Party Girls Die in Pearls

by Plum Sykes

  Jago might seem vague on the surface, but underneath the laid-back posturing, the boy was ruthless, she thought to herself.

  “Won’t be a problem,” she said, trying to sound as confident as possible, while simultaneously wondering how on earth she was going solve a murder, write a lead article for Cherwell, and complete her essay on the mysterious Early Covenanters all in under a week. She really did need to get to the library tonight.

  Just as she was leaving, Jago said, “Look . . . er . . . Ursula, I’d like to see you again . . .”

  “Sure, at the Cherwell office,” she replied in her firmest tones. Surely The Hand would stay where it should if they weren’t alone for their next meeting.

  “Well, no actually.” Jago suddenly sounded awkward. “Er . . . there’s this cocktail thing at Vincent’s on Friday. Why don’t we go . . . together?”

  Was Jago asking her on a date? Ursula wondered, feeling perturbed.

  “Er . . .” she hesitated. How awkward. It seemed a little inappropriate, professionally speaking, to go on some kind of date with her editor. But if she said no, would Jago be so humiliated he wouldn’t even consider running her story?

  “No strings attached,” he said, apparently sensing Ursula’s reticence. “Just, you know, as friends . . . colleagues.”

  “Friends,” said Ursula, thoroughly relieved. “Great.”

  It would be interesting to have someone like Jago as a new friend, thought Ursula. A cocktail at the mysterious Vincent’s sounded fun. As long as The Hand wouldn’t be revisiting The Knee.

  Chapter 15

  Monday, 1st Week: Evening

  Twenty minutes later, Ursula was relieved to find Nancy perched on a high wooden stool at the bar in the Buttery, a large, slightly dank half cellar located in the old Kitchen Quad just to the east of the porter’s lodge. The presence of two police officers, seated in a corner drinking orange juice and observing the scene like a couple of Stasi operatives, made for an edgy atmosphere.

  “Hey, I thought you were going to the library,” said Nancy when she saw Ursula.

  “I’m en route,” she said, taking the stool next to her friend. “I’m going just as soon as I’ve had a shandy.”

  “How was Jago?” Nancy inquired.

  “Interesting.” She decided not to say anything about The Hand for now.

  Just then, Otto ambled in. He wandered up to the bar and leaned against it, slumping his head in his hands. Ursula noticed the policemen nudge each other and start whispering when they saw him.

  “Otto, are you all right?” Ursula asked.

  “Er . . . God . . . ugh,” Otto grunted. “Bit hungover. I’ve spent the afternoon in the Eagle and Child trying to forget what happened last night. Didn’t work.”

  “Drink?” offered Nancy.

  Otto shook his head. “Maybe later.”

  “Okay, so one Jell-O shot for me please,” Nancy asked the barman. “And a shandy.”

  “Thanks,” Ursula said.

  Ursula noticed that Nancy’s hands were shaking slightly. She seemed jittery.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I’ve just never seen a real live dead foot before,” Nancy replied. “And . . . the fact that it was India’s too, I mean, it’s all so strange. I feel afraid, Ursula. There are police wandering all over college. They’re everywhere.”

  “They’re here to protect us.” Ursula tried to sound reassuring.

  “Maybe we should all carry rape whistles,” said Nancy nervously. “If someone tries to attack us, at least we’d have that.”

  The barman placed the girls’ drinks on the bar. The fizzy shandy perked Ursula up and took away the taste of Jago’s nasty white wine.

  “No one else will be attacked,” said Otto suddenly. A film of perspiration was starting to appear on his face. He looked drained.

  “You don’t know that, Otto,” chided Nancy. “Anything could happen. We need to protect ourselves.” She guzzled her Jell-O shot in one swallow. “Another please?” she asked the barman.

  “But . . . sorry . . . I mean . . .” Otto stuttered and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

  “You mean what, Otto?” Ursula asked him firmly.

  “I mean, yes, get the rape whistles. Keep safe.”

  Just then, Ursula spotted Horatio sauntering into the bar. He had, naturally, changed for the evening and was now clad in a floor-length violet velvet silk kaftan.

  “Great dress, Horatio,” said Nancy when she saw him.

  “Thank you, darling,” he said, kissing the girls twice on each cheek and then looking curiously at Otto. “God, you look like you’ve just been vomited from a sewer. Are you quite all right, Otto?”

  “I have never known a day of such ghastliness,” the prince replied, looking ever more pale.

  “You’ll get through this,” Horatio said kindly. “I know you and India were great friends. You must be devastated.” He leaned against the bar and ordered two neat whiskeys, handed one to Otto, who didn’t touch it, and downed the other himself.

  A few moments later, one of the officers in the corner walked purposefully over to the group at the bar. He singled out Otto, saying, “My colleague and I have reason to believe that you are one Otto Schuffenecker.”

  Otto looked startled. “I am,” he said in a whimper.

  “We’ve been looking for you all afternoon. You’re wanted down at the police station.”

  “What! Why?” Otto was panicking.

  “You’re needed for an interview and fingerprints.”

  Otto reluctantly nodded his agreement. Without saying another word, the officer took him by the arm and marched him swiftly towards the door.

  “Oh my God!” Nancy looked as though she were on the verge of weeping. “Otto! No! What about the Perquisitors’ party tonight? I need you as my walker!”

  But Otto didn’t get a chance to reply. As he was walked up the stairs, Eghosa was descending them, dressed in fencing kit and carrying a foil. Eg looked askance at the police officer and his charge as they passed him.

  “Ursula, now you’ve got to come to the party with me tonight,” Nancy begged her. “Next Duke might be there. Or some other duke type. Ursula, you cannot let such a fabulous social opportunity pass me by.”

  “I already told you, I can’t go,” she replied. “I’m sorry, but we don’t even know these Perquisitor people, and I’ve got to start my reading in the library.”

  “Hey,” Nancy soothed her. “Stop stressing. Dr. Dave’s only given us one little article. It’ll take five minutes to read.”

  “You really should go to the party,” Horatio urged Ursula. “Everyone will be there. You’ll get some marvelous material for your article.”

  This remark caught her attention. She knew that she desperately needed material, especially after her recent conversation with Jago. She felt her resolve softening.

  “Maybe I could come for a tiny bit, then go study straight afterwards,” said Ursula, grateful that the Hawksmoor Library stayed open all night. She’d still have plenty of time to start her reading.

  “Told you you’d be in a ball gown every night!” quipped Horatio.

  “The same one, unfortunately,” laughed Ursula.

  “I’ll lend you a party dress,” Nancy said. “I’ve got pretty much the entire Bloomingdale’s evening wear department in my room.”

  “That’s so kind of you,” said Ursula, suddenly delighted about the prospect of another ball-gown-wearing moment, particularly if the ball gown was from a New York department store. Visions of a croissant-munching Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, dressed in sunglasses and a Little Black Dress, came to mind. Perhaps Nancy could magically turn Ursula into a New York party girl for the night.

  Eghosa came up to the bar and greeted Horatio and the girls. “Mind if I join you?”

  In his fencing regalia, he looked dazzling, Ursula thought. He put his mask and sharp-looking foil on the bar and took a stool next to her. She couldn’t help st
aring at the sword—could it cut a throat?

  “Just a Perrier please,” said Eg to the barman.

  Ursula could see that his mood today was very different from last night. Gone was the suave, amusing disco dancer, and in his place was a troubled young man.

  “Are you all right?” asked Ursula shyly.

  “It’s not me I’m worried about. It’s Wenty. He’s in a bad way. The police have been in and out of our rooms all day. Wenty’s freaking out.”

  “Everyone in Oxford is terrified,” said Nancy.

  Eg looked at the girls with concern in his eyes. “Don’t go anywhere alone, either of you. Always have someone with you, especially at night.”

  “Maybe we should all walk together to the Perquisitors’ party tonight?” suggested Ursula.

  “I’d love to spend the evening with you . . .” Eg said. He caught Ursula’s eye and she felt a flutter of excitement. “I mean, I’d love to spend the evening with all of you . . . but, actually, I’m going to give it a miss,” he continued. “I said to Wenty I’d stay in tonight. Keep him company. We’ll probably play vingt-et-un and get drunk.”

  Eg finished his Perrier, settled his tab, and got up to leave. As he departed, he said, “Remember what I said. Go everywhere in a pair.”

  Once he was out of earshot, Horatio said, “No wonder everyone calls him Saint Eghosa.”

  “Such a great guy,” agreed Nancy. “Looking out for Wenty like that.”

  “And us,” said Ursula. “He’s right. We should stick together. It’s safer.”

  Suddenly a voice from behind the girls bellowed, “Ciao!”

  The trio turned to find Moo had entered the Buttery with her oar and a grinning Claire Potter in tow. Ursula wasn’t sure why, but Claire’s newly cheerful demeanor unnerved her. How could she be so uncharacteristically merry on such a dreadful day? Did she know something? What had happened in the JCR last night? Ursula was determined to prize the information out of her.

  “Heard you were in here! Hiding from your new parents already?” hooted Moo, jogging from one foot to the other. “Nancy, I need you.”

  “For?”

  “The Freshers’ boat. We’re recruiting a coxswain.”

  “A who?” Nancy looked befuddled.

  “The cox steers the boat. I need someone short and light. There’s no rowing involved, you just have to have a loud voice to shout at everyone.”

  “I can sure as hell yell,” she demonstrated accommodatingly.

  “You’re in,” said Moo. “Training starts tomorrow morning. The team is meeting in the porter’s lodge to run down to the river.”

  Moo turned and jogged away, Claire following. Just as Moo reached the door of the Buttery, she looked back at them and added, “See you at six a.m.!”

  Chapter 16

  The Bloomingdale’s evening wear department, a.k.a. Nancy’s closet, was not, Ursula soon discovered, in the business of supplying simple, low-key Breakfast at Tiffany’s–style cocktail frocks. Nancy, who had quickly swathed herself in a second skin of thigh-length, ruched gold lamé for the Perquisitors’ party, offered Ursula a succession of ultra-trendy dresses to try.

  “This would look genius with your hair,” Nancy insisted, holding up a stretchy bright orange creation that looked more like a swimming costume than a party dress.

  “A bit bright for me, maybe?” responded Ursula, dismissing the dress as kindly as she could.

  “Or what about this?” Nancy went on, pulling a green satin Vivienne Westwood–inspired puff-ball dress from the closet.

  “I love it,” Ursula gasped.

  But before she could try it on, Nancy was stopping her, saying, “No, wait, I have a way better idea. This one.”

  Ursula was soon happily adorned in a scarlet taffeta strapless minidress printed with huge black polka dots. The tiny frock was held in place by what felt like suction around her chest, and frothed out into heavenly, miniature layers of thigh-length frills. Ursula had seen pictures of these super-fashionable “ra-ra” dresses in Vain Granny’s Vogues, but had never imagined she’d actually get to wear one.

  “I think fur would work with that,” Nancy said, handing her a fake-fur crimson stole. Ursula wrapped the deliciously soft fabric around her shoulders as Nancy clipped glitzy faux-ruby-and-diamond earrings onto her ears. A matching necklace and bracelet soon followed. They completed the outfit with silver fishnet tights and a pair of red suede pumps, which were far too small. Ursula dashed back to her room to find her old plain black court shoes, hoping no one would notice her feet.

  “Okay, makeup,” said Nancy when Ursula had returned. She opened her vanity case, which contained a palette of cheek and eye colors. Nancy applied emerald green eye shadow to Ursula’s lids, matching mascara to her lashes, and shimmery metallic blusher to her cheeks. She then insisted on sizzling Ursula’s hair with a pair of boiling-hot, high-tech American crimping irons. By the end of the terrifying process, Ursula’s tresses resembled spun sugar.

  Since there was no full-length mirror in either girl’s room, Ursula could only review her look in thirds by standing on a chair and looking at various sections of her body in the mirror over Nancy’s sink. She adored the dress portion of the outfit, but the makeup and jewelry was far glitzier than she was used to.

  “I look like David Bowie,” she protested.

  “Stop!” Nancy insisted. “You look amazing. You look cooler than Sue Ellen in Dallas.”*

  Finally, the girls were ready to go. As Ursula put her satchel over her shoulder, Nancy cried, “No!”

  “What is it?”

  “That bag. You cannot accessorize a mini ra-ra dress with a high school satchel. Here, borrow this,” Nancy said, offering Ursula a minuscule red velvet clutch.

  “I can’t fit my notebook in there.”

  “You really need your work things?”

  “Yes,” Ursula stated firmly.

  Because, she vowed to herself, after the teensiest stop at the Perquisitors’ party, she was absolutely definitely, really and truly, honestly going to the library.

  * * *

  “Is it normal in Oxford to throw a cocktail party in a dungeon?” Nancy asked a little later as they picked their way down the steep flight of stone steps beneath Magdalen College Chapel that accessed the Monks’ Undercroft.

  “I guess so,” Ursula laughed, surveying the scene.

  Despite being inhabited that night by a student DJ spinning poppy records by Wham! and Duran Duran, and sixty or so beautiful young Oxford undergrads in black tie, the place felt eerie to Ursula. Dripping cathedral candles lit the vaulted fifteenth-century crypt, and it was chilly enough down there that, even with the borrowed stole, Ursula’s arms immediately prickled with goose bumps.

  She and Nancy soon found the bar, where they ordered two glasses of Bucks Fizz. Slightly desperately, they sipped their drinks as they scanned the room for a familiar face.

  “Oh my God,” whispered Nancy suddenly. “I cannot believe she’s here!”

  “Who?”

  “The ‘best friend’ . . . I can’t remember her name.” Nancy indicated someone on the other side of the room. “I mean, shouldn’t she be in mourning?”

  Ursula spotted Isobel Floyd huddled in a distant corner, surrounded by a group of boys. Looking like a groovier Little Lord Fauntleroy, she wore dark purple velvet knickerbockers with bows at the knees and a matching jacket with “leg-o-mutton” sleeves. A lacy blouse peeked out from underneath the jacket.

  “Oh, poor thing, I think she’s crying,” Ursula said. “Look, someone’s just given her their handkerchief.”

  “I guess she is really upset about India,” Nancy conceded.

  “I think not.” The familiar voice came from behind them.

  Horatio Bentley had arrived, to Ursula’s and Nancy’s relief.

  “Horatio! Help! We don’t know anyone,” wailed Nancy.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll introduce you to the Perquisitors,” he assured her.

  “What the
hell is a Perquisitor anyway?” Nancy asked.

  “It means the original owner of an estate—from the Latin ‘perquisitum,’ for purchaser. My personal translation is ‘white-tie wankers.’ Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” Horatio’s belly jiggled beneath his kaftan as he laughed. “Crikey . . . brilliant idea for a weekly column. Jago would love it.” He retrieved a small Moleskine notebook from a pocket and scribbled “White-Tie Wankers” on a blank page.

  “So they’re kind of like a high school clique?” said Nancy.

  “I suppose. The difference is that this clique, like most cliques in Oxford, is not bound by ties of friendship but by disdain for other people. You too, girls, will soon join a clique and spend your evenings laughing at the people you hung out with during Freshers’ Week.”

  “Which ones are the members?” asked Ursula.

  Horatio pointed out four boys across the room, each one floppier-haired than the last.

  “Rupert Bingham, Tom Higginbottom-Jones—fondly known as Wobbly Wobbly-Bottom to his friends—Alexander Fitzwilliam-Hughes, and Lucian Peake. Between them their families own half of the British Isles. Anyway, they ponce about in dinner jackets all term, providing reams of gossip for Cherwell. Among the mantelpiece-conscious, the Perquisitors’ stiffie* is considered the ultimate invitation this week. Personally, I say the thicker the card, the more boring the party. Hmmm . . . that would be a truly cruel opening for my article about tonight . . .”

  Horatio frantically scribbled the line in his notebook, a mischievous grin on his face. “By the way, Ursula, very fashionable outfit tonight.”

  “Thank you,” she said. The red polka-dot dress was turning out to be great fun—she had felt herself attracting admiring glances from a couple of boys as they sauntered up to the bar. “It’s Nancy’s.”

  “Looks like it,” replied Horatio. Ursula wasn’t entirely sure whether to take this as a compliment.

  Rupert Bingham, a sandy-haired boy with a smooth, shiny face, waved to Horatio and came over to greet him. Ursula noticed the boy’s eyes hungrily devouring the sight of Nancy in her gold lamé, before he directed an equally lascivious look at her in the polka-dot dress.