Party Girls Die in Pearls

by Plum Sykes

  “So the attacker was right-handed,” whispered Nancy.

  “I guess,” Ursula whispered back.

  “Which rules almost everyone in as a potential suspect,” Nancy said regretfully, her voice hushed.

  Doc went on. “The depth of the wound is twenty millimeters. The wound is straight-edged, which leads me to assume that the chin was raised during the attack. This stretching of the skin leads to a clean wound, rather than the jagged cut seen when a weapon is drawn over loose skin.”

  “What sort of person lifts someone’s chin to kill them?” Nancy asked quietly. “That’s so weird.”

  “I can’t imagine.” Ursula shuddered.

  “The jugular vein has been severed, causing the pooling of blood that was seen at the scene of the crime, and consistent with venous bleeding,” Doc continued. “However, I must caution that the severing of the jugular vein was not the cause of death. There was not enough blood loss for that.”

  Ursula got out her reporter’s notebook, which she hoped could pass for a medical student’s, and started taking notes. She’d never get the details right otherwise.

  “On close examination, it is apparent that the jugular vein was divided during the attack. There is a hole—measuring half a centimeter—that left the wound open to the environment. This leads me to conclude that, since the victim could not and did not die as a result of blood loss, that an air embolism is the official cause of death. An air embolism is caused by aspiration into a cut jugular vein while standing or sitting with the neck at a higher level than the thorax. It literally sucks air from the outside into the vein. The air remains in the right side of the heart. Death is usually immediate.”

  “Do you think the killer just meant to wound her?” asked Nancy, her tone still low.

  “Maybe,” Ursula replied.

  “This is a peculiar case,” continued Doc. “Often when someone is stabbed in the neck they don’t die immediately. They’re still capable of moving. They struggle. This girl didn’t. There are no defense wounds on her arms or hands. No contusions. There was no blood anywhere else apart from on her neck and dress. The room was undisturbed with no sign of a fight. She was attacked in the exact position she was found, with her upper body slightly raised on the upper part of the chaise longue. The hypostasis in her left foot confirms this.”

  “I knew it!” said Nancy triumphantly.

  A medic tapped her on the shoulder. “Sssshhhhhh!” he scolded.

  “Sorry,” Nancy apologized. Then, seemingly out of the blue, more quietly, she said, “Hey, what are you gonna wear on your date tonight?”

  “Er . . . I’m not really thinking about it right now,” murmured Ursula, trying to concentrate on her note taking. “Maybe I’ll just wear this.” She looked down at her mini kilt, which was definitely trendy enough for a date.

  “You cannot wear a woolen skirt, however short it is, on a romantic dinner date!” Nancy told her, highly indignant. “I’ll lend you something. I’ve got the perfect dress. You’ll die when you see it.”

  Ursula smiled, looking forward to wearing one of Nancy’s party dresses again. “If you’re sure,” she said gratefully.

  Meanwhile, Doc was still pondering India’s murder out loud. “Now, why would a girl lie on a chaise longue and allow her throat to be slit without defending herself? Did she know her attacker extremely well? So well that when he came up behind her she had no reason to suspect any ill intent? How did the murderer manage to break a glass without alerting his victim to the fact that she was in imminent danger? Was the glass perhaps already broken when the murderer arrived on the scene? Did India break the glass herself? Luckily, I have no need to answer such questions. My job is purely to define the cause of death for the courts. My conclusion is that the girl died as a result of an air embolism.”

  A technician rushed up with a note in his hand. “Doc, the bloods are here,” he said. “The victim had extremely high levels of alcohol in her blood. No indication of any narcotics. The stomach contents show that she hadn’t eaten for at least ten or twelve hours before the attack took place. The alcohol would have been absorbed into her bloodstream much more quickly than if she had eaten. She would have felt highly intoxicated.”

  Ursula nudged Nancy. “No drugs. Wow. Looks like Otto didn’t give her that half tab of acid.”

  “But why would he lie about that?”

  “No idea,” said Ursula softly. “I think he’s covering something up. I don’t know what, and I don’t know why. But I just don’t believe India would have spent the night in his arms without chemical help.”

  “But she was ‘highly intoxicated,’” Nancy reminded her.

  “True. But was she intoxicated enough to feel as though she was in lust with Otto?”

  “I see what you mean. I’d have to drink the entire Champagne region dry before I even kissed the guy on the cheek,” Nancy conceded.

  Doc was finishing up, replacing his instruments and untying his gown. A nurse took it from him, and he handed her his used gloves. He suddenly stopped and jokingly whacked the side of his own head.

  “Oops—forgot something,” he said. He removed the cigar from the corner of his mouth and addressed the medical secretary. “Add this to the report: The fingerprints on the glass were smudged, so they’re not much use. But there was a tiny trace of sodium dimethyldithiocarbamate on that shard of glass.”

  “Sodium dimethyl-whatty?” repeated Ursula, attempting to scrawl down the name of the chemical as best she could

  “I haven’t a clue,” said Nancy. “But I know someone who would.”

  “Who?” asked Ursula.

  “My brother, Frank. I told you, he’s doing medicine. He knows all this kind of stuff. I’ll call him as soon as we get back.”

  “Call him?!” Ursula was shocked. “You can’t telephone America from a college pay phone. You’d need at least forty or fifty ten-p coins. Send him a telegram instead.”

  “Okay, sure,” said Nancy. “Fingers crossed he can help.”

  “Right, inform the family that the funeral can go ahead on Thursday,” Doc told the uniformed policeman. Then he said to a junior doctor, “Put everything back in and sew her up.”

  “Yes, Doc,” said the young man, moving to retrieve the organs from the tubs.

  Then Doc suddenly changed his mind, saying, “On second thought, I’ll keep her brain for the collection in my office. I’ve never had an aristocrat’s brain before.* It’ll be fascinating for lectures.”

  With that, he plopped Lady India’s brain into a large jar of formaldehyde and gazed lovingly at the spongy-looking object as it sank to the bottom. “Beautiful girl, beautiful brain,” he said cheerfully, before adding, “ugly death.”

  Clutching his trophy, Doc bade a jaunty farewell to the staff. Just as he was about to push open the swing doors, he caught sight of Ursula and Nancy. He stopped. Oh dear, thought Ursula to herself, we’re in deep trouble now.

  “Ah, Holmes and Watson, isn’t it?” he said with a friendly tone.

  “We prefer Cagney and Lacey,”* replied Nancy. “More modern.”

  “Quite right. Didn’t realize you two were medics. Keep up the good work. We need more women doctors.”

  “We sure do,” replied Nancy, flashing a confident smile at the pathologist.

  “Well,” he said, “I hope this morning kept you entertained.”

  “It was awesome, Doc,” Nancy told him sincerely. “But you’ve given me a phobia of champagne glasses. Almost makes me never want to go to another cocktail party again. Almost.”

  Chapter 25

  The sight of Horatio Bentley holding court beneath the gate tower that afternoon was a soothing antidote to the bleak hours spent in the morgue that day. While Nancy popped into the lodge to check for a missive from Next Duke, Ursula listened with amusement as he assigned various gossipy stories to a couple of student hacks.

  “. . . I heard the Corpus Christi sherry party was a huge embarrassment,” he said, grinning gleef
ully. “One of the Latin scholars drank all the sherry before the guests arrived. A dry night was had by all. Gillian, you can write that up?”

  “Sure,” a girl agreed, scribbling details on a notepad.

  “Bobby, can you take on an item about Harry Bladon? He’s been censured by the Keble JCR committee. The entire college is incensed by his hogging of the college pay phone.”

  “Who’s he telephoning?” asked Bobby, an eager-looking boy.

  “Seccies. The rumor is that he’s so intellectually insecure he won’t ask female undergraduates out. Thinks secretarial college students are easier to talk to. Pathetic dweeb.”

  “No problem,” replied Bobby.

  “Au revoir, hackettes!” cooed Horatio to the two writers as they dashed off after their stories. “And bonsoir, beauty,” he added, noticing Ursula. “How’s your day going?”

  “Rather gothic, actually,” she replied. Then, dropping her voice, she continued, “We’ve been at India’s autopsy.”

  “How grisly,” he gasped. “What did you discover—”

  Before Ursula could answer, she was interrupted by a shriek from Nancy.

  “Guys. I don’t believe it. A note from Next Duke!” Nancy was as pink and quivery as an overwhipped Angel Delight. “Listen.”

  Dear Miss Feingold (if you must insist on using my title, I’ll insist on using yours),

  “So witty!” she giggled. “I dig funny guys. Oh my God, wait until you hear this.”

  Her voice going up an octave every few lines, she read on:

  I was touched to receive your note and your extraordinarily generous offer to dry-clean my jacket. I cannot accept. Were the garment in question to be cleaned every time someone spilled a glass of champagne or vomited on it, it would spend so much time at Jeeves that I would never actually get to wear the tatty old thing.

  “Next Duke’s so self-deprecating. I mean, did you ever see a better-dressed guy? How hot,” Nancy continued, enraptured.

  But Ursula’s mind was back at the hospital.

  “If India didn’t have any narcotics in her blood, that means that Otto didn’t give her any. Doesn’t it?” she asked out loud.

  “What are you on about?” Horatio looked thoroughly confused.

  “Sorry. Otto told us he spiked India’s drink with LSD, but the autopsy results contradict that.”

  “Oh my God, listen to this!” squeaked Nancy, utterly engrossed in Next Duke’s letter.

  As a token of my appreciation of your offer, may I invite you to join me—

  Ursula interrupted her friend. “So if he didn’t give the LSD to India, what did he do with it? Perhaps he gave it to someone else? But who? Maybe he didn’t give it to anyone at all. Perhaps it’s still in the pocket of his tailcoat. And if it is, then—”

  But Nancy wasn’t listening. She went on,

  —for a picnic breakfast at sunrise on Port Meadow this Saturday?

  “Hang on a momento,” exclaimed Horatio. “Am I to believe that Paddington is asking you on some kind of date?”

  “Paddington?” Nancy looked puzzled.

  “Everyone calls him that. He looks so like an orphaned teddy bear.”

  “He does not!” she retorted. “Next Duke is the most beautiful boy I have ever wanted to make out with. And the poshest.”

  “I feel a diary item coming on,” said Horatio. “This is actual news. Algernon Dalkeith has never been on a date since he started at Merton two years ago, despite the attentions of many wannabe duchesses.”

  “Who?” asked Nancy, flummoxed.

  “Sorry. Until he inherits the dukedom, the eldest son of a duke bears a different name and title to his father, the current Duke of Dudley. Next Duke’s real name is Algernon, Marquess of Dalkeith,” Horatio explained.

  “Next Duke’s way easier,” countered Nancy.

  “What a shame you can’t go on the sunrise date with him,” Ursula commented.

  “What do you mean I can’t go?”

  “Rowing squad. We meet on Saturday again at six, remember?”

  Nancy’s face fell. “My parents would literally stop paying for college if I turned down a date with the next Duke of Dudley. This is a major social opportunity for me.”

  “Ursula, can’t you make an excuse for her?” asked Horatio. “For the sake of the Feingold clan. For the sake of Cherwell. This is going to be a marvelous John Evelyn story.”

  “I guess. Just this once,” she said reluctantly.

  “Thank you, Ursula. I’ll pay you back, I promise. Okay, I’m gonna go compose a poetic reply. See you at four thirty—I’m psyched to try Marmite with Mrs. Deddington.”

  With that, Nancy dashed off in the direction of her room, clutching Next Duke’s note tightly to her chest.

  “I’m going to try and pin down Otto,” Ursula told Horatio. Her essay would just have to wait until after her dinner with Eg.

  “Good luck, sweetie,” he said. “I’m off to the cinema. Another Country’s* showing again. It’ll be even better the sixth time.”

  Having bid Horatio good-bye, Ursula set off towards Monks’ Cottages. She’d started to feel convinced—she wasn’t quite sure why; it was just a sense she had—that if she could learn the whereabouts of the missing half of the acid tablet, she might be one step closer to figuring out what had really happened on Sunday night.

  Monks’ Cottages had a far cozier feel than any of the quadrangles Ursula had so far seen in Oxford. It could be accessed by a narrow passageway on the eastern side of Great Quad, and consisted of a collection of low higgledy-piggledy stone dwellings built around a tiny grassy courtyard with a cobbled path running around the edge. There was an ancient well in the middle, overshadowed by an old apple tree, and the borders were filled with autumnal seed heads. She did hope she would be billeted here in her second year.

  Ursula could hear the washing machines turning over on the ground floor of Staircase A, and noticed a couple of students wandering out of the student laundry lugging their washing. Otto’s rooms, she knew, were in Staircase D, where India’s had been as well.

  A chill enveloped Ursula as soon as she stepped inside the arched entrance. India’s name was, of course, still on the board listing the staircase’s occupants—she had been in Room 3. Otto was in Room 4. Both rooms were on the second floor.

  Ursula headed up the staircase towards Otto’s room, praying that he would be in this afternoon. As she reached the top of the stairs, the first thing that caught her eye was the blue-and-white police tape across the front of India’s room. “Crime Scene Do Not Enter,” read the words on it. Next, she spotted a hunched heap on the floor outside the door to Otto’s room. As she drew closer, it became apparent that the heap was human. Arms hugging its legs, head buried in its knees, the heap was hiding its face. Whoever it was, Ursula thought to herself, was in a pathetic state.

  “Erm . . . hello?” she said softly.

  The heap responded by burying its head even deeper in the folds of its clothes. It was then that Ursula clocked the clunky brogues and thick maroon tights protruding from the bottom of a particularly unappealing gray flannel skirt. There was only one person in college who dressed like a geography teacher. Ursula knew instantly that the heap before her was none other than Claire Potter.

  “Claire?” she asked. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” grunted the heap, sounding annoyed.

  Claire Potter momentarily lifted her head and looked at Ursula. Her face was red and blotchy, her eyelids swollen. Submerged in the inflated puffiness of her complexion, her eyes appeared to have shrunk to the size of two tiny currants.

  Ursula was concerned. “Claire, what’s happened?”

  “Nothing. That’s what. Nothing!” came the angry reply.

  “Nothing?”

  “He’s ignoring me. Pretending nothing happened.”

  “Who? Do you want to talk about it?” Ursula asked, sitting down next to her. She noticed the other girl was clutching a pen and paper in one hand.

&
nbsp; “No,” retorted Claire, and started frantically scribbling on the notepaper. Ursula looked over the girl’s shoulder as she wrote.

  Prince Otto Schuffenecker,

  You are informed that your membership of the Christminster College Crosswords and Ice Cream Society has been revoked, nulled, voided, and canceled.

  Claire Potter

  President

  Christminster College Crosswords and Ice Cream Society

  Tears spurting from her already swollen eyes, Claire heaved herself up from the floor and pinned her note to Otto’s door.

  “I never even invited him in the first place!”

  “Invited him to what?”

  “My Crosswords and Ice Cream club.”

  “Did he come?”

  “Yes.”

  “But that’s so strange,” Ursula said. Why would Otto have claimed he spent Sunday night locked in an embrace with India if he was at Claire’s crosswords club?

  “What, that someone like that would want to be with someone like me? Is that what you’re saying is ‘so strange’?” Claire asked bitterly.

  “No, no, of course not,” said Ursula, trying to calm the girl, although, if she was brutally honest, she did think it odd that Otto would have chosen to spend the evening after Wenty’s party with Claire rather than India. “Just tell me what happened.”

  Claire shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “Why?” asked Ursula.

  “It’s too embarrassing. I just want to forget about it.” She turned and started to walk back downstairs.

  “Claire, wait. This could be really important. I need to find out who killed India. It’s scary, not knowing who did it. Having a murderer wandering around Oxford. Or even in Christminster.”

  Claire looked spooked and paused at the top of the stairs. “I couldn’t tell the police what really happened,” she croaked. “I lied to them in my interview. What’s going to happen to me?” Her voice rose higher with panic.