Party Girls Die in Pearls

by Plum Sykes

  “Very goth, no?” she asked.

  “It’s lovely,” said Ursula, secretly asking herself why this exquisitely attractive girl wanted to look like Adam Ant.*

  “I’m trying out looks for the play. My Hamlet’s going to be a New Romantic.”*

  “How are rehearsals going?” Ursula ventured, wondering how on earth she was going to change the subject to Dr. Dave’s nighttime college rovings.

  “Really great, thanks. But then Dom’s a genius. I think he’ll run the National Theatre one day. Why don’t you come to a rehearsal? You could preview the play. Write it up for Cherwell.”

  “I’m still quite busy with my article about India,” said Ursula. “Actually, funnily enough, I wanted to ask you one more question.”

  “Oh?” said Isobel, looking at Ursula out of one eye in the mirror as she dabbed emerald green shadow onto her left eyelid.

  “It was just, on Sunday night . . . you went back to your room after the argument—”

  “I already told you that,” Isobel snapped.

  “Yes. Did you by any chance forget to tell me that someone came to your room a little later that night?”

  There was a clattering as Isobel’s eye shadow palette dropped from her hands and landed in the sink.

  “Who told you?” The hue on Isobel’s face was rapidly becoming rather similar to her purple lipstick.

  “He did,” said Ursula.

  Isobel sat down slowly on a tufted armchair and lit a cigarette.

  “This can’t get out. No one can know. Ever.”

  Ursula nodded.

  “At the time, it felt like revenge.”

  “Revenge?” repeated Ursula.

  “I wanted to get India back. Best friend! Ha! She took my part, my boyfriend—it was only fair for me to have a pop at Dr. Dave.”

  “But their affair was over months ago,” Ursula pointed out.

  “She was still obsessed with him. Saw him as her property. Anyway, he was in my room all night. We overslept. It seemed funny, at the time, when he dashed off saying he was late for a tutorial.”

  “It was my tutorial,” said Ursula.

  “And then, when I found out India was dead—God! I regretted what I had done so much. I couldn’t tell a soul. I told the police what I told you—that I was alone all night. They didn’t suspect I was lying for one minute,” Isobel said. Then she added with a smile, “You see, I’m a pretty amazing actress when I need to be. Have you got any idea who killed India?”

  “No,” admitted Ursula. “But now I feel pretty sure it wasn’t you or Dr. Dave.”

  “Good.” Isobel put her eye shadow and lipstick back in her purse, and she and Ursula returned to the dinner party.

  Back at the table, Ursula found Nancy in midflow: “I just don’t get why they don’t have sororities here. If you can have an all-male dining club, why not at all-female one?”

  “None of the girls in Oxford would want to go to an all-female club,” a girl declared sharply from across the table. “It was bad enough being at a girls’ boarding school. Oxford’s a release from that hell.”

  “But what about feminism?” said Nancy. “We’re all equal now.”

  “Saying you’re a feminist,” said the girl across the table, “is like saying you’re a vegetarian or something—weird.”

  Nancy rolled her eyes in despair as Ursula slipped back into her seat. She noticed, to her delight, that Eg was looking adoringly at her. As did Horatio. Like quicksilver, he whispered in her ear, “He seems pretty glad Wenty’s locked up. Eg was asking all about you while you were gone.”

  Ursula brushed him off, saying, “Horatio, Eg’s far too nice to be glad Wenty’s in jail.”

  Still, she couldn’t help blushing slightly. Perhaps Eg did really like her, despite the end to their evening. But other matters were more pressing. Ursula turned to Nancy. “Do you mind if we go soon?”

  “Why? I’m having a surprisingly good time at this anti-feminist dinner. It’s like I’m witnessing some kind of anthropological experiment—from Victorian times.”

  “Look, I’ve realized there’s someone we’ve forgotten to speak to. He could be the key to India’s death.”

  * * *

  It was almost eleven p.m. by the time the girls got back to college. The gate tower was dark and silent, but a warm light shone from inside the porter’s lodge.

  “Come on,” said Ursula, beckoning Nancy into the little room.

  Deddington Jr. sat at the porter’s station, head buried in a pile of books, as usual. He looked up when he heard the girls enter.

  “Evening, ladies,” he said.

  “Hey, sweetie,” said Nancy. She plonked her elbows on the counter, rested her chin on her hands, and just stared at the boy. She seemed unable to resist flirting with him. “Want me to go grab you a drink from the bar?”

  “No, no, thank you,” responded Nick. “I don’t drink when I’m on duty.”

  “You must be lonely here all alone all night . . . I could hang here with you, if you like . . .”

  “Thank you, I can cope on my own,” he replied.

  “Okay, be like that,” said Nancy, exhaling a long sigh.

  “Nick, may I ask you something about your job?” said Ursula.

  Deddington Jr. put down his pen and smiled at her. “Sure.”

  “Okay. What time are you here until in the mornings?”

  “My dad takes over around seven. That is, unless it’s his day off.”

  “And what time do you start at night?”

  “Usually seven p.m., unless it’s my day off.”

  “Did your father take over from you at seven a.m. this past Monday morning?”

  Nick thought for a brief moment, then said, “That was the day they found the girl dead, wasn’t it? Yes. Everything was as usual that morning. I mean, usual except for the awful murder.”

  “Did you see anyone coming in earlier than your father?”

  “Only the scouts,” he replied. “They all start between five and six in the morning. Mum always brings me a cuppa when she gets here. She brought me toast that morning. I remember because she’d spread it with her homemade marmalade. Real treat.”

  “Cute,” said Nancy.

  “You don’t remember seeing anyone else come in very early that morning, do you?” asked Ursula.

  “Let me see.” Nick pursed his lips as he thought. “Yes—yes, there was one other person I noticed.”

  “Who?!” asked Ursula, brimming with anticipation.

  “The milkman. Always comes around six.”

  “I see,” she said. “Did you notice any undergraduates?”

  “I don’t think so, no . . . but I suppose someone could have slipped in without me noticing, if I was sorting mail or something. Why?”

  “Nothing,” said Ursula regretfully.

  Wenty was starting to look more and more guilty. Why didn’t he ever seem able to tell the truth?

  Chapter 33

  Thursday, 21 October, 1st Week: Morning

  “I feel like I’m in the ‘Thriller’ video,” said Nancy as they headed out the next morning at seven to meet Horatio. Oxford was shrouded in a fog so dense that the girls could barely see their way out of the gate tower.

  Suddenly, from somewhere in the icy mist beyond, a voice called out, “Wooo-oooo-hooooo!”

  As they edged closer to the sound, they could finally see that Horatio Bentley, the source of it, was parked up on the apron in front of Christminster College, as promised. He waved at them from the window of a grubby, dented Reliant Robin whose engine was running. Ursula suspected the vehicle might, possibly, be green under the layer of grime covering it.

  “Bentley by name, not by nature!” Horatio declared. Despite the prospect of India’s funeral ahead, his tone was as jovial as ever.

  “Why does this thing only have three wheels?” asked Nancy, regarding the triangular-shaped car with a petrified expression on her face.

  “I haven’t got a driving license,�
�� he explained. “But this is classed as a motorbike, so I’m allowed to drive it.”

  Nancy whitened.

  “Stop dithering and get in,” he ordered.

  Horatio, dressed in a black suit with a lilac bow tie and matching handkerchief, heaved himself out of the car and let Ursula clamber into the backseat, where she made a space for herself among the piles of old newspapers, chip packets, and grimy piles of clothes. As she didn’t own a black dress, she was wearing her homemade maroon velvet one under a duffel coat and her college scarf.

  Nancy’s funeral look was so elaborate that it took her some time to edge herself into the spare front seat. She had chosen a tiny, skintight black “bandage” dress, sheer black tights, high pumps, and a thigh-length black velvet swing coat with enormous puffed sleeves, a frilled collar, and gold buttons down the front. Her blond hair had been fluffed into the puffiest bun Ursula had ever seen.

  “Darling,” said Horatio, “you look just like Ivana Trump.”

  “Oh my God, that is so cute of you to say,” said Nancy. “She’s my style icon.”

  The fog in the car was almost as thick as outside. A Marlboro Red was smoldering in the ashtray—Horatio took a long drag and then said, “Let’s get going before the engine stalls. Might never start again. I call it my Unreliant Robin.”

  He put his foot on the accelerator and jerked the car awkwardly into the road. Nancy clutched the dashboard and screamed with every lurch. The tiny vehicle felt, thought Ursula, no more substantial than a lawnmower on wheels.

  “How far away is Brattenbury Tower?” Nancy gulped as they turned onto Broad Street.

  “We’ll be there in masses of time,” Horatio told her. “Meanwhile, there’s hard-boiled eggs and a thermos of tea to keep us going. Made it all myself last night. Nancy, open that lunchbox at your feet and pass me an egg, please. I’m starving.”

  The stench of eggs that filled the car when Nancy removed the lid from the plastic lunchbox took Ursula straight back to the revolting school meals she had suffered for so many years at St. Swerford’s.

  “Here,” said Nancy, holding the egg as far from her nose as she possibly could.

  “Help yourself,” said Horatio, swallowing his egg in two gulps.

  “I’m not quite ready for one yet,” replied Nancy, trying to be polite.

  Four hours and forty cigarettes later, Horatio’s vehicle put-putted off the motorway and past a sign reading “Derbyshire Dales.” The journey had taken well over an hour longer than it should have after Horatio had insisted on stopping at a greasy Little Chef in a motorway service station for a leisurely elevenses* of fish and chips.

  “Brattenbury’s only a few miles away now,” he said, taking a turn onto a tiny, stony track-like road that wound down into a steep valley. The hills were streaked with the autumnal hues of dying bracken and lilac heather. Dry-stone walls divided the pastureland into rough fields on which wild-looking sheep were grazing.

  “There’s nothing, like, here,” declared Nancy bleakly, gazing out of the window at the stark landscape.

  “In certain English circles—Sloaney ones—it’s considered the height of glamour to live in the middle of absolutely bloody nowhere,” Horatio informed her.

  A few minutes later, as they eventually motored through the tiny village of Brattenbury, Nancy’s attitude abruptly changed. The village—which consisted of two or three stone-built farmsteads, a schoolhouse, a row of simple laborers’ cottages, a village hall, a minuscule shop, and a pub named The Brattenbury Arms—was simply charming. As they drove past a picturesque Norman church looming from the mist, Nancy cried excitedly, “Oh my God, it’s so cute here. I wanna move in!”

  The lane out of the village climbed steeply, becoming narrower and narrower as it wound around two or three sharp bends. About half a mile farther on the party of three finally arrived at a huge pair of gray stone gateposts topped with vast, intricately carved pineapples. An ornate lodge house guarded the driveway, and miles of immaculately restored stone walling disappeared away from it in both directions. The property was clearly part of a huge estate, thought Ursula. Horatio pulled up—taking care to leave the car’s engine running—and a few seconds later an elderly man appeared from the lodge house.

  Horatio leaned out of the window to speak to him. “Good morning, sir. We’re here for the funeral.”

  The old man looked at his watch. “T’all went int’ chapel half hour gone.” He had a strong Derbyshire accent. “Go straight up t’ drive, chapel’s on t’ right o’ big ’ouse. Chop-chop, you’re late.”

  “I thought you said we’d have masses of time,” complained Nancy.

  “We did,” retorted Horatio, pressing his foot down on the accelerator as hard as it would go. The car swayed precariously from side to side as they whizzed up the graveled carriage drive.

  Brattenbury Tower, which soon loomed into view, lived up to its name. Ursula had never seen such a romantic-looking house. An Elizabethan dream, the house had a stone facade so delicate that it reminded her of an etching. Ancient stone mullioned windows soared up, four storys high. At least twenty chimneys peeked above the balustraded roofline. A semicircular flight of stone steps led up towards the impressive entrance. In front of the house the gravel drive swept around a circular lawn where various very smart cars, including a flashy gold Porsche, a Rolls-Royce, and a couple of Range Rovers, were parked.

  “This is so much cooler than Disneyland,” exclaimed Nancy, wide-eyed, as she drank in the sight. “Can’t you just imagine Rapunzel letting down her hair from up there?” she added, gazing upwards. “And look! I can’t believe the Brattenburys even have their own flag on their house . . . Hmmm, I wonder if Next Duke has one too.”

  “Nancy darling, duke types have flags flying absolutely everywhere they can. Gives them a sense of identity,” Horatio explained.

  “How . . . sexy,” sighed Nancy wistfully.

  Ursula, meanwhile, noted sadly that the Brattenbury flag, decorated with the family coat of arms, was fluttering at half-mast. Horatio pulled up next to the Porsche, and the three undergraduates alighted from their humble vehicle. There was no one in sight, but Ursula thought she heard the sound of an organ and the faint echo of voices singing.

  “I think it must be that way,” said Ursula, pointing towards the east wing of the house.

  The trio headed along a sheltered path beside the house before eventually coming round the corner of the building and spotting an ancient lych-gate at the far end of a vast lawn. Ursula, Nancy, and Horatio dashed towards it, passed under the little archway, and soon found themselves heading along a mossy path through a tunnel of yews leading to the Brattenbury family chapel. Horatio heaved open a heavy oak door and Nancy and Ursula slipped into the back of the chapel, with Horatio following, as quietly as they could.

  Every pew of the tiny chapel was full, and the area behind the pews was crammed with standing guests. There was only room for them to squeeze in directly in front of the door they had just come through. A lone choirboy, dressed in a frilled white collar and a red robe, stood in front of the altar singing the poignant verses of Psalm 23:

  . . . Yea, though I walk in death’s dark vale,

  Yet will I fear no ill:

  For thou art with me, and thy rod

  And staff me comfort still . . .

  “I wanna take that little skylark home,” whispered Nancy as the boy’s voice soared and echoed around the chapel.

  As the last verses were sung, Ursula watched sorrowfully while India’s coffin, beautifully adorned with heather, snowberries, and wild brambles, was carried down the aisle. She found herself brushing a few tears from her cheek. Although she hadn’t really known India, that didn’t matter. When someone died so young, it was desperately sad. Her tears were not just for India—Ursula couldn’t help thinking of her own mother and father, taken so early.

  She took a deep breath and gathered herself. She remained standing with Nancy and Horatio at the back of the church, watch
ing closely as the mourners who had been sitting at the front of the church followed India’s coffin from the chapel. The women—clad in enormous black hats, shoulder-padded power suits with flashy gold buttons, coats of mink or sable, reams of pearls, and generous sprinklings of diamonds—were accompanied by smart-looking husbands and boyfriends dressed in Savile Row suits and silk ties. These must, Ursula assumed, be the grander Brattenbury family relations and close friends. This group was followed at a respectful distance by a few humbler-looking types whom Ursula imagined must be estate workers or tenants. Finally, India’s crowd of Oxford friends filed out of the chapel, the Yar girls striking in their black dresses and hats.

  Ursula observed India’s inner circle of friends intently as they passed in front of her. There were Dom and Isobel, holding hands, both looking suitably heartbroken. Eg and Otto followed behind them, Otto’s imperial red-and-white sash standing out among the sea of black. He gestured to Ursula, Nancy, and Horatio to join them.

  “I can’t believe Wenty’s not here,” said Eg miserably when he saw Ursula.

  Once outside, she noticed Dr. Dave and Fiammetta, fingers entwined, drifting along with the crowd of mourners making their way across the small family graveyard to the spot where India’s coffin would be buried, beneath a huge old oak. Olive Brookethorpe walked behind them, chatting to Mr. and Mrs. Deddington, who were flanked by Alice the scout, who was wearing a veiled hat. Ursula soon spotted High Provost Scrope and his secretary, Mrs. Gifford-Pennant, talking with the grand-looking relations. Detective Inspector Trott and a constable were standing on the far side of the graveyard. The mourners watched, grimly silent, as India’s coffin was lowered into the ground.

  “That’s peculiar,” said Horatio under his breath, glancing around.

  “What is?” asked Ursula.

  “Lord Brattenbury’s not here.”

  “You’re right, I can’t see him anywhere,” said Nancy, unable to spot India’s father. “Why would a dad not come to his own kid’s funeral?” She paused, then added, “Unless . . .”

  “What?” asked Ursula.

  “Unless he killed his own daughter.”