Sabotage at Somerset: A charmingly fun paranormal cozy mystery (Oxford Key Mysteries Book 4)

by Lynn Morrison

  "Luckily, I remembered when we passed the camera crew in the corridor. He picked up on Gideon's dislike of Caleb, but when I explained about Caleb's dedication to staying in character at all times, he said he could sympathise with Gideon."

  "I dunno, I find it to be pretty hilarious," I confess. "I'm sure it can get to be annoying after a while, and goodness knows the crew has been filming for weeks now, but it is harmless."

  "Other than that, he said everyone was professional. No stray glances, no side-eyed looks. It was hard to get any read on Vivian, given she was filming B-roll scenes. All she did was wander around the gardens, walk along the corridor, and stand looking out of window."

  I shake my head, my mouth turned down at the corners. "I've yet to get a chance to chat with Vivian, which is annoying. Several of the pranks on set, not to mention the falling light fixture, have directly targeted Vivian. Without speaking with her, it is hard to say whether that is on purpose or by sheer chance."

  Mathilde looks at her watch and jumps up to gather her things. "Still so many questions, but unfortunately I've got to get back to work. Do you think you'll manage to catch up with Vivian tomorrow?"

  "Definitely!" I reassure her as I gather our dirty mugs and drop them onto a nearby tray. "We've got a journalist from the Oxford Daily coming by in the morning, but after that, tracking Vivian down will be at the top of my list."

  Satisfied, Mathilde moves towards the door. Before she can open it, I call her name. "There's still one question remaining."

  "What's that?" she asks, looking confused.

  I straighten my face into my most serious expression. "Are you going to text Kate and tell her about your date with Trevor, or am I?"

  ❖

  I snuggle deeper into the sofa, nestled against Edward's side, exhaustion settling over me like a blanket. After an impossibly long day wandering from one part of Somerset College to the other, there is nothing I want more than to prop my feet up on the coffee table and tune into one of my favourite programmes.

  Flipping through the channels, I plead with Edward, "I'm so tired but I'm desperate to see who wins this cake decorating competition. If I nod off, will you wake me up?"

  "The things I do for love," he grumbles, but I can tell he doesn't really mean it. He still has his own television in his flat at St Margaret, with no one fighting him for the remote. He claims he is staying over to spend time with me, but I think that my television preferences are starting to grow on him.

  He wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me in tighter. "Is H planning to join us? I know he likes baking shows as much as you do. Foodies, the both of you."

  "Nah, he's outside working on a master plan to take care of the neighbourhood cats once and for all. He mentioned something about booby traps and asked if he could use some items from the garden shed. I suspect he'll be occupied for a while."

  I glance up to see Edward's reaction. Not so long ago he would have chastised me for indulging H. Thankfully, the two of them have resolved all their differences and we've finally achieved some peace in the house. Edward's silence stretches out, making me wonder. "Are you thinking about ways to trap a cat, now?"

  Edward tilts his head down, meeting my eyes. "I might have a few ideas from my younger years… but they can wait until tomorrow. Right now, I don't want to be anywhere but here."

  The familiar strains of the theme song fill the room and photos of the contestants and judges flash across the scene. Edward pretends to be interested as I explain who's left in the final round and their strengths and weaknesses. I fall quiet when the episode begins in earnest, my eyes glued to the screen until the first advert break. A cereal ad featuring a mixed-race couple reminds me that I haven't told Edward the big news.

  "Trevor asked Mathilde out… for a date! A dinner date!"

  "Really?" Edward replies. "I thought they barely know one another."

  I blow a raspberry and lightly slap his arm. "You didn't notice them eyeing one another when they came for dinner?"

  "Huh?"

  "Or how Mathilde offered to accompany Trevor on his visit to the set… there was no reason she needed to tag along."

  When Edward still shows signs of being genuinely perplexed, I roll my eyes and move the discussion forward. "Anyway… I have it on good authority that Mathilde is interested in Trevor, and given his invitation, I'd guess he feels the same."

  "That's nice for them. Mathilde deserves to find a good partner, and she could do a lot worse than Trevor Robinson." Edward turns his attention back to the screen, apparently feeling the conversation has reached its end. But a few seconds later, I feel his back go rigid.

  "Is she going to tell him about the magic?"

  Sensing that this conversation is likely to last longer than the ad break, I reluctantly lower the television volume. "After our conversation with him today, no, I don't expect her to break the news that Oxford is full of Eternals anytime soon."

  Edward shifts over until he can look me in the eye. "What happened?"

  I recount our afternoon, starting with the tour and working my way up to our last stop in the library. Edward seems amused at our attempts to hint at the existence of magic.

  "That's it? You're basing your final decision off him scoffing at the notion of ghosts?"

  Now it's my turn to shift. "He didn't scoff. He literally laughed at the notion, practically insulting Oxford in the process. Even when Mathilde got huffy, he still refused to budge. That man had zero interest in the topic and refused to give it a moment of consideration."

  "Cut the poor man a break, Nat," Edward grunts. "How is he supposed to know that the two of you have a magical bloodline running through your veins which allows you to talk with ghosts and fantastical creatures? What sane adult would admit to believing in spirits walking the earth?"

  "Harry did. She didn't even blink when confronted with Bartie and Catherine Morgan."

  Edward shakes his head, smiling to himself. "Harry is the exception to the rule. To every rule. She is one-of-a-kind. It isn't fair to the rest of humanity to use her as your measuring stick."

  I huff and turn my attention back to the television, but Edward isn't done.

  "For Mathilde's sake, I hope you'll keep a somewhat open mind."

  I spin around, my eyebrows practically at my hairline. "Excuse me?"

  "From talking with your grandfather, I know how it has always been done. You prefects keep quiet, and your spouses carry on with their lives, none the wiser to the other half of your responsibilities here at Oxford. But the rules are changing."

  I stare in silence.

  "Look at Kate. She has Bartie — an Eternal — as her partner. And you, through sheer luck you ended up with an absolutely wonderful man who happens to descend from Sir Christopher Wren."

  I snort, unable to stop the laugh bubbling up.

  Edward reaches over and caresses my cheek, looking me deeply in the eyes. "Unlike every prefect in history, you and Kate can share all aspects of your lives with the person you love. Is it fair to deny Mathilde the same chance?"

  His words hit like a gong strike in my head. "I never thought about it that way. When did you get so perceptive?"

  "In one way or another, you've known about the magic of Oxford all of your life. You never experienced the uncanny awareness that something bigger was taking place. I remember that feeling all too well. Although I was certainly shocked when I woke up from a faint to find your long-dead grandfather standing over me, in a way, it made sense."

  I mull over his words. "Do you think that is how Trevor would respond? Are you willing to bet the safety and security of the magic of Oxford on it?"

  Edward starts to reply, but I wave him off. "I get what you're saying, Edward. I really do. But you and Harry had been living with the magic, even if you didn't know it. Consciously or unconsciously, you both had some inkling of an invisible hand."

  "I think you're stalling, Nat," Edward replies, twisting on the sofa to again face the television. />
  I exhale and then tuck back against his side. "I might be, but I can't see any benefit to rushing to a decision. Yes, we need Trevor's help bringing Oswald Beadle to justice, but we don't have any proof of his crimes yet. As for Mathilde, I think we should let them get past the first date before we assume they're waltzing down the matrimonial aisle."

  "Ha! That would be a lot of pressure to put on the chap during their meal."

  We fall into a comfortable quiet. I reach for the remote, thinking our conversation is done. But Edward lays his hand on top of mine before I can increase the volume.

  "But you will think about what I said, Nat? Maybe you can discuss it with Kate."

  "Absolutely," I state, nodding my head as well. "This is a shared decision, and perhaps one where Mathilde's voice should carry more weight than mine or Kate's does. I'm overdue for a girls' night with Kate. I'm seeing her tomorrow; I'll suggest we get together while Mathilde is out with Trevor. That will give me a chance to discuss the topic with Kate without Mathilde feeling pressured into speeding up or slowing down her potential relationship with Trevor. If and when Mathilde does get serious about someone, Kate and I can be ready to support her, either in hiding the magic or helping her share the news."

  Later, as we lie in bed, with darkness enshrouding the room, my mind returns to the conversation. For nearly four centuries, Oxford's magic has been kept hidden, guided by the restrictions our ancestors put into place. Society has shifted, changing in ways which Wilkins, Wren, and the other members of the Philosophical Club likely could never have imagined. Would they make the same decision again?

  I drift off to sleep wishing I could ask them that very question.

  Chapter Six

  Kate bursts into the conference room at Somerset, juggling a stack of binders in her arms.

  "Now I see why you asked me to get the coffees," I quip with a laugh as I rescue one of the binders before it can tumble to the floor. "That is a lot of materials for a press interview."

  "I know, I've probably overdone it on gathering up background information. Typically I'd memorise it all beforehand, but we've loaned so many different items to the film crew that there was no way I could keep all of the details straight."

  I grab the top binder, flipping through the pages. It is meticulously organised, its length decorated with a line of multi-coloured tabs, all precisely labelled. I open a section at random, landing upon one of the portraits I remember seeing in the hall. There is a large print of the painting, followed by information on the painting subject, the artistic style, and the artist himself. A quick flip through the remaining pages reveals more of the same.

  "Take your time getting set up," I instruct Kate. "I'll pop downstairs where I can keep an eye out for the journalist, and escort him up here when he arrives. This is your show; I'm here to be the intermediary between the production crew and the university."

  "Perfect," Kate replies with a grateful smile, before blowing her hair out of her face. "I've done dozens of press interviews over the years, but somehow this one is rising to the top of the stressful list. It's ironic, as local journalists are typically the most friendly. They share our vested interest in generating enthusiasm about the town and all it offers."

  "Let's hope he is enthusiastic about reporting on a bunch of old scientific apparatus and portraits of renaissance men." I dust the table off and toss my empty takeaway cup into the bin. "We've been leaking details of the museum's loan to the production crew for a few weeks now, and it seems to have done its job. Beadle, Hobbes and their group of Eternals are lurking around Oxford."

  Kate straightens her binders into a new stack and then looks up at me. "This article is the final step in the plan. If I can push the interview in the right direction, the end result should be a shopping list for Beadle and Hobbes. I want them to read the article, get mad and immediately set off to steal or destroy the items. That should give us the chance to catch them in action. I am determined to see them pay for their crimes."

  "Then that's our plan and I'll do everything I can to keep the interview on track. You finish getting settled and I should be back up shortly." Kate nods and sends me on my way.

  The day promises to be a hot one, the cerulean sky free of even a hint of clouds. Later on, the cool temperatures of the stone entryway will offer respite from the heat, but for now, I choose to step beyond them and soak up some vitamin D.

  Dark shadows flit across the lawn, drawing my gaze up to the sky. H waves from above, where he is circling the college, keeping a watchful eye out for any wayward Eternals. Somerset's guardians have placed themselves around the grounds, adding another layer of protection. No one, alive or dead, is getting onto the college today unless their name is on the production's approved visitor list.

  Tourists crowd the pavement, flocking into the city centre to see the wonders of Oxford at their most picturesque. Flowers bloom in carefully tended beds and ivy trellises dip under the weight of the leafy vines. The yellow stone so typical of Oxford glows in soft gold tones under the warm sun. I cross my fingers that the journalist intends to take some photos as well.

  A male voice jerks me back to the present. "Morning! Are you Natalie Payne, by any chance?"

  A man who looks to be around my age strides confidently up the walkway, a backpack slung over his shoulder and a camera around this neck.

  I walk forward, meeting him halfway, my hand outstretched in welcome. "Hiya! Yes, I'm Nat. You must be David Blake from the Oxford Daily."

  "I am indeed." He gives my hand a firm shake and then reaches into his pocket. "I brought my press pass and an ID as you suggested. I'm glad you sent me an email reminder. I wasn't expecting to encounter any security blocks."

  "Normally I could escort you inside without needing to show any ID, but given the famous names included in the acting crew, the production company isn't taking any chances."

  David looks somewhat crestfallen at my explanation. "That makes sense, but I'd be lying if I wasn't hoping there might be a story behind the security."

  I force my face to remain serene. If only he knew of the problems we were facing. "Nope, no issues at all. Completely standard security protocols. Let's get inside, Kate is expecting us up in the conference room."

  As we wait for the security guard to check David's name against the list, David asks how long I've known Kate. I launch into the official version, explaining we met at Barnard at the start of the year and became friends while preparing for the grand opening of the Ashmolean's newest exhibition.

  "I toured it for the paper," David admits. "It was incredible! It is hard to imagine that all of those items were seemingly lost for centuries, all the while hidden away in a secret chamber at Barnard College." He pauses, and then adds, "There was one thing I couldn't quite figure out."

  "What's that?"

  "Why did Barnard's scholars hide those items away all those years ago? The stuff was cool, but fairly innocuous. If there was something there worth keeping a secret, I couldn't determine what it was." He gives me a pointed look.

  I brush aside his concerns, replying breezily, "I always thought of it more as a time capsule, rather than whoever it was trying to keep something from becoming public knowledge."

  "A time capsule… hmm." David contemplates the idea. "I hadn't considered that option, but I suppose it is possible." He looks disappointed, undoubtedly lamenting the loss of a potential angle he could exploit down the line.

  I decide a subject change might be in order. "I've tried tapping on a few walls here at Somerset, but everything so far has been convincingly solid. You'll have to satisfy yourself with the treasures on display rather than hoping for a breaking news story."

  Now outside the conference room, I push open the door and lead us inside. "And on that note, I'll turn the conversation over to Kate, Director of the Ashmolean. Kate, meet David Blake from the Oxford Daily."

  Kate and David exchange their hellos and we take our seats. I expect David to pull a voice recorder from his b
ag, but he sets out paper and a pen instead, explaining, "We're not planning to run this as an interview, so I don't need to get exact quotes. I'll take notes on each of the items and then use the reference materials you sent over to fill in any gaps."

  "Brilliant!" Kate beams at David, relieved that she won't have to pick her words quite so carefully. She dives into the material, starting with portraits and paintings and working her way through her stack of binders.

  I have to admit, David hangs in longer than I thought he would. But somewhere around the third binder's worth of information, I notice that his writing speed starts to flag, and his eyes glaze over.

  "Shall we pause for a break? I can pop out and get us fresh coffees or a cup of tea." I push back my chair and stand up to stretch, forcing the other two into agreeing with my suggestion.

  David reaches his arms over his head and leans side to side. "A break would be great… but I wonder if we could shift the conversation into a new direction when we come back."

  Kate's expression flattens as she tries to hide any trace of concern. "What do you mean?"

  David flips through his notes, frowning as he goes along. "You've given me a tonne of great information about the items on loan, but if I limit the article to what you've said so far, it may come out a bit, err, dry." He shrugs in a silent apology.

  Kate's gaze shifts to me, her narrowed eyes making it clear she needs a new idea. We both know how important this article is to catching Beadle. We can't afford for it to die in the middle pages of the daily newspaper.

  My brain goes into overdrive, searching for a solution. Uncle Harold was clear that the actors are off-limits, as any interviews have to be cleared with their promotional teams. Who is left? "What about meeting some members of the production crew? Might that work?"

  David mulls the offer, nodding his head. "Yes, that might work. I don't suppose I can speak with Caleb Farrow or Vivian Edgemont?"

  "Unfortunately, no," I reply with an apologetic grin. "Their PR teams have strict regulations about any press interviews. However, I was thinking of another couple - Marcello and Ilaria Benedetti, the set and costume designers. They've both won multiple awards for their work, and I'm sure they can provide some colour around why they selected the pieces they did."