“. . . looks like it’s the jugular . . . but there isn’t enough blood . . . ask the Coroner to order a postmortem . . .”
Doc’s Scottish accent was unmistakable. What had he been saying? Something about the jugular and blood. No, “there isn’t enough blood.” What did that mean? Not enough blood for what, exactly?
So intent was Ursula’s concentration that when Nancy’s face appeared beside hers, she jumped, her heart pounding.
“You scared me!” gasped Ursula. India’s murder had set her on edge far more than she had realized.
“What are you doing?” said Nancy. “What about the tea party?”
“Ssshhh,” said Ursula. “They’re all in there, listen.”
Nancy put her ear to the door.
“. . . time of death?” (“That’s Detective Trott’s voice,” whispered Ursula.)
“When was the victim last seen alive?” (“That’s Doc, he’s the forensic pathologist,” Ursula told Nancy.)
“Maybe midnight,” said Trott. “We need to speak to everyone who was at the party to establish exactly who saw her last.”
“And what time was she found?�
�� Doc asked.
“Nine in the morning.”
“Then the time of death was sometime between midnight and nine in the morning,” said Doc.
“Doesn’t the hypostasis help?” asked Trott.
“Detective Trott, you know as well as I do that too much has been claimed for the usefulness of hypostasis as an indicator of time of death. It’s too variable.”
“What on earth are they talking about?” Ursula whispered to Nancy.
“Hypostasis,” she answered. “When the blood stops circulating, gravity pulls it down to the lowest part of the body. The skin looks bluish-red.”
Ursula was impressed. “How do you know that?”
“My older brother Frank’s a med student, Yale. He’s a super-geek. He’s got some horrible stories.”
Just then the doorknob turned, and the girls hastily retreated to the window seat and watched as DI Trott walked out together with a female police officer. The two of them were talking so intently that they didn’t notice Ursula and Nancy.
“WPC Barwell, can you arrange for Lord Brattenbury to come down to the morgue later and formally identify the body?” Trott was saying in a low voice. “I don’t want the father seeing her like that.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll make arrangements,” replied the other officer before they both disappeared down the stairs.
“This is so sad,” said Nancy.
“I know,” said Ursula.
She checked her watch. It was already half past five. Where had the day gone?
“Nancy, I’m so sorry, I must go.”
“What about the JCR tea?” asked Nancy. “I need you with me for moral support.”
“I really have to get to Jago’s.” Ursula was growing desperate about fitting everything in. “I can’t be late for the editor of Cherwell.”
Suddenly Nancy squealed. She and Ursula watched as two paramedics emerged from Dr. Dave’s rooms carrying a stretcher weighed down by a full body bag. Doc followed behind, closed the door after him, and then looked around. He immediately spotted Nancy and Ursula.
“Ah. Sherlock Holmes,” he said, eyeing Ursula. “We meet again. Listen, you shouldn’t be hanging around here. Nor should your friend.” Doc glowered at Nancy. “This is a crime scene.”
“Sorry—” Ursula started to say.
“Oops!” The paramedic at the far end of the stretcher stumbled slightly as he reached the staircase.
To Ursula’s horror, a mottled, bluish-looking foot suddenly lolled out from the bottom of the bag. A brown luggage tag was tied tightly around the big toe with a piece of string. India’s name was scrawled on it in black capital letters.
“Ugghh-ggggh! I feel like we’re in Frankenstein,” groaned Nancy, nonetheless transfixed by the ghoulish sight.
Doc hastily dashed to the end of the stretcher, stuffed India’s foot back in the body bag, and zipped it up. He said to the paramedics, “Can you accompany the victim to the mortuary? Then get hold of the coroner and ask him to order an autopsy. I need to get her on the slab.” About to head down the stairs, he looked back at Ursula and Nancy and said, “Girls, scarper!”
As soon as the paramedics were out of sight, Nancy turned to Ursula and said, “That toe. I think it’s important.”
“How?” replied Ursula.
“It’s got hypostasis. That suggests India’s left foot was the lowest point of her body at the moment she died.”
“Right . . .” said Ursula, not quite sure of the significance of Nancy’s conclusions. “Look, I’ve got to go.” She made a move towards the stairs.
“Maybe I don’t feel like your fancy British tea after all,” Nancy said, following her. “I need a drink. Come to the Buttery Bar after your meeting with Jago?”
“I can’t,” said Ursula. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to go to the library as soon as I get back.”
“You, my friend,” Nancy complained, “can be a real downer sometimes.”
Chapter 14
“Ursula, yup, er . . . hi,” stuttered Jago as he opened the door to his room just after six that evening. “Come in.”
Barefoot and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, he held a poster for Raging Bull and a packet of Blu-Tack in his hand. His room—a rather poky, north-facing space at the back of Magdalen’s grand cloisters—was still in a state of disarray. “Sorry about the mess,” he gulped. “Haven’t had time to unpack and sort anything yet.”
Jago stuck the Robert De Niro poster in the middle of the far wall. Ursula noticed the single bed was covered with more posters, for films like American Gigolo, Alien, Scarface, and E.T. A small sofa was heaped with several boxes of duty-free Marlboro Reds, a half-unpacked suitcase, and that day’s newspapers. Ursula glanced at the headlines, realizing she hadn’t looked at the news for days. The Daily Mail headline screamed, british telecom ditches red phone box. The Times was more serious: reagan and gorbachev to end cold war.
“Hang on, let me move all this crap,” said Jago, clearing a space on the sofa so Ursula could sit.
“Thanks,” she said, taking her notebook and a pen from her satchel.
“Drink?” Jago offered.
“I’d love a cup of tea,” she said.
“My kettle’s broken, sorry,” he replied. “Glass of wine?”
“Okay,” said Ursula.
Jago somehow located a wine box among the mess, and squirted white wine into two paper cups. “Here,” he said, handing one to Ursula. “Now, let’s get down to business.”
Jago planted himself on the sofa next to her, so close that his knee touched her left thigh. She moved a little to her right, to try and make space. Then he moved a little to his right, until his knee was squashed against her leg again.
“What’s the latest?” Jago asked Ursula, polishing off his cup of wine in two swigs and helping himself to another.
“They’re ordering an autopsy. They just took India’s body from college.”
“How do you know?” he asked. “You know we can’t make any mistakes in this story. It’s got to be spot-on.”
“I saw them removing the body. It was horrible,” she told him. “India’s left foot fell out of the body bag. It had hypostasis in it.”
“Really?”
“I saw it with my own eyes,” she replied, taking a sip of the wine. It was warm and horribly vinegary.
“Didn’t you say earlier that when you found India she was lying on Dr. Dave’s chaise longue?” asked Jago.
“Yes. Why?”
“So, the hypostasis is in her left foot . . . meaning that was the lowest point of her body when she died.”
Nancy had said exactly the same thing, thought Ursula. Jago continued hypothesizing.
“The fact that the blood coagulated in her foot means that she died exactly where you found her, because when you are sitting or lying on a chaise longue your feet are usually the lowest point of your body.”
Ursula noticed that Jago’s right hand was now resting on her left knee. As subtly as she could, she slid out from underneath it. “I don’t quite follow.”
“What I mean is, we can conclude, from the foot situation, that India died on the chaise longue,” he said, sounding convinced and moving his hand back to her knee.
Ursula boldly lifted it off and put it back in Jago’s lap. “She was murdered lying down?”
“Maybe . . . If she died on the chaise longue, it must mean that either she was already lying on it when her throat was cut, or she was standing close to it when she was attacked and fell back onto it,” said Jago.
Ursula sensed that The Hand was now resting along the back of the sofa behind her head. She wished Jago weren’t quite as friendly as this.
“I think she was already on the chaise longue,” said Ursula. “It makes more sense.”
“How can you be so confident?”
“There was the stem of a broken champagne glass still in her hand when I found her,” Ursula replied. “Surely she would have dropped it if she’d fallen backwards onto the chaise longue?
”
“Which makes me ask, how did India end up with a broken champagne glass in her hand in the first place?” asked Jago.
Ursula winced. She felt The Hand touch the back of her head. She decided to ignore it, saying, “It didn’t look as though there’d been any violence or disturbance in the room. So, if there was no fight, if India was killed when she was lying on the chaise longue, maybe she knew her killer. Whoever it was came into the room—perhaps she was lying there waiting for them, she knew them so well and trusted them so much that she didn’t even get up.”
“Perhaps,” Jago posited, “she was expecting some kind of romantic rendezvous.”
“In Dr. Dave’s rooms? And that still doesn’t explain the broken champagne glass.”
“Maybe she thought she was somewhere else, maybe she was too drunk to know that she’d gone to the wrong room,” he suggested.
“Wait!” said Ursula. “What if it wasn’t the wrong room—”
Ursula stopped talking. From behind, she could feel The Hand twisting a lock of her hair.
“What is it?” asked Jago, looking surprised.
“I’ve got to go,” Ursula jumped up, yanking her hair from his hand at the same time. “I’ve got someone to meet . . . um, very urgently,” she said, trying to sound convincing. A drink in the bar with Nancy suddenly seemed like an excellent idea.
“But we haven’t talked about police procedure yet. The protocol of covering a murder investigation.”
“Oh, yes, right,” stuttered Ursula. “Any tips?”
“First off, when you write about the police investigation, get two or three verifications of every fact, every statement. Don’t take anything the force says at face value. Having said that, my advice is pretty irrelevant—the police won’t tell you anything useful anyway. You’re going to have to figure out what happened to India by yourself.”
“You’re saying I’ve got to solve the murder?” Ursula said, surprised.
“Well, it would be a pretty boring piece if you didn’t, wouldn’t it? Ursula, unless you get the scoop and figure out who murdered India, your story gets killed.”