An Oxford Scandal

by Maxine Barry

  AN

  OXFORD

  SCANDAL

  An utterly gripping page-turner

  FAITH MARTIN

  writing as

  MAXINE BARRY

  Originally published as Melting the Iceman

  Joffe Books, London 2020

  www.joffebooks.com

  First published in Great Britain 2001

  as Melting the Iceman

  © Maxine Barry 2001, 2020

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Maxine Barry to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  ISBN: 978-1-78931-463-2

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ALSO BY FAITH MARTIN

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  GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG FOR US READERS

  CHAPTER ONE

  Laurel Van Gilder leaned quickly forward, eagerly craning her slender neck to look out of the taxi window and get her first good look at Oxford.

  The fabled city of dreaming spires.

  Her timing was perfect. At nearly six o’clock in the evening, the late September sun was just beginning to set, bathing the whole city with that wonderful copper glow that only autumn could produce. Also, an early fog was just beginning to roll in from the Headington hills, cloaking the famous skyline with a mysterious, atmospheric cloak of clammy mist.

  Laurel caught her breath. If only she had her video camera with her!

  She’d done a fair amount of reading about the city of Oxford on the flight over from Boston, and now she could pick out the stately towers of Christ Church near its green meadow and the domed tops of the Bodleian Old Library and Sheldonian Theatre, all set amid the many crenellated walls of Oxford’s numerous ancient colleges.

  ‘Bit of a picture that, eh, love?’ the taxi driver’s friendly voice suddenly interrupted her thoughts, and she leaned slowly back in her seat, letting out a long, slow breath.

  ‘It sure is.’

  Her East Coast American accent was pleasantly deep, and the taxi driver — a forty-something with an appreciative eye — once again glanced in his rear-view mirror. It was not the first time he’d done so on the hour-and-a-half-long journey from Heathrow.

  ‘You over here on one of them Rhodes Scholarship things then, love?’ he fished with casual charm, displaying his one piece of knowledge about the Oxford University system with pride, and giving Laurel a quick smile.

  She gave the back of his slightly balding head an amused look.

  ‘No,’ she said shortly but sweetly. At twenty-eight, she considered herself a little old to be mistaken for an undergraduate. Not that the taxi driver could be blamed for that. She looked a good five years younger than she actually was, as people, especially her more waspish female friends, constantly told her.

  The taxi driver’s doleful brown eyes once again met her own dark ebony ones in the mirror, and Laurel felt herself relenting a little. What was it about hurt men that made them look so pathetic?

  ‘I’ve already got my master’s,’ she explained gently. ‘From Radcliffe.’

  The name of the prestigious American university meant little to the driver however, who merely shrugged, pulled up at a traffic light, and began to whistle tunelessly through his teeth.

  Laurel yawned delicately, but with a gusto that was characteristic of her. ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ she asked.

  The taxi driver quickly shot away from the light, casting a baleful eye at a rather sporty Rover that had pulled up alongside him, and looked set to nab his place.

  ‘Eh? Oh, it was the Woodstock Road you wanted, wasn’t it? I dunno, love, I dunno this place too well. I’ll stop and ask when we get further into the town.’

  Laurel shrugged, but never even thought of casting a wary eye at the taxi’s ticking meter. When your family was worth millions, taxi fares didn’t hold too many terrors!

  Other things, however, did.

  She felt her slender shoulder blades tense for a moment and she forced them to relax. This was hardly her first trip abroad, she reminded herself angrily. Although it was her first time representing the Van Gilder family on business. The first time as a working member of the clan. And head of the clan, at that . . .

  Previously, Europe had always meant holidays to Laurel. Skiing in Austria, buying chocolates in Belgium, shopping for gowns in Paris. In her defence, that had been no more than was expected of her. The Van Gilder heiress had to be seen in all the right spots by the paparazzi, her photographs appearing in all the right magazines, and her face adorning all the ‘in’ charity halls. Her father had expected it of her.

  Of course, she’d also been expected to have a husband by now. An exiled royal prince perhaps? A famous tycoon, or renowned philanthropist? But so far, her ring finger had remained stubbornly bare, much to her mother’s chagrin.

  But all those expectations, squabbles and half-hearted plans had stopped, abruptly and horrifically, three short months ago, when her father’s limousine, on its way to his Boston office, had been rammed by a drunk driver.

  Her father, Bernard, had been killed instantly.

  Overnight, the Van Gilder empire had trembled. The family unit had threatened to crack. Uncles had hastily come out of the woodwork to ‘steady’ the stock market and safeguard the family shares. And they had succeeded.

  Then there had been the second crisis of the will.

  And what a bombshell that had been!

  Laurel felt her shoulder blades begin to ache once more, a sharp, painful throbbing that left her squirming in her seat. She sighed angrily at herself and began some deep-breathing exercises, forcing her muscles to relax. She was going to have to get used to the responsibilities now weighing on her, she reminded herself grimly.

  And this was only the first test. But, really, it was such a simple, easy little thing to do. If she was going to let herself get into such a state over something so . . .

  ‘’Ere, mate, you wouldn’t ’appen to know where I can find the Woodstock Road, would you?’

  The taxi driver’s voice once again cut across her reverie, dragging her from the dark path of her thoughts, and she glanced out of the window to see a young man with long, lank hair lean in and cast her a wide-eyed look.

  She listened with only half an ear as the stranger, probably a student, gave the driver directions, all the while feasting his eyes on the taxi’s passenger. Once they were moving again, she let her mind drift once more.

  The Van Gilder family was a large, rich and influential one. The original Van Gilder, her great-great-great (and was it another great after that?) grandfather, had been a very enterprising Dutchman who’d left his family’s diamond company in Amsterdam to set up business in the fledgling United States
of America. He’d started off in diamonds, of course, but his sons had gone into railroads. Their sons had gone into ships, and some of the greatest liners of the golden age were Van Gilder babies. Their sons had diverged even further! Nowadays, there were Van Gilders in California making mega-buck movies in Hollywood. Van Gilders in Kansas — corn kings who fed the country and sponsored hospitals. Van Gilders in Canada (lumber barons, naturally), and her own branch of the family, the East Coast Van Gilders. Theirs was perhaps the most divergent of them all. Her father had been a patron of museums, schools and ballets, while his company had fingers in pies as diverse as ball bearings, auto parts, steel, hospital instruments and educational publishing.

  But Bernard Van Gilder had only one child.

  Laurel.

  But he also had his three younger brothers, and had placed them in charge of his company’s many departments. Laurel’s uncle, Matthew, knew more about hospital instruments than surgeons but, far more importantly, how to sell them in bulk throughout the world. Uncle Thomas took care of all the hardware, while Uncle Craig mopped up the rest. It had been Bernard’s job to be the ‘patriarch’ of the family. Van Gilders had always stood for charity, good works, high profile and, above all, class. And everyone agreed, Bernard had produced one of the classiest families in Massachusetts.

  The result was that everyone was happy. The charities prospered and the media had their own ‘first family of Boston’ to denigrate or praise, according to their current editorial policy. The Van Gilders themselves thrived and enjoyed the fruits of their labours, and the reputation of Van Gilder class, elegance and style that Bernard had worked all his life to safeguard.

  And now, Laurel Van Gilder was in charge of the lot.

  At least, she thought with a wry twist of her lips, on paper she was. In reality, she was too much of a Van Gilder to believe in her own publicity. Her father had always kept his daughter’s feet firmly on the ground.

  Her uncles knew more about the running of their respective little mini-empires than she ever would and, like her father before her, she was more than happy to let them continue. She rather loved her uncles, especially Craig, who was her favourite.

  Her mother, Mercedes, was a Philadelphia Marsden by birth, and had quickly taken Boston by storm when she’d arrived as a young bride in the late sixties. Her parties had the best guests (ex-presidents abounded), her food was catered for by the impossible-to-book Marcel, her wines came from the best vineyards in France. Her husband had adored her from the very first moment they met, and had continued to do so throughout their thirty-year marriage. The very morning of his death, he’d ordered three dozen pure white roses for his wife, just because she’d bemoaned the fact over the breakfast table that their lavish rose garden had no white blooms in it this year.

  Bernard Van Gilder’s funeral had reflected his status as an all-rounder — a businessman, a patron of the arts, a philanthropist, an old-family, old-fashioned millionaire.

  And now Laurel had been handed the baton, and had no choice but to run with it.

  ‘This is it then, love,’ the taxi driver chirruped happily. ‘What number do you want?’

  Laurel hastily took a steadying breath, coming out of her blue funk with something of an effort, and repeated the number of the house she had leased for three months. Once again, she craned her neck to look out of the taxi window, this time to catch her first glimpse of Woodstock Road.

  The first thing she noticed were all the trees lined up at the front of all the gardens, creating a ‘country avenue’ effect. They were mostly cherry trees, she guessed. And she thought about how lovely they must look in spring. The houses themselves were large and individual and, in some mysterious way, utterly British. Nestled in large gardens, they gave way now and then to the odd college or two.

  There, on her left, was Green College with the Radcliffe Observatory close by. On her right, a veritable feast of colleges passed by, their windows lit up with twinkling yellow lights, as the sun slid even lower in the sky.

  St Anne’s College was set in so much greenery that the students must feel they had their own park! And, with only the Bevington Road to separate them, there was St Antony’s.

  She bit her lip as she realised they must have missed the one college that interested her the most — St Bede’s.

  Oh well! Plenty of time to sightsee later.

  The taxi pulled up outside a large, white-painted, villa-style house with a huge magnolia tree in front of it.

  ‘This the place, love?’

  ‘I guess so,’ Laurel murmured. Her private secretary had leased the place, sight unseen, after learning that Woodstock Road was a suitably prestigious address for her employer.

  Laurel reached for the door handle and swung her very long legs out on to the damp pavement. Back home, of course, she usually travelled by limousine, and the chauffeur always opened the doors for her. It was one of the reasons she’d liked holidaying abroad with her large circle of friends. She got to be ‘real’ for a few weeks! Living in a rarefied atmosphere might sound good to outsiders, but it could so easily lead you up the garden path if you let it!

  Laurel got out and glanced around her, shivering a little in the misty, cool night air. Street lamps were on, giving the long road a rather romantic air. The traffic, for such a big city as Oxford, was surprisingly light.

  The taxi driver began grunting as he hauled out the three large suitcases that were stowed in the boot.

  Laurel felt the usual slight tinge of guilt. For all her determination not to play the part of madam bountiful, she had to admit she had one weakness.

  She didn’t use the family’s credit cards at exclusive jewellery stores. She didn’t go to the hairdressers every day, as most of her friends did back home. She didn’t go from one holiday resort to another, or have a drug habit, or keep expensive playboys (again like most of her friends back home!).

  Her parents, for all their seemingly opulent lifestyles, had always instilled in her the twin evils of taking money for granted and thinking that the world was her playground. Her only true ‘rich bitch’ vice, as she privately thought of it, was her passion for clothes.

  ‘Here, let me take one of those,’ she said hastily now, as the taxi driver tried unsuccessfully to juggle the three large cases. She opened the gate leading to the villa, and together they lugged her cases to the small but charmingly tiled front porch. A security light had come on as soon as they’d set foot in the garden and, in its welcome light, Laurel took some cash from her Gucci handbag and handed over the fare, together with a very large tip.

  The taxi driver beamed at her. In the overhead light, her long, raven-black hair looked eerily but beautifully orange. Her sharp cheekbones and the line of her strong jaw had deep shadows playing over them. They made her look like a sexy witch from a Gothic horror movie, the taxi driver thought, with a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold fog. He gave one last lingering sigh at the sight of her, then headed reluctantly back to his cab, to drive his trusty chassis back to Heathrow.

  Laurel took the set of keys the estate agent had sent over to her and fiddled with the lock. She breathed just a small sigh of relief as the door swung open.

  Inside, the central heating timer system had already switched on and had warmed the place up nicely.

  The house was not large by her standards. A quick inspection revealed a charming black-and-white tiled hall with a large wooden staircase, a pleasant lounge with big bay windows, a fully-equipped kitchen fitted in pine, a music room complete with grand piano, and a conservatory that, unless she’d lost all sense of direction, would catch the early morning sun, and make it the ideal place to have breakfast. Upstairs were three large bedrooms, two with en suite bathrooms.

  Her mother might find it a bit poky but Laurel thought it would do nicely. Very nicely indeed.

  Her own private house, where she could rest her battered soul and catch her breath.

  She missed her father. And the Van Gilder crown felt so heavy
it gave her a constant headache. But, with typical practicality and pugnacity, she had decided to stay in England for a few months and catch up on other UK-related Van Gilder business.

  Her uncles had been only too happy to give her a long list of companies (and company chairmen) to be wined and dined and generally flattered.

  At first, she had been a bit resentful. Did they think she was good for nothing else but flying the Van Gilder flag, with her pretty face and elegant style? But then, realistically, she’d quickly acknowledged to herself that that was exactly what her father had done all his life. His handsome face had graced many periodicals, where he’d been photographed shaking the hands of foreign politicians, businessmen and potential allies and rivals alike.

  Her uncles might run the companies, but it was her father who had made the contacts, continuously brought in new business, and kept the machine well oiled.

  Now everyone was expecting her to do the same.

  And she’d die before she let them down!

  So, she was here to get on with it. And the first job on the agenda was to oversee and present the prestigious Van Gilder chair award in Psychology, and the Augentine chalice that went with it. The chalice, a fifteenth-century silver example that had somehow escaped the sacking by Henry VIII, had finally found its way into the Van Gilder art collection. It had been a great-uncle of her father who’d first come up with the idea of ‘loaning’ the chalice to whichever college currently housed the ‘Van Gilder’ chair. Which was why it had been shipped to England, and was currently awaiting her phone call to have it transported, under guard, to Oxford. (It was worth, at last insurance valuation, a cool one hundred thousand pounds).

  Laurel unpacked in the biggest bedroom and checked out the large, well-appointed bathroom. After a longish flight, a wearying taxi ride, and so much tense introspection, a long hot bath seemed like a good idea.

  She quickly ran the hot water, then rifled in one of her suitcases for her toiletries bag and favourite terry-robe. She carried her prizes back to the now steam-filled bathroom and quickly stripped off her plain and simple navy-blue Valentino suit.