Party Girls Die in Pearls

by Plum Sykes

  “Where else have you taken girls on dates before, then?” she asked.

  Eg looked deeply uncomfortable. It was most odd that the smoothest, most sophisticated boy Ursula had ever come across seemed to be allergic to any conversation related to going out with a girl.

  “Well . . . the thing is . . . I guess, nowhere really,” he mumbled.

  “Nowhere—?” started Ursula.

  “Mademoiselle. Monsieur,” the head waiter interrupted.

  He was trailed by two younger-looking waiters, each bearing a huge platter covered with an enormous, gleaming silver cloche. The platters were set down in front of Ursula and Eg, and the silver domes simultaneously and flamboyantly removed.

  Ursula could barely hide her disappointment when she saw her starter. The cloche had hidden an eggcup-sized glass containing no more than two teaspoonfuls of prawns and Marie Rose sauce. How on earth was she going to make this last?!

  “So this is what they call nouvelle cuisine?” Eg chuckled as he looked at his platter. Positioned in the center were four melon balls no larger than marbles. “Perhaps I should have taken you for a kebab.”

  Ursula was just about to dig her spoon into the minuscule portion of prawn cocktail when she heard Eg clear his throat several times. She looked up to find that Eg had his eyes shut tight and his hands clasped in prayer over his plate.

  “O Lord,” he began, “who has multiplied loaves and fishes, and converted water to wine, O Lord come to our table, as guest and giver, to dine. Amen.”

  He paused for a few moments, then popped his eyes open. “Sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t be,” replied Ursula. “It’s lovely to say grace sometimes.”

  “It’s just a bad habit really,” joked Eg, plopping a melon ball into his mouth. “Dad says grace at every meal.”

  “Wow, he must be very religious.”

  “He has to be. He’s the bishop of Nairobi. Very strict Anglican.”

  The last thing Ursula had expected was to discover that someone as suave as Eg was a vicar’s son.

  “My mother was a Sunday school teacher,” he went on. “She met my dad in church. What do your parents do, Ursula?”

  Now it was her turn to feel anxious.

  “My father, he was . . .” Ursula trailed off for a moment, remembering her father’s handsome smile in that treasured wedding photo. “He was a doctor. Mummy was a musician.”

  “Was?” said Eg slowly, kindly.

  “They died when I was six. An accident.”

  “I’m sorry,” he replied sympathetically. “I’d never have imagined anything like that in your background. You’re always so cheerful.”

  “I have so much to be cheerful about,” Ursula reassured him. “I was raised by my two grandmothers. They each lost a child, but they are the strongest women I know. They always told me Mummy and Dad wouldn’t want me to be sad, they’d want me to enjoy life. So that’s what I try and do. I miss my parents every day, but I know they are watching over me, all the time, from heaven.”

  Ursula couldn’t quite believe it when Eg teared up. He dabbed at his eyes with his napkin.

  “Oh, Eg, don’t be sorry for me,” she insisted. “I’m lucky. My grannies are amazing. They love me so much.”

  “Crikey, look at me,” he replied, blowing his nose. “I am the biggest wimp. I cried all the way through E.T.”

  The trio of waiters soon arrived with the next course. Ursula’s salmon en croûte was the size of a goldfish, she noted sadly when the next cloche came off, while Eg’s duck à l’orange was barely bigger than a chick.

  “Do you miss Nairobi?” asked Ursula, taking a teeny-tiny bite in an attempt to make her food last.

  “It’s nice to have a bit of freedom, actually,” said Eg. “In Nairobi, I certainly wouldn’t be taking a nice English girl out for dinner.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  “Well, actually, I wouldn’t be able to take any girl for dinner. Kenya’s really old-fashioned still. The bishop’s son is supposed to marry a good religious girl from our tribe.”

  Ursula felt confused. If Eg’s romantic destiny lay with a girl in Nairobi, why had he invited her on a date?

  After the main course had been cleared, a waiter wheeled the most extraordinary trolley of puddings up to their table. There were meringues, tarte tatins, gateaux, trifles, crème brûlée—all in enormous quantities. Thank goodness, thought Ursula—her tummy was still rumbling.

  As they tucked into dishes heaped with two or three puddings each, Eg said, “But . . . I’m not sure that’s for me. When I saw you at Wenty’s party—this exquisite English girl—I thought, I’ve got to ask you out for dinner. Even if it’s forbidden.”

  “Forbidden?” She was starting to feel alarmed.

  “Look, I’ll admit something to you. This is the first date I’ve been on in Oxford,” he said, looking absolutely mortified.

  Was this why Wenty had laughed so hard when Ursula had told him that Eg had invited her for dinner?

  “Okay,” she said. “My turn to admit something. It’s my first date too!”

  They burst out laughing together. Eg scooped up his last spoonful of pudding. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  A little later, as they were walking back to college, Eg put his arm around Ursula’s shoulders and pulled her in towards him. They wandered happily along Broad Street, past the cafés and tourist shops, and then turned into Christminster Lane. The only thing that dampened Ursula’s mood was the sight of a police car departing from outside the college gates. She tried her hardest not to think about India’s murder. She wanted to keep romance uppermost in her mind.

  When they reached the landing outside her bedroom, Eg turned Ursula towards him, a hand on each of her shoulders, and said, “Ursula, you are . . .” he looked lingeringly at her lips. “. . . very special.”

  Finally, thought Ursula, kissing time. She closed her eyes expectantly. Absolutely nothing occurred. Patience, she told herself. She waited a little longer. She felt Eg remove his hands from her shoulders. Then she heard footsteps on the stairs.

  Ursula pinged her eyes open. Eg was halfway down the staircase.

  “Good night, lovely Ursula,” he said, half turning back towards her. “God bless you.”

  Chapter 29

  Wednesday, 20 October, 1st Week: Morning

  “The temperature in this bathroom is literally a violation of my basic human rights. I still don’t get why Northwestern has en suites and Oxford basically has horse stables with bathtubs in them.”

  Nancy, bellowing her complaints from the bathtub in the cubicle next to Ursula’s, was not particularly enjoying the bracing draft circulating in the communal bathroom at the bottom of the girls’ staircase in the Gothic Buildings at eight o’clock that Wednesday morning.

  “Nancy, no one turns the heating on in England in October. You just put on another sweater,” Ursula told her.

  “In the bath?” replied Nancy. “Anyway, how was it?”

  “What?” Ursula replied, knowing perfectly well what Nancy was referring to.

  “Your romantic dinner. Did you make out?”

  This was so embarrassing. “I suppose . . . well . . . no,” she admitted.

  “Why not?”

  “I have no idea,” said Ursula. “Instead of kissing me at the end of the night, he blessed me!”

  “Oh my God, that is so creepola.” Nancy sounded horrified. “You need to be careful. He might be one of those gross Moonies.”*

  Just then, Ursula heard the pay phone ringing in the corridor outside for the first time since she had arrived in Oxford.

  “It’s way too cold to go answer it,” called Nancy from her cubicle.

  “Otto told us never to answer the pay phone anyway, in case it’s someone’s parents,” agreed Ursula.

  Finally, the ringing stopped. But a few seconds later, it began again.

  “Maybe we should get it,” said Ursula.

  “Rather you get fatal pneumon
ia than me, darling,” replied Nancy.

  Ursula got out of her bath, wrapped a towel tightly around her, and opened the door to her cubicle. Suddenly the ringing stopped.

  “Drat,” said Ursula. Goose bumps were starting to appear on her forearms.

  A few moments later, a bleary-eyed Claire Potter entered the bathroom, still dressed in her nightgown.

  “There’s someone wants to talk to you,” she said to Ursula. “On the pay phone. Says it’s urgent.” Then she nudged Ursula and whispered into her ear, “I can’t go to the police about the tiara. I’m too scared. Anyway, no one is ever going to think of looking in my knicker drawer for anything.”

  “Claire,” said Ursula, her voice low, “you can’t get away with keeping it there forever. I better answer that call.”

  Who on earth would be telephoning so early? she wondered, hoping Granny and Granny were all right. As she stepped from the bathroom into the Gothic corridor, with its archway open to the quad, a brutal wind snapped against her naked legs and feet.

  Ursula shivered as she picked up the handset that Claire had left hanging off the hook.

  “Hello?” she said curiously.

  “Unforgettable! Is that you?”

  “Wenty?” said Ursula, surprised to hear his voice. Why on earth was he on the telephone at this hour? “I’ve told you a million times not to call me that.”

  “Okay, sorry, Flowerbutton. Look, there’s no time to explain. I’m at Oxford police station. I was arrested late last night.”

  “Oh no!” Ursula gasped. Even though she’d known this was going to happen as soon as she’d seen the W on that bloody towel, she still felt shocked. That must have been why that police car was leaving college when she and Eg returned from dinner.

  “This is the last call I’m allowed today,” Wenty continued. “I’ve spoken to my parents and a lawyer, but I thought maybe you might know something—anything—that could help me get out of here. Because of that Cherwell story you’re writing.”

  “What were you arrested for?”

  “On suspicion of murder.”

  Ursula was silent. She didn’t know what to say. Even if Wenty was one of the most aggravating people she had ever met, being arrested for murder was a fate Ursula wouldn’t wish on anyone.

  “Look, I didn’t do it. You know that, don’t you?” Wenty sounded desperate. “But they’re saying they’ve got new evidence against me since Monday when they first interviewed me in my rooms.”

  “What kind of evidence?” she asked, although she knew exactly what he was going to say.

  “It’s a hand towel. Someone found it hidden in Dr. Dave’s rooms. It’s one of the old Wychwood family ones. Got the bloody W on it. ‘Bloody’ being the operative word.” He laughed weakly. “It’s covered in blood. The police are saying they tested it last night. Found my blood on it. And India’s. They’re saying it’s proof I was in Dr. Dave’s rooms that night. They’ve shown it to me. It’s my towel. There’s no getting away from it.”

  “I know,” said Ursula.

  “What?” said Wenty. “How do you know?”

  “I was in Dr. Dave’s rooms when he found it. How did it get there?”

  “You don’t mean to say you think—”

  “I’m not saying I think anything,” said Ursula. “Just tell me how it got there.”

  “I don’t know, do I? That’s why I’m ringing you!” he wailed.

  “But it’s yours. How can you not know?”

  “I told you, I didn’t go into Dr. Dave’s rooms that night. God knows how it got there. You’ve got to believe me. Someone else put it there, and that someone is trying to frame me. I cut my hand when I was trying to wash up a champagne glass during the party. I wrapped my hand in the towel, remember?”

  “Yes, yes, I do,” replied Ursula, thinking back to the moment when Wenty had tried to wash up the champagne saucers. It had seemed funny at the time.

  “That’s why my blood’s on it. I think I left it on the floor in the bathroom. Someone used that towel when they killed India—to clean up. You’ve got to find out who hid the towel in Dr. Dave’s rooms. That person is India’s killer, not me.”

  The problem with Wenty’s story, Ursula mused, was that he wasn’t quite the plain, honest cucumber sandwich he would like to be taken for. If Ms. Brookethorpe had been right about seeing him cycling away from college in the dead of night after she had left the library late on Sunday, it meant he had lied about his movements. Being a liar didn’t necessarily make you a killer, but it didn’t make you not a killer either. He could easily have gone back to Dr. Dave’s rooms much later that night, long after Ms. Brookethorpe had gone home, and killed India himself. Why else would Wychwood’s towel be there, stained with his blood and India’s?

  “Wenty, I can’t help you unless you are truthful with me,” Ursula said.

  “Can you stop sounding like some kind of righteous headmistress, Flowerbutton? I am telling the truth. I didn’t kill India.”

  “Why did you lie about Sunday night?” she said firmly. She didn’t care if Wenty thought she sounded like a headmistress if it was a way to get to the truth.

  “What do you mean, lie?”

  “Wenty, you didn’t go back to your room after going to Dr. Dave’s staircase.”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Someone saw you leaving college. On your bicycle. Around two a.m.”

  “Who?!” he demanded.

  “It doesn’t matter who. Wenty, just be honest with me. Did you sleep in your own room that night, or were you somewhere else?”

  There was silence at the other end of the line. Finally Wenty spoke. He sounded mortified.

  “Well. Look . . . okay, I slept somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  “That’s not important.”

  “Yes, it is, you twit.” Ursula was losing patience.

  “Did you just call me a twit?”

  “Yes. If you lied about your movements on the night of a murder, it does nothing except make you look like a deeply suspicious twit.”

  “I am not a twit! Look, I can’t say where I was.”

  “I can’t help you if you don’t.”

  “Flowerbutton, you’re starting to sound like my mother. It’s not very appealing.”

  “Wenty, I’ll take that as a compliment. I’m sure your mother’s wonderful. Now, why didn’t you tell me you’d left college that night?”

  A long groan echoed down the phone. “I was . . . embarrassed.”

  “About what?”

  “Look, after I heard India and Dr. Dave at it, so to speak, from the bottom of the staircase . . .”

  Ursula decided not to tell Wenty yet that he had actually heard Otto and Claire Potter “at it.” She didn’t want to interrupt his flow, now he seemed prepared to talk.

  “. . . I was jealous. Furious, actually. So I went off Hildebeest hunting.”

  “What sort of a sport is Hildebeest hunting, Wenty?”

  “You scramble over that garden wall at St. Hilda’s,* then go knocking on doors until a really top Hildebeest answers, and if you’re lucky you end up in bed with it.”

  “You cannot go round calling female students ‘beasts’! That’s horrible.”

  “It’s an in-joke,” he protested.

  “Well, it’s about the unfunniest, most sexist joke I’ve heard in my entire life.”

  “Sorry.” Wenty actually sounded apologetic. For once.

  “Anyway, did you end up in bed with a St. Hilda’s girl?”

  “Of course,” he said, sounding faintly insulted at the suggestion that he might not have been successful. “Geraldine Something-or-Other. Can’t remember her surname.”

  “Wenty!” Ursula gasped. “If you were a character in a P. G. Wodehouse novel, you would have been labeled a hollow cad by now.”

  “I know it makes me look awful. You can see why I didn’t want anyone to know. Least of all a saintly prude like you, Flowerbutton.”

  “I
am not a saintly prude.”

  “We’ll agree to disagree on that. I mean, God, you know, there I was off with dear little Geraldine Something-or-Other the night my girlfriend was killed. If that gets into Dempster,* I’ll never be accepted at White’s.”*

  “Who cares about White’s?” Ursula admonished him.

  “I do. And everyone I know, and everyone my parents know. Please don’t mention Geraldine Something-or-Other in your Cherwell article.”

  “Can you stop worrying about yourself and focus on India? Just tell me anything else that happened that night.”

  “Okay. Well, I must have left Geraldine’s room at around six a.m. I suppose. That’s the usual sort of time I escape those kind of, well . . . scenarios. I cycled back to college, left my bike at the gates, and went straight to my staircase and up to my rooms. I was in bed fast asleep by six forty-five. Didn’t get up till midday.”

  “Did anyone see you coming into college? Did you see anyone when you came in about six? Someone who could vouch for you?”

  “God, er, can’t remember really. I didn’t have to ring. The gate was already unlocked. I suppose the night porter could have seen me.”

  “If he happened to be looking out from the porter’s lodge into the gate tower at the very moment you came back, maybe. I can ask him tonight. And I could always interview Geraldine Something-or-Other. She’ll vouch for you, won’t she?”

  “I’d rather you left Geraldine Thingamabob well alone, Flowerbutton.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t want to, you know, encourage her . . . in any way. Some of these girls they . . . they get the wrong idea, you know. They think they want a boyfriend, a ‘relationship,’ all that messy rubbish.”

  “She might be able to give you a solid alibi.”

  “But then I’d have to actually properly go out with her,” said Wenty reluctantly.

  “Have you told the police all of this?” Ursula asked.

  There were a few pip-pip-pip sounds while Wenty inserted money at the other end.

  “. . . Running out of ten-ps . . . I’ve told the police everything now. It’s been so embarrassing. But they’re refusing to believe a word of it. They’re insisting that the towel proves I was in the room at the time of India’s death because my blood is on it as well as hers.”