Deadly Stuff

by Joyce Cato

  ‘Oh, call me Pippa,’ the young girl said automatically and smiled winsomely.

  ‘Detective Inspector Golder, this is Sergeant Trent,’ Trevor said.

  ‘So, what is going on?’ Pippa asked sharply.

  Now that’s what I call a good question, Jenny thought grimly.

  ‘Can you tell me your movements of this morning, Miss Foxton?’ Trevor Golder said, ignoring her demand but covering it with a friendly smile.

  Pippa took a long, deep breath, which strained the tiny white buttons on her blouse in a most spectacular manner. Both men had to drag their eyes away from the threatening-to-pop little pearl buttons and the older man even seemed to blush, just a little. Jenny thought that was rather sweet.

  ‘Well, we had breakfast, of course,’ Pippa began, but before she could go on was swiftly interrupted.

  ‘We?’ Golder prompted gently.

  ‘Me and Ian. My fiancé. Well, sort of fiancé. Maybe not. Anyway, we had breakfast, right here in hall,’ She indicated the room beyond, her bright blue eyes darting here and there as she caught sight of the white-suited SOCO figures moving about. Luckily, the corpse was out of sight on the floor amid the sea of tables. ‘That must have been around half past eight to nine o’clockish, I suppose. Then we sort of all milled around, whilst we waited for Maurice to officially open the conference.’ Pippa shrugged. ‘That was it, really.’

  ‘You knew Maurice Raines well?’ Trevor asked.

  Pippa, if she realized the implication behind the police officer’s use of the past tense, didn’t show it.

  ‘Oh, Maurice is a sweetheart. Well, sort of. He’s a bit of an old goat too, if you know what I mean, but you can’t really take him seriously, somehow. Ian couldn’t stand him,’ she said off-handedly.

  Jenny winced inwardly, but said nothing. Was the girl really so genuinely unconcerned and blissfully unaware, or did she have some reason for dropping her boyfriend in the brown stuff?

  ‘Oh?’ Trevor said sharply.

  ‘He thinks Maurice is a bit of joke, really. Well, he doesn’t like the way Maurice flirts with me, but like I tell Ian, he’s just being old-fashioned. Men like Maurice would consider it rude not to flirt with a young girl, if you see what I mean? But Ian doesn’t like it. And of course, Maurice is a bigwig in the society and Ian is all bent out of shape because he thinks they should be backing younger blood. Oh, it’s all very medieval, I can tell you. Anyone would think stuffing dead things was on a par with painting the bloody Mona Lisa, if you listen to some of them,’ she finished disgustedly.

  Then, as if aware that her petulance probably wasn’t making a favourable impression, she suddenly grinned and tossed back a long tress of glossy brown hair.

  Trevor nodded, trying not to watch the flight path of the tress. ‘I’m a little confused. You don’t speak like a member of the society: are you not a conference goer yourself?’

  ‘Well, yes and no. I mean, I’m here at the conference, but I’m not strictly speaking a member.’

  ‘You’re not a taxidermist yourself?’ Peter Trent clarified for his notes.

  Pippa Foxton gave a theatrical shudder that moved parts of her body in a way that had both men carefully averting their glances. ‘Oh good grief no! I’m a baker. I came down to be with Ian, that’s all. A bit of a cheap holiday really, if we’re being honest. I get to see Oxford, and Ian gets to schmooze with the others, and everyone’s happy.’

  ‘And this is OK with the others?’ Trevor asked. ‘You not being a taxidermist, I mean?’

  ‘Oh they don’t know. Well, perhaps some of them guessed, but they don’t care.’

  ‘Did Maurice know?’ Trevor asked sharply.

  Pippa giggled. ‘He was beginning to suspect. Ian said I was thinking of joining the society, and this conference was a way of me making up my mind. But really, Maurice wouldn’t have come over all chairman-of-the-board about it. He liked me,’ she added, with such supreme insouciance that Jenny actually had to grit her teeth.

  ‘Right,’ Trevor said deadpan. ‘So, back to this morning. You had breakfast, you listened to the opening speeches, and then what?’

  ‘Oh, I went with Ian to his first lecture. He was giving it, that is, not listening to it. He had agreed to give a talk to the very newest and wannabe members, a sort of beginner’s guide, sort of thing. He’d been muttering about it all week long, about how that sort of thing was a bit of a sop and how he should have been giving a more prestigious talk. You know how men are. I stopped listening after his first grumbles. But I went along to sit and take notes and cheer him on so to speak. Mind you, it got so mind-numbingly boring after a while that I slipped out early. I was just coming back here to have a look around the tables when I bumped into you. And here we are.’

  Jenny slowly digested Pippa’s story. She watched Inspector Golder and Sergeant Trent do the same. She wasn’t at all surprised by Trevor Golder’s next question.

  ‘Did Mr Glendower blame Mr Raines for being given such a low-priority task?’

  Pippa blinked. ‘I don’t know. He might have. Mind you, Maurice wasn’t giving the best lecture either, I do know that, because I heard Vicki saying that for once he’d given that to… oh, someone else. I forget his name. Vicki will be able to tell you. And I know Ian was surprised by that, because apparently Maurice always snaffles the plum jobs for himself.’

  But not this time, Jenny found herself thinking. And wondering why. It was not like a man with the personality of Maurice Raines to do himself out of a treat.

  ‘Let’s go back to the opening speeches for a moment,’ Trevor said. ‘Maurice Raines gave this, right?’

  ‘Oh yes. He had some big black stuffed bear that he seemed really chuffed about,’ Pippa said cheerfully. ‘He went on a bit about how it represented all that was good about taxidermy, and then told everyone setting up tables that there was a free lunch down in the JCR and that was it. Things sort of broke up, and everyone went off to do their own thing.’

  ‘JCR?’

  ‘Stands for the junior common room, Inspector,’ Jenny explained.

  ‘So it’s a sort of club room,’ Trevor nodded. ‘I see. Sergeant, you’d better find this place and start taking down names. Find out who was the last to leave hall this morning. Was anyone talking to Mr Raines, you know the sort of thing. Take some uniforms with you.’

  ‘Guv.’ He left, beckoning the two younger constables to come with him.

  ‘All right, Miss Foxton, did you speak to Mr Raines after his speech?’ Trevor turned once more to his witness. He hadn’t missed the fact that Miss Starling was still present and listening to everything with quiet intelligence, but for now he was content to let things be. The college cook was beginning to interest him. He suspected that she possessed a fine intelligence, and if only he could figure out how, he was sure that he could get it to work to his advantage.

  ‘Oh no. Ian wanted to get going and get set up,’ Pippa’s cheerful voice dragged his thoughts back to the interview in hand. ‘For all he was grumbling about it, I could tell he was eager to show off to all the newbies.’

  Trevor smiled. ‘Do you know of anyone who might have any reason to want to hurt Mr Raines?’

  Pippa laughed. ‘Well, probably only Mrs Raines.’

  Jenny sighed heavily.

  ‘Do you know Mrs Raines?’ Trevor asked sharply.

  ‘Good grief no. I just meant, well, Maurice being like he was. I imagine anyone married to him could cheerfully want to strangle him from time to time.’

  Trevor nodded. Pippa put her hands on her hips. ‘Look, are you going to tell me what this is all about now? Why all these questions?’

  Jenny glanced across curiously at Trevor Golder. Was he going to tell her, and take the opportunity to gauge her reaction? Or was he going to keep her in the dark?

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been a fatality, Miss Foxton. Mr Raines is dead,’ Trevor Golder said quietly.

  Pippa stared at him for a long, silent moment, and then nodded. ‘Oh.
Right. I thought it had to be bad. Whatever it was.’ She waved a vague hand at hall where the search for evidence went on.

  And then, after a thoughtful pause, she said simply, ‘Poor old Maurice.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Doctor Julius Glover-Smythe, Bursar of St Bede’s College, Oxford, had never much liked his name. At the elite public school that he’d attended, he’d inevitably been called Julie and mocked accordingly by the rugby contingent whilst the reds had mocked the snobbish corruption of the honest, proletarian ‘Smith.’

  Thus ridiculed by the jocks, and ostracized by the politicals, he’d turned all his energies to actually studying, which had amazed both his teachers and his parents alike, who’d expected nothing from him but the modest success needed to go into one of the less enervating professions.

  But, after gaining a place at Oxbridge, and a rather undistinguished second class degree, Julius had decided he liked Oxford well enough and might as well stay. He had taken his time and been canny about it, had picked his spot well and had steadily worked his way up the hierarchy, until gaining the heights of his present post. It was a non-teaching job, which suited him just fine, since he wasn’t particularly fond of students. He also liked being an administrator and was good it, but most of all, he enjoyed wangling money out of people.

  Now, as he listened to the porter, who knew everything and had long since been Julius’s eyes and ears in the college, he sighed heavily. He’d been looking forward to a quiet, lucrative summer, and this news was extremely unwelcome.

  ‘All right, Franks, you’d better send in Mr McIntyre,’ he said tersely, when the porter had finished.

  The porter nodded solemnly and withdrew. Julius thought for a moment, and then rang a friend in The Press.

  The friend in The Press, Michael Jaeger, was quickly able to bring him up to speed on the life and career of one Inspector Trevor Golder. Married, with three teenage daughters, he was born locally, joined the Force at eighteen, and had steadily risen to his current rank during a respectable but unimaginative career. And, whilst the friend was sympathetic to his old pal’s troubles, he was also tediously insistent on getting the scoop.

  Julius, aware of the need to manage the publicity at all costs, was more than willing to meet him halfway, and gave him a very careful version of the little he knew so far. ‘But, Michael, please keep it all low-key, will you? Stress that it was a member of the conference, and not anyone on staff, who’s deceased. And whatever else you do, make it as clear as a pikestaff that there’s not a student involved. If you can hint that the culprit is almost certainly to be found within the other conference members, that would be marvellous.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can, Julius, but you know how nervous the powers-that-be are nowadays. Forget the libel laws, they’re all still wetting their pants over the phone hacking scandal. Everyone’s being very careful what they print nowadays.’

  Julius sighed. ‘Try not to mention the college by name too often.’

  ‘Some hope,’ came the dry response.

  ‘I know, I know. The principal is going to have a cow,’ Julius said, which for some reason sent his friend off into fits of laughter. ‘It’s all right for you, but you’re not the one who’s going to have to deal with him. When he finds out that, is.’ Julius suddenly brightened. ‘Which, with a bit of luck, might not be for some time yet.’

  ‘He’s not in Oxford then?’ Michael said, then answered his own question almost immediately. ‘No, of course he’s not. It’s the long vacation. He’s probably abroad somewhere, right?’

  Julius sighed. ‘I hope so,’ he said with feeling. He hardly knew where the principal was during term time, let alone out of term. ‘But even he’ll read the papers eventually, or some busybody will see it as their business to inform the old duffer that we’ve got a murder inquiry on our hands.’

  ‘Sorry, old bean,’ came the cheerful response. ‘Not much I can do to help you there. But why don’t you ask your new cook to keep an eye on things?’

  Julius, a tall, good-looking man in his mid-forties, held the phone away from his ear for a moment and frowned. Was he finally losing it? ‘Sorry, Michael, I could have sworn you just said that I should get the cook to look into it,’ he repeated.

  On the other end of the line, he could sense his old friend’s impish sense of glee and he sighed wearily. ‘Now is not the time to play silly buggers, Michael. For heaven’s sake, this is serious.’

  ‘I know it is, old bean, hold your horses and all that,’ the friend in The Press said, relenting a little. There had been a time when he had rather fancied Julius Glover Smythe. Himself, and half the old public school, of course. ‘I’m not being funny, actually. A little bird told me the other day that you’d hired Jennifer Starling to cook for the conference season. Is that right?’

  Julius pulled his mind back to the Amazonian woman he’d hired, and then nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right. Her name is Starling. Why? What’s wrong with her?’ he demanded in sudden, sharp alarm. ‘She had excellent references, I checked.’

  His friend chuckled. ‘I have no doubt she does. And she cooks like an angel as well, or so I’ve heard. But that’s not what she’s famous for. Well, not in our circles anyway.’

  ‘Oh?’ Julius said stiffly. ‘Don’t tell me I’ve got something else to worry about besides some fool of a taxidermist getting himself bumped off on college premises. Oh Lord, she’s not some sort of Madame Whiplash is she?’

  ‘No such luck, duckie! And was the stiff really a taxidermist? I love it!’ Michael said, suddenly distracted. ‘Can’t you just see all the tabloid puns? Dead Stuffed. I mean, it’s a headline-writer’s dream.’

  Julius shuddered. ‘Michael, please! I’m glad you’re enjoying this, but I’m the one in charge here, and the buck stops with me. And everyone knows that I’m really the one running St Bede’s, and with most of my staff away for the summer, I’m just left with that fool Arthur McIntyre to help me sort things out.’

  ‘OK, OK, keep your hair on, old son. I’m just saying, having your Jenny Starling on hand is a stroke of luck. You always were a jammy sod, Julius,’ the friend said enviously, no doubt remembering past misdemeanours which had left Julius untouched. Then, when there continued to be an ominous, if not downright Arctic silence from the other end of the line, he reluctantly concluded that he’d had his fun for the day. ‘Look, Jenny Starling is well known in some circles as a bit of a sleuth.’

  ‘A sleuth?’ Julius repeated, his voice for once rising an octave.

  ‘Yes. You know, an amateur solver of crimes. Really, old son, you need to get yourself a better dictionary,’ Michael said sardonically. ‘Anyway, apparently, she’s helped the police catch killers on numerous occasions. Not that either she or the police force involved will admit to it of course: They keep it very much to themselves, and the lady herself has never given an interview. But still, we in The Press get to hear about such things, and a number of my colleagues on rival rags have reported on her. She’s quite the Miss Marple it seems.’

  ‘How very Agatha Christie,’ Julius said drily.

  ‘No, I mean it, Julius. If I were you, I’d get her on side and ask her to be your eyes and ears. You won’t regret it. Trust me.’

  Julius sighed. Just how much did he trust Michael? Not much, if truth be told. He rather thought Michael had always fancied him, but the rotund, beer-drinking, piggyeyed, fourth son of a baronet had never been his type. But, Julius had to admit, he knew his stuff, and his job as a high-prestige reporter for one of the better papers, proved it.

  ‘Really? I must say, I find that rather surprising.’ He thought back to his interview with the cook, then added thoughtfully. ‘Having said that, however, she is a rather impressive individual.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard that too,’ Michael said drolly. ‘Do you think you could get her to let me have an exclusive interview?’

  Julius Glover-Smythe said something very unprintable and hung up. A moment later, there came a knock at the d
oor, and he called out irritably, ‘Come in.’

  He sighed as Art McIntyre came nervously into the room. He looked apologetic, but then he nearly always did. He reminded Julius of a dog that expected to be kicked, and so, perversely, that’s what he always felt like doing. Unfortunately, it had been Julius’s predecessor who had hired him, and now Julius was stuck with him. The man would have been perfectly acceptable as a secretary or clerk, but he simply didn’t have the gumption or the brains to help manage such a large and stately enterprise as St Bede’s.

  Unfortunately, for now, Julius had no other choice but to work around him.

  Julius hid another heavy sigh, and said flatly, ‘Ah, Art. Come in and sit down. We seem to have something of a situation and I’m going to need your help.’

  Art nodded solemnly, then went pale as the bursar filled him in on that morning’s events.

  ‘So, what can you tell me about these people?’ the bursar concluded sharply. He hadn’t mentioned his friend’s suggestion about the cook, and didn’t intend to. He wasn’t sure yet what he intended to do with Michael’s unexpected suggestion that she be his intermediary, but instinct told him that the less people who knew about her, the better.

  ‘They’re perfectly normal clients, Bursar,’ Art said, and quickly racked his brains for all that he knew. ‘They paid in advance of course, and we did all the preliminary checks. Their society has been going for over a hundred and fifty years. Their speciality is a little, well, unorthodox perhaps for most people’s tastes, but there were no red flags at all that I could see.’

  ‘Their cheque cleared all right?’

  ‘Oh yes, Bursar.’

  ‘And you’ve observed nothing … odd, about them?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t really seen much of them, Bursar. They only started arriving yesterday.’

  ‘Hmm. And they’re really taxidermists, are they?’ Julius said, as if wishing he could suddenly turn them into something less outlandish. Like naturalists, or flat-earth believers.

  ‘Yes, Bursar, I’m afraid so,’ Art said miserably. He opened his mouth to point out that it was the bursar himself who had the final say on allocating the conference openings, and must thus have deemed the taxidermists to be of a calibre suitable to the college’s requirements of its conference clientele. But then, mercifully, he had a sudden, instinctive flash of self-preservation that made him concede that now would probably not be a diplomatic time to say so.