by Plum Sykes
Ursula found a seat at the desk closest to the librarian’s counter and started unpacking her satchel. She watched from the corner of her eye as Ms. Brookethorpe sat herself down again and continued working. Eventually, the librarian peered casually in the box, as though she had no recollection of Ursula’s recent request. With a look of surprise on her face, she removed the slip and read through it, terribly slowly, before disappearing into the office again.
While Ursula waited, her head resting drowsily on one elbow propped on the desk, her gaze alighted on the window, and thence Great Quad below. However trying the acquisition of the Scottish Historical Review article was proving to be, the moonlit scene more than made up for it. It looked so mysterious out there, the gables and turrets casting elongated shadows across the lawn. The college grounds were quiet, as though they had fallen into a deep sleep.*
Suddenly, Ursula sat bolt upright, alert, and rushed over to the window, pressing her face against the glass. A woman—she was sure it was a woman; she could make out the bottom of a knee-length skirt—was walking, head down, across the lawn. She appeared to have a bottle of champagne in one hand.
Wait. No. It can’t be, said Ursula to herself.
But it was. How could she not recognize the silhouette of that frumpy calf-length A-line skirt, the outline of hair cut unflatteringly short, the impression of glasses . . . Claire? Claire Potter was roaming the college at almost one in the morning, walking on the sacred, forbidden grass of Great Quad with a bottle of champagne in her hand? She hadn’t seemed that type at all. Ursula watched as she headed in the direction of the Monks’ Cottages, soon disappearing into the passage leading to them. What was she doing going down there? . . . Wasn’t that where India’s rooms were? Who would want to go there alone in the dark, the day after a murder? Why wasn’t she scared?
Just then, Ursula heard the squeak of Ms. Brookethorpe’s pumps, and looked round to see the librarian walking—as slowly as someone with two functioning legs could possibly manage—towards a locked bookcase nearby with the words “Historia Caledonia” inscribed above it. She took a large brass key from her pocket, unlocked the door to the case, and retrieved a weighty leather-bound volume, which she brought over to Ursula’s desk and wordlessly plonked in front of her with a heavy thud.
“Thank you,” whispered Ursula, picking up the book and rising to leave.
Ms. Brookethorpe wrestled back the tome and slapped it back onto the desk. She tapped the spine of the book and pointed to a label, which read “Confined to the Library” in threatening black letters.
“You do realize this volume cannot be removed from the Hawksmoor Library?”
“Why?” asked Ursula.
“It is signed by the great historian S. A. Burrell, which makes it far too valuable to be taken to an undergraduate’s room. It is priceless and cannot be replaced,” the librarian explained victoriously.
Ursula sat back down, opened her satchel, took out her notepad and pen, and opened the Scottish Historical Review at the contents page. Her heart sank as she noted that the “article” began on page 146 and ended on page 402.
“No pens!” Ms. Brookethorpe rebuked her, snatching Ursula’s from her hand. “You may have this back when you leave. Readers are strictly forbidden from using ink in the Hawksmoor Library. Pencils only. 2B. You may collect one from the porter’s lodge and the cost will be added to your battels.”
This woman wanted her to lose the will to live, or at the very least the will to read, thought Ursula. She dug around and found a pencil in her satchel.
Ms. Brookethorpe conceded that point with a wilted sneer and slunk back to her desk.
Ursula looked at her watch. It was already after one in the morning! She turned to page 146 and read the first sentence of the article:
In the spring of 1639 Dr. Walter Balcanqual, soon to be Dean of Durham for his services as amanuensis and pamphleteer on behalf of King Charles I, remarked the astonishing arrogance of the Scottish Covenanting leaders in their various petitions and manifestos . . .
Who was Dr. Walter Balcanqual? wondered Ursula. What was an “amanuensis”?
She examined the footnote at the bottom of the page, hoping it might help. “See ‘Queries of D. Balcanq. to the King as to the Declaration’ (Wodrow MSS., Folio LXVI, No. 34 (1639?),” she read. Clarity did not envelop Ursula, even a tiny bit. She scanned the next lines:
In 1643 while the Solemn League and Covenant was under negotiation with England, the poet Drummond of Hawthornden pointed out the seeming absurdity of Covenanting aspirations.
The lengthy footnote to this sentence read, “William Drummond of Hawthornden, ‘SKIAMAXIA: or a Defence of a Petition Tendered to the Lords of the Council in Scotland,’ in Works, 1711.”
It took her at least forty-five minutes to get through the first few paragraphs of the article. The reading for her essay was going to be much more involved than she’d imagined when Dr. Dave had asked her to read “one short article.”
She stared dejectedly out of the window, exhaustion starting to overcome her. How bizarre: there was the ungainly silhouette of Claire Potter again. This time, she was crossing the lawn of Great Quad in the other direction, from the Monks’ Passage, the bottle of champagne still in her hand. When Claire reached the west side of the lawn, she disappeared towards the Gothic Buildings.
Ursula checked her watch again. Almost two a.m. As her tired eyes lingered on the moonlit quad, her brain suddenly sprang into life. What if . . . ? she wondered. What if Ms. Brookethorpe had been here late last night, working on her fragmented-Bible project? Would she have seen anything? Something? Someone? Out there, either going to or leaving Dr. Dave’s staircase? Could she have seen the murderer?
Ursula took off her high heels and padded softly over to the librarian’s desk.
“I was wondering . . .” she started.
Ms. Brookethorpe’s head shot up in irritation. “What is it?”
Hmmm, thought Ursula, it might not be the best approach to dive straight in and ask if the librarian had seen Lady India’s killer last night.
“Er . . . well, I’m kind of stuck.”
Ms. Brookethorpe regarded her suspiciously. “Stuck?”
“Some of the language in the article . . . I mean, do you know what an amanuensis is?”
“It’s the Latin for a scribe. Secretary.”
“Gosh, you’re clever,” said Ursula.
For the first time, she saw Ms. Brookethorpe look the tiniest bit pleased.
“Oh, well, no . . .” she started, embarrassed. “I’ve got a doctorate in Middle English. University of Monmouthshire.”
“Do you really work here all night on the Bible fragments?” asked Ursula.
Ms. Brookethorpe nodded. “It’s my passion.”
“So, you’re here every night?” Ursula was getting closer.
“Mostly. Oh, except Sundays. I sing in the college choir every Sunday evening.”
Drat, thought Ursula. The one night Brookethorpe wasn’t here was last night.
“But choir traditionally never takes place on the Sunday of 1st Week, so I came up here as usual.”
“Really?” said Ursula, trying not to let her excitement show. “It’s a terrific view from here over the quad at night.”
“I’m usually too busy working to notice it. Although last night . . . frightful row out there. Couldn’t concentrate at all. Terrible what happened to that poor girl. Unthinkable. In such a wonderful place . . .” Suddenly, Ms. Brookethorpe seemed to want to chat.
“I know,” agreed Ursula. “Did you see anyone out there you didn’t recognize last night, after the row? Anything . . . unusual?”
“I’ve been racking my brains about that. Wondering, did I see something? Hear anything? Could I help the police? All I know is, well, there was a jolly good shouting match out there, on the grass. We all heard who was in love with whom. You know, usual student nonsense.”
“Well, thank you for your help with the Latin word,�
�� said Ursula. “I’m going to read now—”
“But what was odd,” interjected Ms. Brookethorpe, “now I come to think of it . . .”
Ursula turned back to her. “What?”
“Well, it was just . . . Oh, it’s probably nothing.”
“It might not be nothing.”
“I suppose at the time I didn’t think anything of it. But a few minutes after the night porter had sent everyone home, I saw someone. Alone. Heading towards the Monks’ Cottages. It must have been, oh, half past midnight or so by then.”
Surely it hadn’t been Claire Potter the librarian had seen? But then, it could have been Claire. After all, she’d been right next to the scene of the crime for part of the evening. She could have seen India approaching Dr. Dave’s staircase, followed her into his rooms, and attacked her. But why, after that, would she have gone to the Monks’ Cottages rather than the Gothic Buildings, where her own room was located? What was in the Monks’ Cottages that so interested her? And why would she be going back tonight? Ursula wondered what Claire’s motive for murder would have been anyway. Even if she’d been upset that India had branded her a “lezzie,” was that a reason to slit someone’s throat? This wasn’t Carrie.* Or was it? wondered Ursula, with a slight shiver.
“Was it a girl you saw?” she asked.
Brookethorpe let out a bitter little laugh.
“A girl prowling the college grounds at night? I don’t think so.”
“You think it was a man?”
“I know it was a man. I know the cut of that jacket. The swoop of that . . .” Here Ms. Brookethorpe looked away, wistfully. “. . . that hair. In the full moon, I could see David—sorry, I mean Dr. Erskine—down there as though it were broad daylight.”
“Dr. Dave?” gasped Ursula. “How can you be sure it was him?”
“I just know. But don’t say a thing to anyone,” the librarian begged her.
“No, of course I won’t. But how peculiar that he was out there at that time,” said Ursula.
“Well . . . perhaps it wasn’t him. I don’t want to cause any trouble. No, I must have made a mistake—I’m sure of it now. Please forget what I said about Dr. Dave. Promise me,” she added, desperately clutching Ursula’s hands, “and I’ll let you take a duplicate copy of the Scottish Historical Review up to your room overnight.”
Chapter 19
Tuesday, 19 October, 1st Week: 2:30 a.m.
How could she ever forget, Ursula wondered to herself as she wearily descended the library stairs, that Ms. Brookethorpe had been so utterly convinced—and then so unconvincingly unconvinced—that she had seen Dr. Dave in Great Quad last night? Clutching the Scottish Historical Review under one arm, Ursula felt vaguely guilty that she had accepted Ms. Brookthorpe’s clear bribe to forget her tale, but getting the extra time to study the impenetrable text was an offer too advantageous to turn down.
“It’s a bit late for the library, isn’t it?” A male voice echoed up the stairwell.
Ursula started, afraid.
“Who’s there?!” she gasped, peering into the shadows at the bottom of the stairs.
“It’s me, Eg.”
“What are you doing here?” Ursula asked fearfully. Hadn’t Eg said he was spending the night taking care of Wenty? If so, why on earth was he wandering around college at half past two in the morning?
“Wenty’s fallen asleep—finally. I wanted some air, so I took a stroll round Great Quad. I saw you in the window of the library. I thought I’d wait and see you safely back to your room.”
“Thank you,” said Ursula uneasily, coming around the bend in the staircase to speak to him face-to-face. She wasn’t sure whether to be grateful for or suspicious of Eg’s gallantry. What if he was lying? What if he was the killer, and had been waiting for her . . . ?
There was an awkward silence while Eg drank in the novel sight of Ursula in Nancy’s party dress.
“Wow,” he said admiringly. “You look more beautiful than . . . a Christmas tree.”
Ursula just smiled shyly, flattered.
“Look, I didn’t mean to freak you out. Come on, I’ll walk you back. We don’t want another fatality tonight, do we?”
“You think the killer’s here, in the college? That’s really horrible,” said Ursula as they set off.
“We just need to stay safe.”
As they walked under the gate tower, Ursula glanced through the window of the lodge and saw two uniformed police officers inside, talking to the night porter.
“What are they doing here so late?” she asked Eg.
“I bet they’ll be here twenty-four hours a day for the next few days. Hey—Ursula, where are you going?” he said, as she opened the door to the lodge.
Ursula turned and winked at the boy. “Just checking my pigeonhole . . .” she said with a coy smile.
“There won’t be anything in it now.”
But Ursula ignored him and went inside, Eg following reluctantly. The pigeonhole was of course empty, but she grabbed a piece of paper and pretended to write a note while she listened to the police officers’ conversation with the night porter.
“. . . you’re saying you didn’t see anyone . . . unexpected that night?” asked one officer.
“I don’t think so,” replied Nicholas Deddington. “Everything was as usual.”
“When you say ‘as usual,’ sir, can you explain exactly what you mean by that?” the other officer said.
“The main entrance is locked at midnight. Anyone arriving after that rings and I let them in.”
Just then Nick became aware of Ursula and Eg. “I’ve got a parcel for you, Ursula,” he said. “Wouldn’t fit in your pigeonhole. Here.”
She thanked him and took the parcel, which had been wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, and stamped with the Dumbleton-under-Drybrook postmark. “Grannies!” cried Ursula. “A parcel from Granny and Granny,” she told Eg. She couldn’t wait to get back to her room and open it.
A few minutes later, as they made their way along the west side of Great Quad towards the passage leading to the Gothic Buildings, Ursula said, “You know India and Wenty had the most dreadful row out here last night, before she died.”
“Wenty told me the whole story tonight over cards,” Eg recalled.
“Do you know if he came straight back to the Old Drawing Room after the argument?” asked Ursula. “I don’t remember seeing him again after he’d gone after India, do you?”
“Is it true you’re writing this up for Cherwell?” Eg asked.
She nodded.
“I’m not going to be much help, I’m afraid. I was hanging out with Christian DJ-ing for most of the night, so I didn’t notice where Wenty was. There were so many people coming in and out.”
“True,” said Ursula. “What time did you get to bed?”
“Two, three maybe . . .”
“Was Wenty there when you went to bed?”
“Wait—you don’t think he did it? Come on!”
“I’m not saying that. I’m just trying to establish where everyone was last night.”
“Look, I was so knackered by the time I got to bed that I can barely remember my head touching the pillow. But when I woke up the next morning, very late, around midday, Wenty was still asleep in his room. We had a cig together in the Old Drawing Room. Of course, we had no idea that something terrible had happened to India.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Oh, mainly what an awesome party it had been. You know, the usual rubbish. Wenty bragging about how cool he was, that sort of thing.”
At this, Ursula sighed. Wenty was just as conceited as he seemed.
“Did he say anything about the argument he’d had with India?”
“He only mentioned it in passing. Wenty and India had so many fights that I didn’t take much notice at the time. He seemed pretty chilled actually. He was extremely happy that the washer-uppers had come back and cleaned up. When I went to bed the Old Drawing Room was trashed, but when w
e got up, it was immaculate.”
As Ursula’s staircase came into view, she noticed someone was emerging from the entrance, though she could only make out the silhouette of a caped figure. Eg must have seen the same person because he grabbed her by the waist and drew her swiftly into a flower bed against the wall of the Gothic Buildings.
“Ouch!” yelped Ursula as a thorny rosebush pricked her legs.
The figure approached and peered at the flower bed.
“Ursula! Daughter! I’ve been worried about you. Where have you been?”
It was Jocasta. Ursula’s mind was playing tricks on her. She had mistaken the floaty tunic she was wearing for a far more sinister cloak.
“What are you doing?” Jocasta asked, squinting at her for a moment before spotting Eg’s arm around Ursula’s waist.
“Okay. Right. Sorry, man. I can see I’m interrupting something private,” Jocasta said apologetically. “Am I an overprotective parent or what?”
“No,” protested Ursula, removing herself and her grannies’ parcel from Eg and the flower bed. “You’re not interrupting anything. Honestly.”
“I thought you were the murderer,” Eg explained as he followed Ursula back onto the path, “so I grabbed Ursula and we hid in the rosebushes.”
Dubious of his explantaion, Jocasta raised one eyebrow at the pair. “Look, guys, it’s fine. Just make sure you’re being safe,” she said in an understanding tone. “Have you got condoms—”
“It’s not like that,” Eg tried to explain. “We’re not . . .”
But Jocasta was already forcing one into Ursula’s hand. “The instructions are on the packet,” she said, soon wafting away along the Gothic passage and leaving Eg and Ursula to whatever she imagined they wanted to be left to do. Mortified, Ursula shoved the condom into the front pocket of her satchel, hoping it was too dark for Eg to see.
“Right, I’ll leave you here,” he said. “Unless . . . would you like me to . . . um, well . . . escort you up the stairs?” He looked longingly at her, and she felt a flutter of excitement inside.