by Plum Sykes
After Horatio had introduced him to the girls, Rupert pleaded, “Now, Horatio, you will give the party a nice write-up in your column, won’t you?”
“I’ll try, but I can’t promise, Roo darling.” Horatio’s tone was puckish. “After all, that wouldn’t be fair on all the parties I’ve slagged off, would it?”
While the others chatted, Ursula’s gaze wandered and she soon spotted Dom Littleton mingling with friends. Despite the low lighting he was wearing his blue-lensed sunglasses. She watched, intrigued, as he sauntered up to Isobel, who pointedly turned her back on him and carried on talking to another boy. What was she so furious about? wondered Ursula. Horatio had been right when he’d encouraged her to come to the party earlier. She could definitely pick up some material here.
“Horatio, I think I need your help with the story,” she said as soon as Rupert Bingham departed. “Jago says the police won’t tell student journalists anything. Have you got any ideas about who might have wanted India out of the way?”
“Whodunit?” Horatio raised one eyebrow. “India was . . .” He paused, as though searching for the right words. “Complicated. Spoiled. Difficult. Deceitful—”
“How?” asked Ursula.
“Well, I’m not suggesting that what she did was so deceitful that the Deceived in Question would have wished to cut her milky throat, but frankly, India didn’t care who she trod on.”
At this point Horatio pointedly directed his gaze at Isobel, whose fury seemed to have miraculously dissipated. She was now talking intently with Dom Littleton, the hint of a smile on her face.
“Isobel? She did something to Isobel?” asked Ursula. “But they were best friends.”
“So?” said Horatio. “Don’t you have best friends you are violently jealous of?”
Ursula shook her head. Plain Granny had seen to that. Jealousy was simply not allowed at Seldom Seen Farm.
“Hey, I know exactly what you mean,” said Nancy. “Literally all my friends at Northwestern are totally jealous of me.”
“I can only imagine!” guffawed Horatio. Then he continued, “Call me conceited, but I wrote a terrifically witty column about India and Isobel last term. It was called ‘Les Soeurs Uglies,’ the thesis of which was that India and Isobel were so competitive and envious of each other that they were just like Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters—cleverly in disguise as best friends and great beauties.”
“Horatio, are you saying that Isobel killed her bestie?” said Nancy, amazed.
“All I am saying is that Oxford is a very intense place. Rivalries get out of hand here. If you offend other people for too long, you generally exit this place with an assortment of meat cleavers through your back.”
“But what did India do to Isobel that was so awful?” Ursula was desperate to follow this lead. She knew she was onto something.
“All I know is that at the end of last term, Dom decided to direct Hamlet. Henry Forsyth was set to play the title role. Isobel was to be Ophelia. Then the next minute, everything changed. Dom suddenly gave India the Ophelia role, and Isobel was demoted to her understudy. Everyone knows that Isobel is an even better actress than India was. It was bizarre.”
“So India stole her best friend’s role last term?” Ursula clarified.
“Horrid, isn’t it?” said Horatio. “Then, at Wenty’s party, we all find out that Dom has gone barmy and given Henry Forsyth’s Hamlet role to India. The next thing we know, Girl-Hamlet is dead. Ah!” he said abruptly. “We were just talking about you!”
Isobel Floyd had arrived at the bar. She gave Horatio a smooch on each cheek.
“Dreadful about India,” he said.
“It’s just so sad. Losing my greatest pal,” Isobel agreed. She visibly paled as she added, “It’s terrifying, to think there’s some madman on the loose killing beautiful undergraduates. Makes me feel sick. I mean, I could be next.” She shuddered. “Anyway, I’ve got a scoop for you, Horatio. Darling.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Pray tell.”
“I’ve agreed—with a very, very heavy heart, of course—to take on the Hamlet role—”
“You must be scared stiff!” Horatio blurted out. “Your pretty throat could be next!”
Isobel whacked him hard on the arm. He looked sheepish.
“For God’s sake, Horatio,” she huffed. “Anyway, as I was saying, I’ll be taking on Hamlet. Obvs . . . in India’s honor. We’re going to dedicate the show to her. You won’t forget to mention that in your article, will you, about the dedication? I know she’d want the show to go on, as they say on Broadway. She was such a great friend, truly my best friend in the world.”
Nancy nudged Ursula and hissed into her ear, “The subplot thickens.”
“Of course I will, Isobel,” said Horatio with a coy smile. “Any other Good Works you would like mentioned in my scoop?”
Isabel looked slightly confused. Then she said, “Yar, you mean, like, the well I dug in Bangladesh on my gap year?”
Horatio spluttered with laughter and Isobel reddened, realizing she’d been played.
“You’re hateful, Horatio,” she snarled. Then she suddenly burst into tears. “I’m so-ooo-rrr-rreeeee-ggghhh—” She hiccuped, wiping her eyes on her frilly cuff. “It’s just, India, she was my soul . . . uggghhhh . . . mate. I just hope they find the murderer soon.”
“You may be able to help with that,” Horatio told her.
“What?!” she snapped, hurriedly sniveling her tears away. “Why do you think I know anything about the murder?”
“Ursula’s trying to solve the case for Cherwell. Just tell her anything you know, it could really help.”
“Gosh, yes, of course, anything I can do. Anything.” Isobel turned to Ursula and smiled sweetly. “Let’s go up into the quad so we can talk privately.”
* * *
Thank goodness she had her notebook and pen in her satchel, thought Ursula as she followed Isobel up the stairs and out into Magdalen’s main quad. Isobel led her towards the cloisters and sat on a stone bench under the eaves, huddling her knees to her chest.
“You know everyone calls him ‘Horrid’ Bentley. Horrid by name, horrid by nature,” said Isobel, lighting a cigarette. She offered the packet to Ursula. “Want one?”
Ursula was about to say she didn’t smoke, but then thought better of it. She needed to bond with this girl. She took a cigarette from the packet of Marlboro Reds and twirled it in her fingers, delaying the moment she would have to attempt to light it.
“He’s terribly cruel about people in his column. When he wrote about India he called her the ‘Hereditary Husky.’* She wouldn’t have been seen dead in a Husky. Oh God, I don’t mean dead dead. I meant, metaphorically dead. But—ugh! Now she is dead.”
Isobel dropped her head into her hands. She seemed genuinely upset.
“Have you got any idea who might have done this to India?” asked Ursula gently.
“Why would I know anything? I mean, of course I don’t!” Isobel dragged needily on her cigarette.
“You were her best friend. Did she tell you about anything—anything—that was worrying her?”
“Honestly, her life was great. I mean, she was going to play Hamlet. It was her dream.”
“Is it true,” Ursula ventured, somewhat timidly, “that she stole the role of Ophelia from you last term?”
“Did Horrid tell you that? God, he’s a stirrer. She got the part because she was . . .” Isobel hesitated. “. . . better suited to the role. It was all very professional. I was fine with understudying. Really.”
Not very convincingly said, Ursula thought to herself. But she played along, asking, “Do you mind if I write this down?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t want this to come out wrong in Cherwell. Scribble away.”
Ursula retrieved her notebook and pen and turned to a fresh page. “Where did you go after Wenty’s party?”
“Why?”
“India was killed sometime between leaving Wenty’s party and nin
e in the morning when I found her. I’m trying to figure out if anyone saw anything after the party, before she went to Dr. Dave’s rooms.”
“I went to bed. My room’s in the Monks’ Cottages. I’m right above the laundry. India and Otto are on a staircase near mine.”
“Were you alone?”
Isobel took a moment to answer. Eventually, she said, “I went to my room alone. I went to bed alone.”
“Dom didn’t stay over?”
“He had tech rehearsals for Hamlet with the lighting crew at eight a.m. the next day. He decided to come back here to Magdalen, get a good night’s sleep.”
“Did you see India between leaving the party and getting to your room?”
Isobel paused. She looked long and hard at Ursula. A sad expression clouded her face.
“I suppose there’s no point in pretending. They were having a row. India and Wenty.”
“What about?” asked Ursula.
“You,” declared Isobel.
“Me?!” exclaimed Ursula.
“India stormed out of the party, don’t you remember?”
Ursula recalled India’s abrupt exit from the room, and Wenty chasing after her.
“Well, Wenty ran out after her, and then Dom went after them both, and of course I went after Dom.”
“And Henry Forsyth went after you all, as far as I remember,” added Ursula.
“Henry was desperate. He said to me, when we were outside Wenty’s room, that his ‘career’ would never recover after what India had done. As if he has a career as an actor ahead! Horatio’s nickname for him is the Rodent. Very fair, everyone thinks.” Isobel snickered. Then, suddenly looking frightened, she grabbed Ursula’s arm. “God. You don’t think Henry did it?”
“Do you?”
“He’s such a wimp. I can’t imagine him murdering someone. But he had a motive, I suppose.”
“Where did Henry go when he left Wenty’s staircase?”
Isobel released Ursula’s arm and pursed her lips. “I think he hung around, but I wasn’t paying much attention,” she said. “I was too distracted by the argument. We’d all chased down the staircase after Wenty and India, and there they were in the middle of Great Quad—on the grass—and India was screaming at Wenty.”
“Why?” said Ursula.
“She was in a fury because she’d heard him call you Unforgettable. She was yelling at him that Unforgettable was his pet name for her. I heard her say, ‘There’s only one Unforgettable in your life, and that’s me.’”
“What did Wenty say to that?”
“He told her, ‘Forgive me, my darling. It was only some random Fresher. It wasn’t serious.’”
“Oh,” said Ursula. She was rather offended to be labeled a “random Fresher,” but this just confirmed her doubts about Wenty’s character: the boy was clearly just as superficial as she suspected.
Isobel went on to explain that India, in a rage, had refused to accept Wenty’s apology, and had accused him of being a terrible flirt.
“She was convinced that Wenty—” Isobel stopped abruptly. She seemed reluctant to go on.
“Convinced of what?” Ursula pressed her.
“That he was . . .” Isobel paused. She seemed uncharacteristically unsure of herself.
“That he was what?” urged Ursula.
“Sleeping around.”
“Who with?”
“Oh, um . . . God knows! Anyway, then Wenty started accusing her of being the flirt. So she said, ‘I can’t help it if everyone flirts with me!’ Then she laughed. Wenty was fuming. He started talking about Dr. Dave, accusing India of seducing him.”
“She seduced a tutor?” Ursula was properly shocked.
“Look, Dr. Dave has affairs with lots of students. Everyone knows.”
Otto had mentioned something about the don having dalliances with his students, Ursula remembered, but she had thought he was exaggerating.
“But why did Wenty think Dr. Dave and India were having an affair?” asked Ursula.
“They did have a tiny fling, almost a year ago. Dr. Dave spent a couple of weeks at Bratters over the Christmas holidays when India was a Fresher. Supposedly he’d gone there to write. But there was more poetry going on in the rose bedroom with India than politics being written in the study. Dave’s very . . . attractive, isn’t he?”
“But he’s a tutor!” exclaimed Ursula.
“I know. I mean, I’d never—” Isobel started. “Anyway, Dave and India were infatuated with each other for a bit. But it was over in a few weeks. India told me all about it. They stayed friends. India saw Dr. Dave as a confidant. Maybe Wenty was suspicious that there was still something going on. I mean, India was still always in and out of Dave’s rooms, having endless long chats with him. Anyway, last night Wenty threatened to report Dr. Dave to the high provost, for sexual harassment.”
Maybe he should have, thought Ursula to herself. But she didn’t say anything. Isobel was in full flow: “India went mental. The only civilized thing about the scream-up was the way Wenty kept filling India’s glass with champagne! Then the night porter came out and hollered at them to get off the grass, and I saw India run off towards Dr. Dave’s staircase, probably to warn him about Wenty’s threat. She was very loyal to Dave.”
“It all sounds terribly complicated,” said Ursula.
“It is. When I heard that India had been found dead in Dr. Dave’s rooms, I couldn’t believe it. There’s no way he did it.”
“How can you be so sure?” asked Ursula.
“Er . . . well, I don’t know. I just don’t think Dr. Dave would do that kind of thing.”
Isobel looked away from Ursula suddenly. She lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. Ursula dashed off some thoughts on her notepad:
—Could Dr. Dave have killed India? Had the affair with her been secretly reignited, as Wenty suspected?
—But the don was sick when he saw India’s corpse. Surely a cold-blooded killer wouldn’t vomit at sight of own victim?
“What about Wenty? Where did he go when the night porter told everyone to leave?” Ursula asked.
“Must have gone back to the party, I imagine. I wasn’t really paying attention,” Isobel told her.
Nor, unfortunately, was Ursula. She couldn’t remember whether she’d seen Wenty at the party again or not.
“Anyway, this morning I woke up late,” Isobel went on. She faltered as she added, “I couldn’t believe it when my scout told me what had happened. Do you want a light?”
Ursula had completely forgotten that she still had an unlit cigarette in her left hand. She couldn’t admit now that she didn’t smoke, so she put the cigarette between her lips and took a tiny, terrified drag to light it from Isobel’s gold Zippo. It was disgusting. She coughed and spluttered. The cigarette went out.
If only I wasn’t so square, wished Ursula, I’d have learned to smoke at school like normal girls do. She made a note to herself to practice smoking in private before attempting it again in the presence of someone as cool as Isobel Floyd.
“It’s a crap lighter,” lied Isobel, kindly saving her from further embarrassment. “Look, I have to go, I’ve got rehearsals early tomorrow in the Burton Rooms. If you need anything else, just come and find me there. By the way,” she added as she dashed off across the quad, “that’s a really cool dress.”
Chapter 17
Just as Ursula was about to return to Christminster—and the library she hadn’t yet laid eyes on—she noticed a group of revelers entering the quad from the Monks’ Undercroft. Nancy’s gold dress shimmered in the moonlight.
“Yawn. Yawn. Ya-aaaa-awn!” Horatio’s bellow was unmistakable. “That party was as stiff as the invitation. Ursula!” he called. “We’re all going back to Dom’s room.”
“Coming?” asked Nancy.
Perhaps there’d be more “material” at Dom’s gathering, Ursula reasoned. She’d go for half an hour and then absolutely, definitely go to the library. “Sure,” she said, following the grou
p up a steep staircase to a smoke-filled room on the third floor of the cloisters.
Dom Littleton’s room was easily large enough to accommodate a core group of ten or fifteen friends. Ursula was surprised to see Henry Forsyth in the room. He didn’t seem pleased to be there—he looked as though he was about to punch someone. Dom’s quarters weren’t exactly luxurious: the only places to sit were the bed, a couple of hard chairs, the two window seats, or a few grubby-looking cushions on the floor. His halfhearted attempt at decoration had consisted of draping the wall above his bed with an exotic hanging picturing the elephant-headed Indian god Ganesha. One corner was falling down. Ursula couldn’t quite understand the attraction of Dom’s room. Nancy, however, could.
“A bong!” she cried happily, kicking off her heels and plonking herself down on a cushion next to their host, who was already sitting cross-legged on the floor sucking on an enormous plastic tube full of smoke.
Ursula watched as Dom closed his eyes, exhaled a long plume of white smoke, and then passed the peculiar contraption to Nancy. Ursula had never seen a bong before, but it was pretty clear what was going on. She had never touched drugs herself, and seeing Nancy giggling madly in a smoky haze didn’t make her any more inclined to try them.
Ursula didn’t really like the atmosphere in the room—everyone seemed focused on getting to the bong, the drugs. But she was here now and among India’s friends. There might be clues to be uncovered, especially about the victim’s last few hours.
Ursula sat down gingerly on the other side of Dom, very uncomfortably as it turned out. Her dress was so short that the only way to sit on the floor was with her knees pulled up awkwardly next to her.
“Sorry, man, the bong’s going anticlockwise,” Dom drawled to her.
“That’s okay,” she replied, relieved.
“Did I see you talking to Isobel earlier?” he asked, filling a cigarette paper with loose tobacco.
“Yes, I’m writing an article about India for Cherwell. Isobel answered a few questions.”
“Turning detective?” Dom said, looking at her with surprise.