Party Girls Die in Pearls

by Plum Sykes

  “Oh,” said Ursula, feeling humiliated. Wenty had not been asking her on a date after all.

  “I’ve heard you’re writing something for Cherwell,” he continued. “I think we can help each other. Breakfast? Please?”

  Chapter 22

  It was with some trepidation that Ursula followed Wenty under an awning displaying the words “Since 1654” and through the tiny front door of the Queen’s Lane Coffee House. Even if her rendezvous with him was strictly business, she had never experienced anything quite as intimate as an unaccompanied fry-up with a boy before.

  The little café was a welcome, warm respite from the rainy street. The interior was spartan—dark brown chairs and tables, plain oak beams and ancient-looking plastered walls. Portraits of the café’s previous undergraduate clientele—which apparently included Samuel Pepys and Lawrence of Arabia—were hung in nooks and corners, manna to tourists. The only clue that it wasn’t still 1654 inside the coffeehouse was the speckled yellow linoleum tile floor. The place was already crammed with students tucking into enormous cooked breakfasts of eggs, bacon, sausages, baked beans, and piles of fried white bread. Ursula was ravenous after the rowing session.

  “Do you mind if we sit over there?” asked Wenty. “Easier to talk about . . . well, everything.”

  He led her towards a rickety round table in a far corner, away from the crowd. Ursula hesitated for a moment, thinking the situation looked far too secluded and romantic for a breakfast that was strictly business. Wenty noticed her reluctance.

  “Don’t worry, no one’s going to think there’s anything going on, Flowerbutton,” he said.

  “Okay,” said Ursula, sitting down and noticing a pink plastic rose in a vase on the table. “I just don’t want anyone thinking we’re on, well, some kind of . . . breakfast date. It would be really unprofessional, for the article and everything.”

  “Flowerbutton, I wouldn’t ask you on a date if you paid me. You’re adorable, but you’re far too prim for me.” Wenty smiled and took a seat, looking very amused by his insult.

  “Wenty,” Ursula exclaimed, “you’re so full of yourself! And I am not prim.”

  “All right, square.”

  “Ughhhhhhh!” Ursula groaned. He was impossible. “Can we change the subject please?”

  “Sorry. You must be freezing. Here.”

  Wenty jumped up, took off his waterproof jacket, removed his dry sweatshirt, and tucked it around Ursula’s sodden shoulders. He was impossible, but perhaps the boy had a smidgen of gentlemanliness in his soul, she thought, hugging the sweatshirt round herself for warmth. A smidgen.

  “You look like you need a hot chocolate,” he suggested.

  “And that fry-up please,” she said. “I’m starving.”

  “Flowerbutton,” declared Wenty, “you’re a one-off.”

  “What?”

  “Of all the beautiful girls I have invited to breakfast here, not one has ever ordered the fry-up.”

  How predictable, thought Ursula. I am only one of many girls to have spent a rainy morning in a cozy corner of Queen’s Lane Coffee House with Wentworth Wychwood. That smidgen of goodness this boy possessed was probably such a small amount that it was almost negligible.

  A waiter approached. After Wenty had ordered two full English breakfasts, he said to Ursula, “India loathed coming here. She’d always order marmalade on toast, not touch it, and then complain to the waiter that it was cold. She was so contrary, but, at the same time no one knew how kind she was underneath all her bravado. She used to visit her old nanny in her little cottage in Brattenbury every time she went home. Adored her. India even put up with my dreadful piano playing. I’m hopeless, but she pretended I was good.”

  “That’s sweet,” said Ursula.

  “She had her difficult side, of course. People thought she was spoiled, arrogant. But I understood why she behaved the way she did.”

  At this, Ursula’s ears pricked up. “What do you mean?”

  “Her mother ran off to a squat in Clapham to be a heroin addict with some cockney artist when India was three. Died a few years later. Tragic. India was raised by her nanny until Lord Brattenbury packed her off to boarding school when she was seven. India was the most insecure, most messed-up girl I ever met . . . I was crazy about her . . . She made you crazy.”

  Ursula nodded, but didn’t feel any more enlightened. What did Wenty mean, India made him crazy? Crazy enough to kill her? Out of jealousy? If he was so infatuated with her, though, why had he slept with Isobel? And what about all the other girls who everyone claimed Wenty was chasing behind India’s back?

  Just then, the waiter returned with a large tray and set two full platters on the table. Ursula and Wenty tucked in, both famished. Ursula sipped at the delicious hot chocolate. Wenty took a gulp of his coffee, and then, looking sadly at Ursula, he said, “Have you got any idea what happened to India? Do you know anything, Flowerbutton?”

  “Not much,” replied Ursula. She obviously wasn’t going to tell him about Otto’s bizarre outburst the previous night. Or the information she’d gleaned from Isobel. “But I think you might be able to help, Wenty. You’re one of the last people who spoke to or saw India that night. I need you to tell me everything you know.”

  He produced a sodden packet of Marlboro Reds and a plastic lighter from his back pocket.

  “It’s my fault that she’s dead, you know,” he said, lighting the first of many cigarettes. “I might as well have done it.”

  “What?” said Ursula, trying not to look too shocked. Was she about to hear a second confession, of sorts?

  Wenty rubbed one side of his head, the cigarette almost singeing his hair. “Flowerbutton, if I hadn’t called you Unforgettable that night, India would still be alive today. She was very insecure. Got easily jealous . . . you saw her. She was furious with me. Probably had every right to be.” Wenty stopped talking for a moment, an embarrassed expression on his face. “I wasn’t a very good boyfriend.”

  “Really,” said Ursula, deadpan. His admission was hardly a surprise to her.

  “Someone told her—God knows who, I could murder them—that I’d shagged Isobel Floyd. Of course, I told India I hadn’t. I mean, Isobel was her best friend, for God’s sake, what kind of person would do that?”

  Had Otto been lying, wondered Ursula, when he had told India that Wenty had been up to no good with Isobel? Had he just used it to try and steal India away for himself?

  “Why would someone say that about you and Isobel if it wasn’t true?” asked Ursula, munching on her fried bread.

  Wenty looked sheepish. “It wasn’t exactly not true.”

  “I see.”

  “Look, I shagged Isobel, okay. Behind the Pimm’s tent, New College ball. We were both blotto, so if you ask me it doesn’t count. I couldn’t tell India the truth, but I wasn’t a very good liar. She knew. It was obvious. And then when she heard me call you Unforgettable at the party, that was it. She went nuts on me in Great Quad. I begged her to forgive me. You know, I loved her more than anything. I’d never have cheated on her if I’d been sober, never! But instead of forgiving me, she wanted to punish me. She was still at it with Dr. Dave, I’m sure of it.”

  “Really?” asked Ursula. Everyone had said the affair with Dave had been over for a long time, but perhaps Wenty was onto something.

  “Revolting ponce. India was always up in his rooms having ‘long talks.’ I mean, please! If she wasn’t still in love with him, why did she go to his rooms on Sunday night?”

  “I don’t know. No one does yet. What happened when you went back to the party after the row in Great Quad?” asked Ursula.

  “I was worried about India . . . angry . . . jealous. I went back into the Old Drawing Room and found Otto. We went to the bathroom for a private chat and I asked him to go after India and tell her that I was sorry about Isobel. I couldn’t bear to let a bit of extracurricular activity part us forever. I thought I’d marry India, one day.” A tear rolled slowly down Wenty
’s cheek. “Sorry,” he said, brushing it away. “Anyway, Otto said he knew India felt the same way about me, and then he went off to retrieve her. But he never came back. After an hour or so, I started getting concerned. I decided to go over to the staircase myself.”

  That was odd, thought Ursula. Ms. Brookethorpe hadn’t said anything about seeing Wenty crossing Great Quad that night. She had only mentioned spotting Dr. Dave walking towards the Monks’ Cottages.

  “Did you see anyone in Great Quad as you walked over?”

  “No,” said Wenty. “But I was so furious I probably wouldn’t have noticed if the entire Household Cavalry had been on parade. I just wanted to get to India before . . .” He trailed off, his face grim.

  “Before what?” asked Ursula.

  “Oh . . . nothing. It’s pointless now. I was too late anyway.”

  What did he mean? she wondered. Had he somehow known that India was in danger? Was he too late to save her life? Was she already dead by the time he reached Dr. Dave’s rooms? Did this mean that Otto had, in fact, done her in?

  “Are you saying, Wenty, that India was already dead by the time you reached Dr. Dave’s rooms?”

  “Dead? Ha! God, no.” He laughed bitterly. “When I got to the staircase, India was alive and kicking . . . or should I say alive and shagging?”

  “You saw her with—”

  “I didn’t need to,” he interrupted. “I could hear them at it. Laughing, giggling, screaming. They were bonking so hard I could hear everything from the bottom of the staircase. That feeling I’d had for a while, that she was shagging someone behind my back—I was right.”

  The whole thing was far worse than Wenty realized, thought Ursula. She dreaded to think about what would happen when he discovered, which he inevitably would, that India had not been with Dr. Dave that night, but with Wenty’s “loyal” friend Otto.

  “What did you do?” asked Ursula.

  “I . . . er . . . didn’t want to go up . . . It would have been too humiliating,” Wenty said, then hesitated for a moment. “So I went back to my rooms. Went to bed. Didn’t wake up till midday on Monday.”

  If Wenty hadn’t gone up the stairs, as he said, he couldn’t possibly have killed India. But was he telling the truth? A nasty sense of doubt crept over Ursula. Ms. Brookethorpe didn’t seem to have noticed Wenty going back across the quad to his rooms. Could she really have missed him twice?

  “Look, sorry,” he continued, glancing at his watch. “I’ve got to get to a lecture. We could carry this on later. Why don’t you . . . come up to my rooms . . . after dinner?”

  Ursula frowned at the boy. He seemed unable to resist flirting, whatever the circumstances. After her experience with Jago, the last thing she was going to do was go to Wenty’s rooms alone, at night. She wasn’t interested in becoming one of his many conquests.

  “I can’t,” said Ursula. She couldn’t resist adding, “You see, I’m busy tonight. I’ve got a date. I’m going for dinner at Chez Romain.”

  “Ooh, la-di-da! Chez Romance, don’t you mean? You’ve only been in Oxford a few days and already you’re going to the couples’ restaurant.”

  “The couples’ restaurant?”

  “It’s so expensive that after one dinner there, you’re officially a couple with whoever took you. It’s much too extravagant for a casual date. Anyway, who are you going with?”

  “Eg, as a matter of fact,” replied Ursula.

  “Eg?” Wenty chortled.

  The idea of Eg and Ursula on a date prompted tears, this time of laughter, to flow from Wenty’s eyes. Ursula had no idea what was so funny.

  Chapter 23

  By the time Ursula arrived back at college that morning, soaked and freezing, she was desperate to change into something warm and dry before starting her day properly. The freshly shortened mini kilts beckoned. But her attention was soon distracted from her sartorial musings by the sight of Ben Braithwaite, looking like a frightened weasel, being shepherded out of college by two police officers. Ursula smiled at him as reassuringly as she could, but Ben, clearly paralyzed with terror, did not respond. How on earth was he connected to India’s death? she wondered.

  En route to her room, she headed to the porter’s lodge to check her pigeonhole. As she approached, she could hear Deddington’s voice. He sounded irate.

  “As I’ve already explained, college isn’t open to the public this morning, sir.”

  Ursula slipped into the lodge, where she saw the porter talking to a man dressed in a long black overcoat and holding a scruffy briefcase. He was unshaven and had lank, greasy hair.

  “Come on, just a quick walk around?” said the man, taking out a ten-pound note.

  “Impossible.” Deddington pushed the note back into the man’s pocket. “There’s police all over college. No one’s allowed in unless they’re a member of the university.”

  Ursula took her time opening the one note she found in her pigeonhole while continuing to eavesdrop on the conversation between Deddington and the strange man.

  “This was Lady India Brattenbury’s college? You can confirm that at least?” the man persisted.

  “No idea, sorry,” Deddington said, shaking his head. “Now, do I need to show you out? Or should I ask the police to do that?”

  “I’ll find my own way.” With that, the man speedily exited the lodge, eyeing Ursula furiously as he did so.

  “What was all that about?” she asked the porter.

  “Daily Mail. Neil Thistleton, he said his name was. Snooping around. Don’t speak to him if you see him around town. Gutter journalist,” he grumbled.

  “I won’t,” Ursula promised.

  She turned her attention back to the note in her hand. The photocopied sheet was from Eleanor Thompson and it read:

  Freshers’ Eight meet again 6 a.m., Saturday, porter’s lodge.

  Alas, thought Ursula. Friday was the night of the Vincent’s cocktail party. Getting up for six a.m. after an evening out wasn’t exactly her idea of fun. But if she were ever to make the boat team, she didn’t have much choice. Despite all his faults, Wenty’s excellent coaching had inspired her to go for it, rowing-wise. She wanted to impress him and make the team next term.

  Her plan for today was to spend the morning in the library, attacking “The Apocalyptic Vision of the Early Covenanters” with renewed vigor, and the afternoon gathering more material for her article. She needed to think how to approach Dr. Dave. Was there a polite way to ask your don about the details of a love affair with his student?

  As she made her way to her staircase from the lodge, Ursula suddenly heard agitated voices coming from the direction of the provost’s lodgings, the Georgian mansion situated in the southwest corner of Great Quad. She drew close to the building and noticed the front door was just ajar.

  “. . . I’m afraid it’s not good news, High Provost.”

  Ursula stopped outside the house. The dry tones of DI Trott were unmistakable. He continued, “We believe the girl was murdered—”

  “—but you can’t be sure? That it was murder?” Ursula now heard High Provost Scrope’s alarmed voice.

  “We’re ninety-nine percent certain that Lady India died at someone else’s hands. The autopsy is due to take place later this morning at the John Radcliffe Hospital, and I have no doubt that the procedure will confirm the suspicions of the police force. Now, I have some questions for you, High Provost.”

  “Rather busy this morning, I’m afraid. I’m chairing a meeting of the fund-raising committee shortly. Could you come back another time? It would be so unfortunate if any members of the committee were to see a police officer here.”

  “This won’t take long,” Ursula heard Trott say.

  Suddenly she noticed a woman peering at her through a large sash window on the ground floor of the house. Her face was powdered and lipsticked, and her hair coiffed into a twirl resembling a Walnut Whip. She was wearing a royal blue suit and a pale yellow blouse with a huge pussycat bow tied at the neck. Sh
e appeared to have modeled herself on Margaret Thatcher. She was sitting at an old-fashioned mahogany desk, neatly arranged with various documents. That must be Scrope’s secretary, Mrs. Gifford-Pennant, thought Ursula, noting the typewriter and telephone on the woman’s desk.

  “Wouldn’t have thought a college as wealthy as Christminster needs a fund-raising committee.” Trott sounded surprised.

  “It does if we are to remain the richest college in Oxford,” Scrope told him curtly.

  “Perhaps we could start with that,” Trott replied. “I understand that generations of Brattenburys have attended Christminster and that the family has pledged a considerable endowment to the college.”

  “Mrs. Gifford-Pennant!” called out Scrope. “Please show this gentleman into the drawing room. And cancel the fund-raising meeting.”

  Ursula watched from outside as the secretary hurriedly jumped up from her seat and disappeared from the room. Next, Ursula heard footsteps in the hall. Seconds later, Mrs. Gifford-Pennant’s meringue-like coiffure and powdered nose appeared around the slightly open front door of the provost’s house. She squinted at Ursula suspiciously and abruptly slammed the door.

  * * *

  What did the Brattenbury family have to do with the Christminster College finances? Was this endowment somehow connected to India’s death? Ursula wondered as she clambered up the steep stairs to her room a few minutes later. When she reached it, Alice was inside, cleaning.

  “You look like you need a mustard bath,” the scout said when she saw the girl’s bedraggled state.

  “No time,” Ursula told her. “I’ve got to get to the library.”

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it then,” said Alice, ducking out of the room, which, Ursula noticed, was now immaculate.

  As soon as she was alone, Ursula removed her damp tracksuit and changed into a black turtleneck sweater, a red tartan now-mini kilt, and gray woolly tights. She laced up her Dr. Martens boots and threw on the bomber jacket that her groovy godmother had given her, hoping she looked much less Beatrix Potter–like than she had a few days before.