The Eternal Investigator: An Oxford Key Mysteries Novella

by Lynn Morrison

  “A person?” I stop to make sure I heard her correctly. “Someone alive, you mean?”

  “Yes,” she confirms, “although I’ve never met this prefect myself. That is how we discovered that we are Eternals. According to Samantha, the prefect explained about the magic of Oxford and provided an overview of our responsibilities.”

  “Which are?” I interrupt.

  “To help our students, faculty and staff perform at their best,” Catherine replies. “Those gentle nudges that push you in the right direction, or the idea which finally crystallises in your mind - those subtle aids come from the resident Eternals. Here at St Margaret, it appears we’ve grown from three to four.”

  She stops at the door to the garden and I nearly reach over to open the door for her before I remember my failed attempts earlier. When Catherine sees my vexed expression, she gives a low chuckle. “Haven’t figured out how to interact with the living world yet?”

  I don’t bother to hide my surprise. “We can do that?”

  “It takes a strong will and a bit of practice, but yes. Try it now. Think about how much you want to open the door. Visualise yourself standing in the sunshine, its warm rays beating down on your shoulders. Hear the birds and squirrels in the trees, feel the wind on your face. Imagine the sound of the gravel pathway scuffing under your feet as you make your way outside.”

  I squeeze my eyes closed and focus on recreating in my head the scene she is describing. When the image is crisp and clear, without opening my eyes, I stick my hand out towards where I know the door handle should be. My eyes fly open when I feel the cold metal surface against my skin.

  I twist my hand, watching in shock as the door handle moves in unison. I step forward, ready to push the door open, but stop before I do so. “Wait. Won’t someone see the door opening? I mean, the door opening without someone being there to make it happen? How have I never noticed this?”

  Catherine steps past me to push the door open. “As far as any of us know, no one can see us. Or notice us. Or notice anything we do. It is as though our actions are as invisible as we are. Their minds skip over anything they cannot explain away. We are almost certain that the magic provides us with this protection. The only exception, as far as I know, is this prefect person whom Samantha met years ago.”

  I weigh up her words as we make our way into the gardens, following the pathways until we come to a stop at one of the wrought iron benches which dot the grounds. How many magical interactions have I missed over the years? What else has Catherine seen me do?

  Maybe it is best if I don’t know, so I quickly shut down that line of thinking.

  ❖

  “But why me? Or why us, I guess I should say?” I ask Catherine as we settle onto the bench. “I know for a fact from my time spent working at St Margaret that more than four of us have passed away. Why did we specifically end up here?”

  “There’s no rule book, Bartie, so I can’t say for sure. But as best as I can guess, we all have a somewhat special connection with the college. During our lifetimes, we all worked in one way or another to ensure the college’s success. We forged the connection ourselves, strong enough for the magic to recognise. Do you not feel invested in its future?”

  Her question stumps me for a moment. I never really thought of my work that way. I never thought of St Margaret as an office in the traditional sense. It was my home. Somewhere in the back of my mind I assumed I’d one day have a family, but I was so busy with my responsibilities at the college and then the war broke out and it didn’t seem to be the right time to think about meeting someone and falling in love.

  And now, I’ll never have the chance again. Who would marry a ghost?

  As if sensing my melancholy, Catherine taps on my arm to get my attention. “Bartie, earlier you mentioned having a purpose. That part, at least, is true. Our purpose is to aid the college and its occupants however we can.”

  “But I’m not a professor,” I argue. “I wouldn’t have a clue where to start with finding information on the subjects our students study. How can I possibly help?”

  Catherine smiles gently. “I’m not a professor either, Bartie. And yet we all bring something special to the college. I may not be useful during a history lesson, but when Dr Gardner is searching for ideas for bringing in new funds, I’ve plenty of ideas to suggest. Think about what you do best.”

  “Budget balancing? Managing the accounts?” I shake my head, discounting the thought. “How is that useful?”

  “Isn’t it though? I overheard Dr Gardner discussing problems with the budgets and missing funds several times in the last few days,” Catherine replies. “She’s been quite upset about it.”

  “It is a large sum, I’d be worried if she wasn’t upset. If Clark hadn’t dragged me out of the office to go to that club in London, I’d probably still be in there trying to figure out where the money has gone. But what can I do now? I’m dead.”

  “No, Bartie,” she interrupts, “you’re an Eternal. You have no idea yet what you can accomplish.”

  I pause, weighing her words. “You think I can find out what happened to the money?”

  She nods. “You can and you must.”

  I raise an eyebrow at her emphatic response.

  She looks me in the eye, her tone growing serious. “The first I heard of the missing money was after your disappearance. You and Clark, I should say. Most everyone assumed you must be sick and Clark off on a bender, but when neither of you turned up on the second or third day, suspicions went where they will.”

  “You mean, Dr Gardner really believes Clark and I absconded with the college’s money?” I search her face, hoping she is making a joke.

  “I’m afraid so, Bartie. You have to admit, from where she is sitting, it does look incredibly suspicious. And who else could have siphoned money away from the college accounts with no one the wiser?”

  I leap to my feet, spinning around to look upon Catherine. “After all my years of hard work, the best years of my life, Dr Gardner’s first thought is to assume I robbed the coffers and ran off into the wind?”

  “Now, Bartie,” Catherine waves her hands at me in an attempt to calm me down. “Surely you can see how her mind might move in that direction?”

  “No!” I shout vehemently, knowing no one else can hear me anyways. “How can I possibly stay here for the rest of eternity, knowing my name and legacy have been tarnished?”

  Catherine rises to her feet and brushes off her skirts. She raises her head and looks me straight in the eye, sizing me up. “Help the college. Figure out who stole the missing money and bring them to justice. Along the way, you’ll no doubt discover how much you can do as an Eternal.”

  I pull my shoulders back and stand taller. “I can do this. But I also need to find out how I died and make sure the real truth of what happened to me, and presumably Clark, gets back to the college.”

  Catherine gives me a wry smile. “Clear your name and save the college’s finances. You don’t like to do things halfway, do you, Bartie?”

  “No, ma’am, I do not,” I mutter and then I take my leave. I’ve got work to do.

  Chapter Four

  I come to a stop in front of the door to my office, suddenly worried at what I will find when I step inside. I’m not sure that I’m ready to see someone else sitting behind my desk, their coat and hat hanging on my coatrack. For the last ten years, this little room tucked away down one of St Margaret’s narrow hallways has been my refuge. My fingerprints cover every surface, both literally and figuratively.

  “Needs must,” I mutter under my breath, steeling my shoulders as I force myself to take that first step through the door. Using the handle would be too similar to the before times, when I was alive and unaware of the magic of Oxford. Maybe if I slide through, the pain of seeing someone else in my space won’t be so rough.

  I close my eyes, take two more steps, passing through the wall, and then freeze. I focus all of my attention on my ears, searching for even the sma
llest hint of sound.

  My wall clock ticks away, ever moving in its circle.

  A bird squawks outside of the window, followed quickly by the chittering of an annoyed squirrel.

  But there are no sounds of a pencil moving, no squeaks from my chair, no hints of breathing. I open my right eye and peek in the direction of my chair.

  It sits empty, a week’s worth of dust covering my desk.

  A wave of relief crashes over me, making me realise just how hard this transition from living creature to an Eternal spirit will be in the coming days. As grateful as I am to be here, even in this form, it is not without a cost. Things will change, lives will continue, and I will be here to watch it all happen in silence. But now is not the time to be maudlin. I have a mission to accomplish.

  I move silently through the room, circling my desk to stand behind the chair. I focus my whole attention on its upholstered surface, remembering how the material felt beneath my fingers and the sound of the chair legs scraping across the wooden floor. The upholstery is worn in places, the padding shaped to fit me perfectly after so many years of use. Finally, my hand drops, the chair surface decidedly solid beneath my fingertips as I pull the chair back and settle into it.

  For a moment, a brief second in time, it is as though I am still alive, toiling away on the college ledgers. I reach out to scoop up my pencil and my hand slides right through it, falling through the desk surface, slapping my knee.

  Still dead, I remind myself. Focus.

  My second attempt at lifting the pencil goes much better, as does opening the ledgers and thumbing through the pages until I find the last set of numbers I recorded before I died. My pencil traces down the columns as my mind unearths the memories of what originally caught my eye and alerted me to the problem.

  Slowly, I remember. At first, I had thought it was as simple as a rounding error or a missing invoice. A little short here, something odd there. But when I totalled up the costs for the month, those small amounts compounded into a number which made my stomach drop. Too much, far too much to be a simple mistake.

  In my final days, I had dug through the piles of papers, double and triple-checking every handwritten and printed receipt from the last month. Some of the handwriting was so terrible, I had to resort to using a magnifying glass to make out the words.

  I open my desk drawer and see that the glass is still there where I left it. The longer I sit here, thinking about the hours I spent, the care I put into ensuring it wasn’t a mistake, that the money truly wasn’t where it should be, the more angry I become.

  War or no war, there is nothing on this earth which could have convinced me to betray not only this college, but also my country. I would never run off with the college monies, nor would I abandon my post here, ensuring the care of soldiers returning from battle to recuperate within our halls.

  If I were to have been called to the front, I would have gone. I didn’t relish the idea of fighting, of carrying a gun nor of using it. However, that doesn’t mean I would have turned a blind eye to the needs of my fellow citizens.

  In all these years of working alongside me, could Dr Gardner think so little of me? How? Why?

  My anger pushes me further, my hands flying through the pages as I search for some sort of pattern which might point me in the direction of the true thief. I consider and discount person after person. It can’t be the cooking staff, as they have no access to the stationery funds. Equally, no fellow or student could dip into such a broad swath of accounts. Indeed, nearly every area of the books is off, even if only ever so slightly.

  Only someone sitting centrally within the college could be behind this. They would need access to everything to steal a hundred pounds in small increments.

  I grab a sheet of paper and begin making notes of the requirements. One would need to know how our accounting system is organised. They’d have to be able to forge receipts and invoices, but close enough to true ones to pass an initial muster. Petty cash boxes are all locked with keys and the bank accounts protected by codes and signatures. Who would have such extensive access and understanding?

  There are only three people who fit the bill - myself, Dr Gardner and Penny, her secretary.

  My pencil taps on the paper, leaving small marks on its crisp, white surface. They all sit beside one name. Dr Gardner, principal of St Margaret College.

  She has been too quick to point the finger, to ready with an explanation for why I could be behind the theft. Perhaps she is projecting her own guilt, her own rationale upon my convenient absence. She has a nephew who must be near eighteen. Did she need the money to buy him a commission or to help him avoid being sent to the front lines?

  A little voice in the back of mind argues that it is just as wrong for me to blame her as it is for her to paint me as a blackguard, but I ignore it. I remind myself that I am an Eternal and I have an obligation to take care of the college. My actions, at least for now, all take place in secret. No one will know if I investigate our well-regarded principal. And if she is indeed guilty, keeping her here does us no favours.

  Thus having reassured myself that I am doing the right thing, and not merely seeking revenge, I set off to look into matters.

  ❖

  The hallways are empty of all signs of life, the wooden floors reflecting red in patches as the last rays of sunshine blaze through the windows. My hand traces down the heavy gold chain of my pocket watch until I find the object itself, tucked away as always in my pocket. I’m surprised to see how late it is. In the absence of hunger pains, the day has slipped away from me without my noticing its passing.

  Soundlessly, I pace down the hallway until I arrive again in front of Catherine’s portrait.

  “Evening,” I say as I doff my cap. “I don’t suppose you know where Dr Gardner is?”

  Catherine beams down from her perch on the wall, pleased to see me up and about and not hidden away mourning my passing. “You missed her by about an hour or so, Bartie. She left through the main door, in her coat and gloves, so I wouldn’t expect her back before tomorrow.”

  I squash my initial reaction of disappointment. Maybe this is a good thing. I’ll have the whole night to look through her files and private papers. I turn back in the direction of the offices, saying a quick thank you as I depart.

  Inside Dr Gardner’s office, I spin in a circle, wondering where I should start my search. The filing cabinet looks promising.

  The lock stymies me for a few minutes, until I realise I can slide my hand through the outer shell and simply twist it open from the inside. The wheels grate on the metal railing and the rough folder edges flutter against the top of the cabinet as it slides open.

  There are files on every student, faculty and staff member. I tamp down my curiosity; their private contents are likely of no relevance to my search for the thief. The night drags on as I skim through years of correspondence, meeting minutes, purchase records and tax filings. Everything looks just as it should.

  When the sun lights the windows in a faint glow, I restore all of the files to their original location and turn my attention to Dr Gardner’s desk.

  “Jackpot!” I utter when I discover her diary buried under a stack of papers in a corner of her desk. The flowing penmanship is at once familiar, I’ve been looking at notes from her for years now. But as I flip through the pages of her daily life, I realise how little I actually know about my superior.

  Despite having sat near her at lunches and dinners, looking back, most of our conversations revolved around work. What I know of her family comes from having encountered them touring around the college.

  Her diary pages reveal a woman with close family ties, evidenced by frequent Sunday roasts and shared holidays. Although it seems as though she is always around, I discover she disappears for an hour every Tuesday afternoon to read stories at a local school. Her evenings are often filled with trips to the symphony, the playhouse, and symposiums.

  The resulting picture is of a woman well-cultured, dedica
ted to her family and the community. How could such a woman embezzle funds from her own institution? The question plays round and round in a circle in my mind. And yet, doesn’t the same hold true for me? My diary would reveal a similar truth, but that hasn’t stopped Dr Gardner from suggesting I might be the one responsible.

  I refocus my attention on the details, finally noticing an anomaly within her daily activities. Two nights a week, she has a small notation referenced by a pair of initials: M.G. The nights vary enough that the pattern wasn’t immediately obvious.

  Could the G indicate a member of her family? If so, why wouldn’t she write their name in full, as she has done for all of her other family events? The more I think about it, the more suspicious I become. Perhaps this is the smoking gun I’ve been looking to find. The next meeting is tonight.

  I check my pocket watch again, noting it is nearly time for Dr Gardner to arrive. I quickly tidy up her desk and put everything back where I found it. I’m amazed to see that I know exactly where things go, despite not having thought in advance to note such an important detail. This must be one more benefit of the magic of Oxford, one more way to keep we Eternals hidden yet allow us to do whatever is needed to ensure the preservation of the institution.

  I remain attached to Dr Gardner’s side for the entire day, only making an exception for when she goes to the ladies’ room. I sit in on meetings, hover over her shoulder during lunch, and take a walk around the college gardens with her later in the afternoon. I grow ever more curious about what the mystery evening activity might be, my curiosity nearly exploding when Penny wishes Dr Gardner a good evening and then winks before she makes her way home at the end of the work day. Whatever is happening, Penny is wise to the activity. But what could that mean?

  ❖