Party Girls Die in Pearls

by Plum Sykes

  He smiled, looking relieved. Ursula realized she was going to have to get to the nub of the matter in a less direct fashion.

  “May I ask you something else?”

  “If you must.”

  “Is the librarian Ms. Brookethorpe prone to telling fibs?”

  “Not as far as I know,” he replied. “What a peculiar question.”

  “I think she’s told a terrible lie,” said Ursula. She felt guilty as she spoke—she’d promised the librarian anonymity—but she had no choice if she were to get at the truth.

  “It’s about you,” added Nancy perkily.

  “Well, that’s absurd.” Dr. Dave jumped up from his armchair and went and stared angrily out the window.

  “I don’t know why,” said Ursula as innocently as she could, “but she told me that she saw you walking along Great Quad towards Monks’ Cottages after midnight on the night of India’s murder.”

  Dr. Dave spun around and looked at the girls. “That woman is a complete fantasist. Admittedly she was attractive, in an unsophisticated sort of a way . . . a couple of years ago . . . but no, with Olive—I mean Ms. Brookethorpe—you can’t believe a word she says. Particularly about men.”

  “I thought you said she wasn’t the lying type,” Ursula reminded him.

  “Did I?” asked Dr. Dave. “Then I was mistaken. The truth is, Brookethorpe has been obsessed with me since I was a junior fellow. We had a brief dalliance a couple of years ago. Meaningless fling-ette, that sort of thing. After I dropped her, well, she’s spread vile rumors about me ever since. She wants me out . . . Anyway, even if she had seen someone out on Great Quad at half past midnight, how could she possibly have known it was me, in the dark?”

  “It was a full moon,” Ursula pointed out. “She mentioned the ‘swoop’ of your hair as being particularly noticeable.”

  “She did always have a thing about my hair. But this story is utter rubbish. She’s a bitter, envious, lying old trout.”

  “But someone else says they saw you there—a female Fresher,” said Ursula. She didn’t want to reveal Claire Potter’s identity to the don if she could avoid it. “She said she saw you out there on Great Quad at exactly the same time. She was holding an event in the JCR, across the landing. No one showed up and she was staring out the window, looking for guests.”

  “Bloody hell,” Dr. Dave growled, looking astonished. He glared at both girls, then collapsed back in his armchair. “Oh, all right, you’ve got me,” he conceded. “I’ll tell you where I was that night. I was in Monks’ Cottages.”

  “Why?” asked Nancy.

  “I was doing my laundry,” he replied innocently. “There, now that you know I wasn’t at home, or here in my rooms, can we please end this uncomfortable interlude?”

  “It took the whole night to do your laundry?” asked Ursula.

  Dr. Dave groaned with irritation.

  “Does it really matter? The important thing is that you can establish with utter certainty that I wasn’t at home the night India died and I wasn’t in my rooms when she came up here. Isn’t that enough?”

  The girls both looked at him, eyebrows raised. Finally, an expression of defeat came over his face.

  “Look, none of this can get back to Fiammetta,” he insisted.

  The girls assured him that it wouldn’t.

  “Or into your Cherwell article, Flowerbutton.”

  “I promise,” said Ursula.

  “If it does you will both be Sent Down for . . . I don’t know . . . for dabbling in crime writing.

  “What transpired that night,” Dr. Dave told the girls, “was rather . . . sordid. I was planning to spend the night here on Sunday because Fiammetta was going to be away for a few days. I didn’t want to be in the house without her cooking—and her, of course. I was doing some work, pretty late, here at my desk, when I heard this bloody great row from outside. I looked out of the window onto Great Quad, and there were India and Wenty screaming at each other. The night porter eventually broke it up, and then I saw India run towards my staircase. I didn’t want another scene, so I slipped out before she got to my landing.”

  “But surely she saw you on the stairs?” said Ursula.

  “Ah. Yes. I should explain.”

  Dr. Dave beckoned to the girls to follow him, opened the door to his bedroom, and strode in ahead of them.

  “Come in,” he said.

  “Hey,” Nancy stated firmly, “we are not interested in some kind of weird threesome with you, Dr. Dave.”

  He smiled at her coolly. “And, believe me, nor I with you. I am simply showing you the back stairs to my bedroom, down which I fled on Sunday night.”

  With that, the tutor pulled back the curtain on the far wall, revealing a small wooden door. He lifted the latch, ducked his head, and went out through the low doorway. Nancy and Ursula followed and found themselves descending a winding, cobweb-ridden spiral staircase that led out to the southwest corner of the Kitchen Quad.

  “So you see,” said Dr. Dave, after leading the girls back up the stairs to his rooms, “while India was climbing the JCR staircase to my rooms, I skedaddled down here. I do wonder, if I hadn’t been so keen on skedaddling, would she still be alive now?”

  “Where did you skedaddle to for the night?” asked Ursula, sitting back down on Dr. Dave’s tartan-covered Chesterfield.

  “As I said, I spent the night in Monks’ Cottages.”

  “Where did you sleep? In a laundry basket?” queried Nancy in highly skeptical tones. Ursula could tell she wasn’t going to let Dr. Dave get away with this.

  The don looked decidedly sheepish. “Well, I was rather at a loose end. I couldn’t go back to my rooms, knowing India was most likely in there, and the keys to the Cranham Terrace house were in there too. So I, er . . . looked in . . . on . . . um . . . Isobel Floyd. Her room’s above the laundry.”

  “Did you ‘look in’ for the whole night?” said Ursula, trying to phrase it as politely as possible.

  “The looking-in, yes, it took . . . erm . . . all night.” Dr. Dave grimaced, self-conscious. “And that’s why, Ursula, I was a few minutes late for our tutorial.”

  Nancy, who appeared to be far less concerned with maintaining British standards of politeness, just looked at the don and shrieked, “Gross!”

  Chapter 32

  Wednesday, 1st Week: Evening

  “What do you think?”

  Nancy appeared in Ursula’s room that evening dressed in a completely see-through pair of Fiorucci “jeans” fabricated from what looked like clear plastic. Beneath them, Nancy’s athletic legs and a pair of silver, sequined hot pants were clearly visible, and she had finished the look with a one-shouldered purple Lycra top and high heels.

  “Really trendy,” said Ursula, looking up from her desk, where she’d been making notes about their meeting with Dr. Dave. His behavior perplexed her: She couldn’t understand how someone could cheat so blatantly on his fiancée, let alone one as divine as Fiammetta.

  “Hey, why aren’t you ready?” asked Nancy, regarding Ursula’s mini kilt and sweater.

  “I can’t go to the Gridiron party tonight. I haven’t done any work on my essay. I think I need to spend the evening in the library instead.”

  “What?!” howled Nancy. “You can’t let me down last-minute like this. I can’t go by myself. I might get murdered on the way. Imagine how bad you’d feel if that happened.”

  Was there really any getting out of tonight, knowing Nancy’s persistence when it came to social events? With a long sigh, Ursula signaled her willingness to give in. “I just need to finish up here.”

  She added a final thought:

  —No wonder Isobel Floyd said that Dr. Dave didn’t do it. She was being “dropped in on” by him when India was murdered.

  Ursula left her article notes on the desk and hurriedly changed into Vain Granny’s ball gown—again. She couldn’t help but feel slightly envious of her friend’s endless supply of outrageous party dresses and New York club
bing outfits. As much as Ursula loved the lilac dress, it wasn’t exactly of-the-moment. But it would have to do. There was no time to play dress up in Nancy’s room tonight.

  * * *

  The Gridiron Club dinner was a small, cliquey, and mostly male affair. Ursula and Nancy arrived at the Golden Cross, a medieval, cobbled courtyard off Cornmarket Street, just before eight o’clock. They were directed past a Pizza Express restaurant on the ground floor and up a steep set of back stairs towards an attic dining room. As the girls reached the landing outside it, Ursula recognized the long sweep of a dark overcoat and saw Neil Thistleton trying to talk his way into the dinner.

  “Look, mate,” one of the black-tied Gridiron members was saying to him in supremely polite tones while very effectively blocking the doorway, “I’d love to help, really, but it’s members only tonight. Terrifically sorry and all that.”

  Neil Thistleton turned and stared indignantly at the girls. Ursula looked at the floor, praying Thistleton wouldn’t spot her.

  “Members?” he said, turning back to the boy. “Isn’t this one of those snotty all-male dining clubs?”

  “We allow women as guests of members. No one else is allowed in, I’m afraid.”

  “Sexist tosser,” said Neil Thistleton. He slunk reluctantly back down the stairs.

  Beamed and whitewashed, the attic room that served as the headquarters of the secret society resembled a medieval refectory. A long table had been laid for dinner with starched white linens and pewter platters. There were about twenty members, mostly in black tie, in the room, and no more than seven or eight ravishingly pretty girls. Good, thought Ursula, spotting Isobel Floyd surrounded by an ever-adoring group of boys, I’ll wait until she’s tipsy before I mention Dr. Dave. She spotted Eg standing by the bar, chatting with friends, looking as suave as ever in his tux, and wondered what they would say to each other after the peculiar end to their date last night.

  “Ah, welcome!” Horatio Bentley greeted Ursula and Nancy, waddling towards them bearing two pewter goblets. “Nancy, you look just like a disco ball.”

  “Thank you,” she said, flattered by Horatio’s attention and accepting a goblet.

  “Huge apols in advance, sweetie. The Gridiron’s wine doesn’t quite live up to its pewterware,” he chuckled. “It came out of a wine box. If you drink enough, eventually you’ll stop noticing the burning in your gut.”

  Horatio led the girls to a trio of buttoned leather chairs where he settled down, saying, “I can’t believe Wenty’s been arrested. Dreadful news. You are both going to come to the funeral tomorrow, aren’t you?”

  “Absolutely,” said Ursula.

  “Good. You’re bound to get some more material there,” said Horatio. Then, noticing a girl heading towards them, he said, “Ciao, Tiggy-Wiggy.”

  Ursula recognized the Princess Diana wannabe whom she’d seen in the gate tower on her first day at Christminster. Tiggy was now dressed in a navy silk dress with a high, pleated, stand-up collar, over which she wore a gold choker. Her fluffy, streaky blond bangs grazed her enormous blue eyes but didn’t conceal the determined look on her face.

  “Sorry to interrupt, yar. Look, I’m up for librarian-elect at the Union. Are you two Freshers members yet?” she asked the girls.

  “I’m thinking of joining,” said Nancy.

  “You should,” replied Tiggy. “It’s a wonderful institution. As soon as you join, do register to vote in elections. Yar? Great.”

  “By the way, Tiggy,” said Horatio, “I voted in a Union election once.”

  “Did you?” She looked suddenly excited by the prospect of another potential supporter.

  “Yup. Can’t remember who for, though.”

  Deflated, Tiggy rushed off to canvass another group.

  As soon as she was out of earshot Horatio said, “Tiggy—ugh! She’s one of those gauche, pushy Pony Club types. I hate to admit it, but that utterly talentless homuncule will most likely be president of the Onion one day.”

  “Onion?” repeated Nancy.

  “That’s what the Cherwell hacks call the Union because the group of twats who run it are so bitter—always making each other cry. Anyway, where were we before she interrupted us?”

  “Wenty,” Ursula reminded him. “He telephoned me this morning—”

  “Hang on,” Horatio interrupted her. “Wenty phoned you, Ursula, from jail?”

  “Yes, why?” replied Ursula.

  “Nothing,” Horatio said with a coy grin. “Nothing at all.”

  “Look,” she went on, ignoring his innuendo, “Wenty swears he didn’t kill India. He’s got an alibi for Sunday night that I need to check. He says he was at St. Hilda’s with a girl named Geraldine. Do you know her, by any chance, Horatio?”

  “Geraldine who?”

  “Something-or-Other.”

  “Something-or-Other?” Horatio frowned.

  “Wenty couldn’t remember her last name. It sounded like he had a drunken one-night stand.”

  “Oh! Wenty! So many girls to remember, so many names to forget!” laughed Horatio. “There is one Geraldine at St. Hilda’s. Geraldine Ormsby-Leigh. But it wouldn’t be her. She’s madly in love with her boyfriend, Hugo Pym. He’s at Trinity.”

  “Maybe she cheated on him,” suggested Nancy. “I mean, it’s not like everyone else isn’t cheating on everyone else round here.”

  “Let’s ask her,” said Horatio suddenly. He waved across the room. “Geraldine! Pumpkin! Over here!”

  “No, wait—” Ursula tried to stop him, but it was too late.

  The particular Geraldine in question swept over to Horatio and kissed him twice on each cheek. She certainly looked like she might be Wenty’s type, thought Ursula to herself. Tall and slim with blond locks almost to her waist, the girl was dressed in gold pedal pushers, a sparkly green tube top, and lilac suede stilettos. Her bare shoulders gleamed with a dusting of golden glitter that also covered her cheekbones and eyelids, and her lips were slicked with an iridescent gloss.

  Ursula examined this disco angel with some awe. Would her grannies ever approve of a garment as gorgeously minute as Geraldine’s tube top? Ursula was wondering to herself when she suddenly heard Horatio saying, “Go on, Ursula, ask her about Sunday night.”

  “What about Sunday night?” interjected Geraldine.

  “Well, I was just wondering . . .” Ursula trailed off, embarrassed. There just wasn’t a straightforward way to ask someone you’d just met about her love life. She muddled along, purposefully vague. “. . . if, yes . . . that’s it, if you happened to, erm . . . see Wenty on Sunday night?”

  “Wenty?” said Geraldine.

  “You know, Wentworth Wychwood. Toff rower,” added Horatio.

  “Why?”

  “He says he—maybe—saw you,” said Ursula cautiously.

  “Well, he can’t have. I was on the sleeper train from Edinburgh. Coming back from a stalking weekend in Scotland with Hugo.”

  “Oh, right,” said Ursula, as Geraldine drifted back to the bar.

  “So, sounds like Wenty’s got some explaining to do,” remarked Horatio as soon as she was out of earshot. “Geraldine definitely wasn’t with him on Sunday.”

  Ursula felt exasperated. How did Wenty think he could get away with endless lies? And why had he lied about being with Geraldine? Did he think Ursula—or the police for that matter—wasn’t going to bother to check his alibi? Could she trust what anyone said in Oxford?

  “It looks pretty bad for Wenty,” said Nancy. “I mean, his towel was found at the crime scene covered in his and India’s blood. He was jealous of her relationship with Dr. Dave. He didn’t spend the night in his own room, and he didn’t spend it with Geraldine Whatever-Her-Name-Is either. If he wasn’t at St. Hilda’s, maybe he did follow India up to Dr. Dave’s rooms. Maybe Ms. Brookethorpe saw him leaving college on his bicycle after he’d killed her?”

  “Or maybe it wasn’t Wenty she saw at all. Maybe it was someone else,” suggested Ursula. “Maybe Wenty
was in Dr. Dave’s rooms all night and didn’t leave until the early hours of the morning.”

  “But how does anyone prove that?” asked Horatio.

  Ursula was at a loss as to how to answer him. Why was it so impossible to find out what Wenty had really been up to that night?

  Soon a rather ruddy-cheeked boy announced, “Dinner is served!” The crowd found their place cards and sat down along the table while various tuxedoed members of the Gridiron Club distributed a white cardboard box onto each medieval platter. The logo across the top of the boxes read “Pizza Express.”

  “This is literally the poshest takeout ever,” laughed Nancy, opening her box. She was sitting next to Horatio, and Ursula was seated on his other side, with Eg opposite her across the table.

  He smiled shyly at her, saying, “You’ve got that lovely dress on—”

  “—again, sadly,” joked Ursula.

  “No, you look so . . . pretty. Just like the first time I saw you.”

  Ursula suddenly found herself being poked in the ribs. “Heavens above,” Horatio whispered in her ear, “the monk has fallen for the convent girl.”

  “I am not a convent girl,” Ursula whispered back.

  “All right, the virgin,” he said.

  Ursula rolled her eyes. She had nothing to say. After all, she was a virgin, like it or not. Meanwhile, Horatio slid an enormous slice of Margherita pizza into his mouth and downed it at a gulp. Just then, Ursula noticed Isobel Floyd getting up from the table a few seats down from her.

  “Just going to powder my nose, darling,” Isobel announced to the boy sitting next to her.

  “I need to do a follow-up interview,” Ursula told her friends, getting up from her seat. “Back in a moment.”

  Isobel was retrieving a weighty golden YSL tube from her handbag when Ursula came upon her in the powder room a few moments later. She twisted it to reveal a dark purple lipstick, which she rolled expertly on her lips. She flashed a smile at Ursula.