by Plum Sykes
“Let’s go back to the start of the party,” suggested Ursula, checking the clock. “We’ve only got a few minutes left.”
Wenty sighed. “Well, as you know, by the time you two arrived, at around nine p.m., we’d started running out of champagne saucers. I met you two at the door of the Old Drawing Room, and asked you to come and help me get some more glasses from the bathroom.”
“True,” said Nancy. “I remember being a little upset that my first experience of an Oxford ball was doing the dishes—”
“It wasn’t a ball!” exclaimed Wenty. “It was an Opening Jaunt. It’s a completely different thing. Anyway, I remember that we three were in the bathroom, and I ended up trying to wash a champagne saucer in the sink because there were no clean ones and—”
“May I interrupt?” Ursula asked. “Why were there no clean glasses?”
“The washer-uppers had disappeared,” replied Wenty. “I think they must have been worried about being reported to the high provost for moonlighting. They came back later, at around eleven.”
“Who were the washer-uppers?” asked Nancy.
“Just a couple of scouts. Anyway, while I was washing up the champagne glass, I cut my hand. So I used one of the monogrammed Wychwood hand towels to clean myself up. It was a nasty cut, lots of blood. But I was so pissed I barely noticed any pain.”
“Remind me where you put the towel,” said Ursula.
“I think I just chucked it on the floor,” Wenty recalled.
“Where anyone could have found it,” Nancy said.
“Not exactly anyone,” said Ursula. “Only those who went into the bathroom that night.”
“Can you remember seeing anyone unusual in your bathroom?” asked Nancy.
“Not really,” Wenty replied. “Masses of people must have gone in and out that night.”
“But wait! What about anyone who was not unusual?” said Ursula, suddenly excited.
“There’s no way Eg killed India,” protested Wenty.
“I’m not talking about Eg,” she insisted. “I’m talking about the washer-uppers. It wouldn’t have been unusual, or particularly remarked upon, for them to have been in and out of the bathroom all night.”
“Except when I really needed them,” said Wenty.
“Which scouts were they?” asked Nancy.
“I managed to persuade Alice and Mrs. Deddington to help out that night . . . Come to think of it, I still owe them a fiver each. Ursula, what are you doing?”
She was grabbing her notebook off the table.
“No wonder Mrs. Deddington didn’t know whether she watched Dallas or Dynasty on Sunday night. She didn’t watch either of them. She wasn’t home. Come on, Nancy, we need to go,” she said.
Nancy sprang out of her seat.
“But what about going over the details of Sunday night?” Wenty looked confused.
“Don’t worry. I think we’ve got enough,” Ursula replied. “You’ll be out of here soon, I promise.”
As Ursula and Nancy rushed from the interview room, Wenty called, “Try and get me out by Saturday night. I really want to go to Christian’s night at the Playpen. It’s such a brilliant nightclub—”
“Wenty, I cannot believe you are worrying about your social life right now.” His priorities were, thought Ursula, amazingly superficial.
“Just trying to be positive about everything,” said Wenty. “Oh, and if you see Alice or Mrs. Deddington, tell them I haven’t forgotten about their fivers!”
Chapter 37
Mrs. Deddington was finishing off her morning tea break alone in the scouts’ mess when Ursula and Nancy came upon her. She seemed jumpy.
“What is it now?” asked the scout, nervously putting her cup of tea aside.
“It’s about Sunday night,” said Ursula.
“I told you. I was home. Dallas was on. I told the police the same thing.” Mrs. Deddington checked her watch. “Now, I really must get on with the high provost’s ironing.”
She started gathering up a pile of shirts.
“The thing is, Wenty Wychwood says you were washing up at his party on Sunday night,” Nancy said, adding, “He said to tell you he hasn’t forgotten that he still owes you a fiver.”
Mrs. Deddington turned a shade of crimson usually reserved for those unfortunate enough to have contracted scarlet fever.
“Girls, please, you mustn’t tell anyone I was working for an undergraduate,” she implored them. “I could lose my job if anyone knows I’ve taken money from a student here.”
“Don’t worry,” Nancy reassured her. “We’re not going to tell anyone. We just want to find out if you saw anything suspicious during the party.”
Mrs. Deddington glanced anxiously around her. “The other scouts will be in here soon for their break. I’ll have to be quick.”
“Do you remember finding a bloodstained towel in the bathroom opposite the Old Drawing Room that night?” asked Ursula.
“The one with the W embroidered on it?” asked Mrs. Deddington.
“So you did see it then?” Nancy said.
“Yes. Alice and I, we’d come down here for a bit—didn’t want to get caught moonlighting. When we came back to carry on washing up, it must have been just after eleven, I saw the towel on the bathroom floor. I picked it up—of course I did, I like things spick-and-span.”
“What did you do with it?” asked Ursula.
Mrs. Deddington looked surprised to be asked such a simple question.
“Put it in the laundry basket, of course. As I said, I do like things spick-and-span.”
At that moment the door to the mess opened and a couple of scouts appeared for their break.
“Cup of tea?” asked Mrs. Deddington, filling the kettle again, before saying, rather louder than necessary, “Thank you for letting me know about the hot water breaking down, girls. Someone will be up to fix it today.”
* * *
Ursula was not quite sure what to do next. She had a nonnegotiable deadline for her history essay that coming Monday, and had made few inroads into the apocalyptic—or not—vision of the Scottish Covenanters, but the deadline for her article was sooner.
How on earth was she going to solve the riddle of India’s murder and write it up before Sunday morning? After all, Mrs. Deddington’s story seemed to explain far less about the case than she had hoped. The only thing Ursula had ascertained from the brief interview with the scout was that she had lied about her whereabouts on Sunday night for fear of losing her job. The mystery of exactly how the bloody towel had made its way from Wenty’s laundry basket, thence to India’s garroted neck, and finally into Dr. Dave’s chimney breast was no nearer to being solved.
Ursula climbed the stairs to her room. Even if she didn’t have the ending of her article yet, she had the grim beginning. She could at the very least add to the notes she’d started writing up last night. Maybe there was a crucial clue or fact she had overlooked that would be revealed while she was writing.
The door to her room was ajar when she arrived, and Ursula entered to find Alice beavering away, polishing the desk. Perhaps she could shed some light on the mysterious movements of the bloody towel.
“Hello, love,” said Alice. “Am I all right to carry on?”
“Of course,” Ursula replied. “I just need my desk.”
“I’ve just got to do your bed and then I’ll be gone.”
Alice bustled over to the bed and started making it. Ursula sat down at her desk, where her work had been arranged in a neat pile, with the red folder containing her story notes on the top. She opened it and read the last note she had written on her pad:
. . . what on earth is significance of “rubber glove”?
“Alice, can you help me with something?” said Ursula.
“I very much doubt I can help with your essay, but go on, give me a try,” the scout chuckled.
“Actually it’s about Sunday night.”
Alice stood stock-still, a blanket in her hand. She turned
slowly towards Ursula.
“Look, I know you were working at Wenty’s party that night—”
“Miss Flowerbutton, please don’t mention that to anyone,” Alice begged, sounding just as desperate as Mrs. Deddington had. “We tried to stay out of sight. The extra money’s just so helpful.”
“Don’t worry, no one’s going to say anything. But I’m curious about something—”
A tap on the door, followed by Nancy’s arrival in Ursula’s room, interrupted them.
“Hey, Alice,” Nancy called to the scout. She was holding a blue airmail envelope in her hand. “Mind if I hang out and read my mail here, Ursula?”
“Of course not,” she replied.
As Nancy sat in the armchair and started opening her letter, Ursula turned back to Alice, and said, “Anyway, I was curious about a towel that was left on the floor of Wenty’s bathroom on Sunday night. It was one of his monogrammed hand towels.”
“I know the ones,” said Alice, arranging the blanket neatly on top of Ursula’s bed. “Very nice. But that one had a nasty stain on it.” She then addressed Nancy, saying, in worried tones, “Miss Feingold, you won’t say anything about me washing up on Sunday night, will you?”
“No way,” said Nancy, scanning her letter.
“So, I was just wondering,” Ursula continued slowly, “did you see Mrs. Deddington put the hand towel into the laundry basket?”
“No.” Alice shook her head. “She put it into the pocket of her apron.”
Ursula noticed Nancy stiffen in her chair. A startled look appeared on her face.
“Mrs. Deddington took it?” Nancy reiterated. “You’re sure?”
“Yes. We’d gone off for a break to the scouts’ mess. When we came back later, there it was on the floor. She picked it up and said she was going to wash it herself,” replied Alice, starting to gather up her cleaning things now the bed was made. “She wanted to get the stain out before it marked.”
“Oh, right,” said Ursula, trying to remain cool as she noted Alice’s words in her book.
“Righty, I’m off, girls,” said the scout, picking up her bucket.
Just as Alice was about to leave, Nancy suddenly emitted a long cooing sound. She was holding something in her hand.
“Oooooooh! Mom’s sent the cutest photograph!” she exclaimed, jumping up and holding out a photograph of a wrinkled newborn baby dressed in a smocked, frilled romper suit for them to admire. “My cousin has had her first kid. Winston. He’s so adorable.”
“Sweet,” said Ursula, getting up from her desk to take a closer look.
“Lovely,” chimed in Alice, looking at the picture. “Beautiful bairn.”
Suddenly, Nancy froze. What on earth was wrong with her? wondered Ursula.
“Did you say ‘barn’?” Nancy asked the scout.
“It means ‘baby,’” replied Alice. “That’s what we say up where I come from. Now, I’ll leave you ladies to it.”
The minute Alice had departed, Nancy shut the door to Ursula’s room firmly, leaning against it as though to bar entry to any interlopers.
“Did you hear that?” she whispered dramatically.
“Hear what?” asked Ursula.
“She said ‘barn.’”
“It means a baby.”
“I know. She used the exact same word for baby as Mrs. Crimshaw did . . .” Nancy continued.
Suddenly Ursula twigged.
“Oh my God! Mrs. Crimshaw said ‘bairn’ yesterday when she was talking about the illegitimate baby. Nancy, are you saying that you think Mary Crimshaw might not be dead?”
“I’m saying I think she was standing right here two seconds ago. She uses the same local slang as Mrs. Crimshaw. She could easily have been raised in Brattenbury.”
Ursula dashed back to her desk and turned to a fresh page in her notebook.
“Right, brainstorming time,” she said, hurriedly scribbling lines as she thought out loud. “If Alice, who was in college on Sunday night, is in fact Mary Crimshaw, who is in fact the birth mother of Nicholas Deddington, who is in fact the illegitimate heir to Lord Brattenbury . . . then she had the motive and the opportunity to murder India.”
Nancy nodded enthusiastically as she rifled around in her purse for a packet of cigarettes. She then retreated back to the armchair, lit her cigarette, and puffed madly on it while Ursula went on, “But—hang on—how would Mary Crimshaw have found out where her son went when he was adopted?”
“Minor detail,” insisted Nancy between smoke rings. “It probably wasn’t that difficult to trace him. Perhaps her father secretly helped her. He knew where the baby had been taken.”
“But why would Mary’s father have told his wife that their daughter was dead if she wasn’t?” asked Ursula, halting her writing for a moment to ponder so many new twists.
“Look, we all know that you British are pathetically uptight—”
“What?” Ursula protested.
“A pregnant, unmarried teenage daughter would have brought shame on Mary’s family. Maybe her father forbade her from ever coming home. Maybe it was easiest to say she’d died,” Nancy suggested.
“Perhaps that’s why Alice was wearing a veil at the funeral . . . she didn’t want any of the locals to recognize her,” Ursula surmised. Suddenly, an extraordinary thought came to her: “Do you think she just lied to us about seeing Mrs. Deddington taking the towel?”
“That’s it, Ursula!” Nancy sprang up from her chair. She was so excited she didn’t notice the blizzard of ash falling from her cigarette to the floor as she did so. She came and perched on the corner of Ursula’s desk. “What if Alice took the towel from the laundry basket after Mrs. Deddington had put it in there? What if she did everything that she’s claiming Mrs. Deddington did?”
How on earth could that be proven? Ursula wondered, opening the top drawer of her desk and retrieving the bar of Kendal Mint Cake that Plain Granny had sent her. She broke off a large chunk and offered it to Nancy.
“You want me to eat Kryptonite now?” she said, shaking her head at the sight of the alien white bar.
“All the more for me,” Ursula declared happily, crunching on the sweet mint cake. It tasted sublime, and reenergized her to continue. “Let’s go back to the scene in the bathroom. Wenty said that after the row in Great Quad, he and Otto chatted in there—where, we now know, Alice and Mrs. Deddington were washing up—”
“Wait! Washing up! That’s it!” cried Nancy. “It’s what Frank said in that telegram. ‘Rubber glove.’ He meant a washing-up glove. You never see Alice without her yellow gloves. She must have been wearing them to hold the shard of glass when she killed India so she didn’t leave her fingerprints. That’s why Doc found that trace of sodium diamithy-whatty on the tiny glass fragment that was found in India’s neck.”
Ursula looked at Nancy with admiration. Her powers of deduction were razor-sharp. But there was a possible flaw in her theory.
“Lots of the other scouts wear washing-up gloves,” Ursula pointed out. “Including Linda Deddington.”
“True.” Nancy looked deflated. She walked over to Ursula’s sink, ran her cigarette stub under the cold tap, and chucked it in the trash.
“But, still, let’s run with this hypothesis that Alice is the murderer,” Ursula went on.
“Okay,” said Nancy, taking a Milkybar from her purse. She sat cross-legged on the floor, munching chocolate.
“Alice, washing up in the bathroom at midnight, would have overheard Wenty asking Otto to go and get India back from Dr. Dave’s rooms.”
“Meaning she knew where India was that night,” added Nancy.
“Exactly. Now, I don’t know why, but at some point that night Alice decided to go up there. No one would have suspected anything peculiar if they’d seen a scout go into Dr. Dave’s rooms at any time of the day or night, would they?”
“I guess not,” agreed Nancy.
“She had Wenty’s bloody towel in her apron pocket, which she had taken from the laundr
y basket sometime that evening. She found India alone. Here was her chance to dispose of India, remove the obstacle to her son’s possible inheritance, and cast suspicion initially on Wenty by planting his bloody towel in Dr. Dave’s chimney. By later saying she’d seen Mrs. Deddington take the towel, Alice could make it look as if Mrs. Deddington had planted it in Dr. Dave’s chimney to frame Wenty, thereby making her the prime suspect.”
Ursula looked at Nancy questioningly, as if to say, Tell me if I’m completely mad.
“You’ve left something out,” Nancy said.
“What?”
“The flaw in Alice’s plan: Mrs. Deddington. If she doesn’t know her adopted son is the offspring of Lord Brattenbury, then she had no motive to murder India. Mrs. Deddington only lied about her whereabouts on Sunday night for fear of losing her job, not because she had killed someone.”
“The only problem now,” said Ursula, “is that we don’t know for sure that Mary Crimshaw isn’t dead.”
* * *
Ursula put a ten-pence coin in the slot in the pay phone at the bottom of the staircase and dialed a Leeds number as fast as her fingers would allow. The line seemed to ring and ring forever before someone answered.
“Leeds Register Office,” a man’s voice answered.
“Hello. I’m wondering if you can help me locate a death certificate,” said Ursula.
“I just need the name of the deceased and the year that they died.”
“Her name was Mary Crimshaw, and I think she died some time in 1963 or 1964.”
“Right. You’ll need to send a postal order for two pounds, fifty pence, made payable to Leeds Register Office. When we receive your payment, we’ll send you a copy of the death certificate.”
That was going to take weeks, thought Ursula.
“Can I ring back later to see if you’ve found it?” she begged. “You see, this is really very urgent.”
“It’s always ‘urgent,’” came the deadpan reply.