I eschew my normal path through Port Meadow, the one which takes me past the gazing cattle and sheep who call the field home. Instead, I jog towards the Thames River path, my feet pounding against the beaten dirt path. I pass by one houseboat after another, wondering which one Harold and Dominic are calling home. The urge to text them and suggest we meet for a coffee crashes over me, but I shove it backwards. I'm not ready to face more questions, not while I have no answers for them.
Could Trevor be right? Am I rushing to sleuth out a suspect without any real clue of what I'm doing? My mind flashes up memories from my interrogations. Ilaria and Marcello had nothing to add and no reason to dislike Vivian. If Gideon is telling the truth, his only goal is to protect her. Joyce pointed me towards Caleb… I grit my teeth as I realise I still haven't gotten a straight answer from him about his relationship with Vivian.
Andy on the camera crew was convinced there is more happening than meets the eye. What was it Trevor said yesterday? He could hardly drag a major celebrity down to the police station. Could Trevor be turning a blind eye to the possibility Caleb is behind all the problems on set, the falling lighting rig and Vivian's poisoning?
I can't walk away from my search for the poisoner. I know I can help. If I keep talking to the cast and crew members, something will shake loose. The important thing is to have an open mind and to be willing to look at the situation from every angle.
With that thought, my mind veers off in a new direction. Could Caleb be the target instead? Perhaps someone on set was hoping to catch his eye, but then Vivian arrived and ruined their chances. If that is the case, then I've been asking all the wrong questions.
My watch buzzes as I complete another mile, pulling me back to the present. By this point, I am surrounded by open fields, only the quiet burble of the placid river providing any noise. My steps slow, my breath coming out in great gasps. Frustration rises inside of me.
Why did Trevor come to Somerset yesterday? Why did he have to find me in Vivian's trailer, question me, and goad me into revealing the truth of the magic? He asked me to tell him what secret I was hiding so that he could help me. But where is he now? He crashed out of the room, driven by his fear. He should be here with me, discussing motives and opportunities. I should be his inside man on set, probing for information an outsider or officer would struggle to find.
I ball my fists and release a scream of frustration, sending a flock of birds scattering. It doesn't help and I'm not surprised. I keep using Trevor's name, but the person I'm most angry at is myself. I knew better than to throw him into the deep end, and yet that is exactly what I did. I should have kept quiet, phoned Edward, or sent Trevor his way.
I didn't stop to think — I acted. And I let everyone down.
A crow caw and a flapping sound attract my attention. The black bird swoops from the sky, landing in the middle of the now empty field. For once, it is an average, ordinary crow, and not a magical creature mocking me. Nonetheless, its presence reminds me of my priorities. Even if Trevor is angry with me, he can be trusted to do his job. If anything, his refusal to acknowledge the magic will make him even more determined to resolve the question of who poisoned Vivian. He will leave no stone unturned in his effort to find the person responsible.
There is nothing to be gained from me tracking Trevor down. Edward is right; I need to leave it to him to resolve the situation with Trevor. Edward is more likely to have a chance of getting through to him.
I coax my feet back into motion, retracing my steps towards home.
I'm drenched in sweat by the time I arrive. The house is silent and empty. The coffeemaker is decorated with a second note, this one from Edward. He has gone back to his flat at St Margaret to get ready for the day, and H has gone along with him, hoping to meet up with his girlfriend Princess Fluffy.
Armed with a plan and feeling more like my normal self, I shower and get ready at record speed. I toss my handbag into my bicycle basket and take off for Somerset. Unlike earlier this morning, traffic has picked up. It takes all my attention to weave around parked buses and oblivious pedestrians.
I pass in front of the Museum of Natural History and Rhodes House, finally seeing Somerset's expansive wings and crinolined central tower before me. The pavement in front is crowded with bystanders, the street lined with news vans. I pull on my brakes, slowing to a stop at the back of the pack.
A group of locals is clustered nearby, standing beside their bicycles as they attempt to peer around the crowd. I approach them, wondering if something has happened.
"What's going on here? Why are there are so many news vans?"
A middle-aged man with an oversized delivery service backpack weighing on his shoulders is the first to respond. "Word is they're filming a movie or something inside the college, and one of the actresses got poisoned. She's taken a turn for the worse, so all the news crews are here, hoping for a statement."
"What? That's awful!" I stammer, filled with concern for Vivian. Desperate to find out the latest news, I debate wading through the crowd to get to the main entrance, but quickly discard the idea. I hop back onto my bicycle and circle around the block, using my university badge to unlock one of the rear gates.
I make quick work of locking my bike up and jog across the gardens towards the line of trailers, looking for a crew member so I can find out what happened. Sam waves from the Craft Services trailer and I speed his way.
"Morning, Nat. I see you found another entrance to the college this morning. It's an absolute jungle out front," he says as he passes me a latte.
"Is everything okay? I heard something about Vivian…" I trail off.
Sam's friendly face drops, his eyes crinkling with concern. "They've not told us much, but from what I gathered, she had a bad night. The doctors have said that if she doesn't show signs of improvement in the next twenty-four hours, she may not make it. Her body is exhausting itself, trying to fight off the effects of the poison."
I gasp and shudder. "I'm so sorry to hear that, Sam. I barely had a chance to meet her, but you all must know her better. I will send her all the healing vibes I can."
"Yeah, that's about all any of us can do." Sam sends me on my way with a suggestion to avoid the front of the college.
The college grounds are still relatively quiet; filming won't start until later in the morning. I spy familiar faces amongst the crew onsite, but everyone has their heads down, distraught, focused only on completing their tasks. The picnic tables in front of Craft Services sit abandoned.
I am the only one standing around — not a normal position for me. Usually, I'm busy, with one responsibility or another laying claim to my time. There must be something I can do to help. I decide to take up patrol, reasoning that with H off romancing his sweetheart, surely the Eternals can use an extra set of eyes. I clutch my hot coffee cup and stride determinedly towards the nearest entrance to the college buildings, feeling better already.
I'm halfway through a lap around the ground floor when I hear someone calling me name.
"Nat? Is that you? I've been looking everywhere!" Molly's exasperated tone causes me to spin around. She hurries along the hallway, rushing to my side. "Come quick! I've got good news. I managed to find John Wilkins."
❖
Molly doesn't wait for a reply, tucking her arm around my own and tugging me along.
"I had to wrack my brain to come up with a list of places he might be," Molly explains as we hustle through the building. "Then I found him in the second place I looked. Four centuries and that man is still as predictable as he was when he governed the college."
"What did you tell him? Did he say he'd help?" I pause my questions long enough to sidestep a pile of cables someone left in the hallway. "Where is he?"
Molly comes to a halt outside of the hall, hunching her shoulders. "Eh, I didn't know how much you wanted me to tell him, so I kept it simple and said he was needed at the college. As for where he is, well… he caught sight of Gideon Pomerance and was intrigue
d at the thought of someone playing him in a film." She motions towards the hall door. "I left him in there, watching the film crew."
"Oh boy," I mutter. Even growing up during the age of television and movies, it would still be decidedly odd to see someone pretending to be me. I can't imagine what it must be like for Molly and Wilkins. I peek through the window in the door to make sure the crew isn't in the middle of a scene. When I see them moving around, I know it is safe to open the door and go inside.
Wilkins is standing at the front of the hall, near the high table, staring down at Gideon. Gideon is in full costume, seated at the head of the high table, with one leg crossed over the other as he reads over the script, reviewing his lines.
Wilkins frowns in dismay at his television counterpart, clearly unimpressed with my uncle's casting. Seeing them side-by-side, they don't look much alike. Where Gideon is tanned and fit, Wilkins is florid and overweight. Although they both have salt and pepper hair, Gideon's is darker than the lighter shade of the Eternal Wilkins' hair. I suppose, if I were to squint, I would find more similarities. I decide that with the right light, Gideon might look like a younger, richer, Hollywood version of John Wilkins.
To Ilaria's credit, the wardrobe is identical. The men are wearing the same loose white shirt and tan breeches, with black vests and spectacles. It is the wardrobe which has caught Wilkins' eye. He leans over, rubbing the shirt fabric between his fingers, testing to see if it is as he remembers. Gideon reaches up, brushing Wilkins' hand away as though it were a fly. It probably feels that way to him.
"Warden!" Molly calls out, attracting Wilkins' attention.
Wilkins glances our way. He abandons his assessment of his television counterpart, crossing the room until he ends up before us. "Not here," he says, his voice gruff. He spins around and marches off, confident we'll follow him.
We do, but only because we have little other choice. He travels through the hallway until he reaches the library, where he steps through the closed door. Molly goes right behind him, leaving me to play catch up after I pull the heavy door open. The two are at the far end, near where Mathilde and I sat with Trevor after his own tour of Somerset.
I slide onto the sofa next to Molly, the pair of us seated in front of Wilkins. For his part, he has chosen to lean against a wooden table, standing over us. While I suspect his choice of position lingers from his days of passing judgement over a group of headstrong young men as the college Warden, I wish he'd chosen to sit at our level. But right now, power plays won't do us any favours. I paste a smile across my face and begin my introductions.
"I'm Nat Payne, er, I mean Natalie Payne," I amend when he frowns. "I'm the ceremonial prefect."
"I'm aware of who you are," he replies, arching an eyebrow. "What I don't know is why you sent Molly to call me back to Oxford. Explain."
His stern tone puts me on my back foot. I glance at Molly, but she only nods her head, indicating I should carry on with my explanation.
"There is a problem with the magic of Oxford, sir. Your old nemesis, Thomas Hobbes, along with one of his descendants, is trying to destroy our connection."
Now both of Wilkins' eyebrows shoot up in surprise. He rocks back, every so slightly, stunned by the news. "That's impossible. I'm sure you must be mistaken."
"I wish I were," I murmur, as I shift uncomfortably. "Perhaps it would help if I started from the beginning."
Wilkins nods his approval and I launch into my tale. "It all started a year or so ago, before I came to Oxford…"
I tell Wilkins how the museum and library prefects chose to retire and began their search for their replacements. Kate arrived first, quickly butting heads with one of the museum staff members. Mathilde followed two months later, taking on the role at the Bodleian. Lillian, my predecessor, was left to train the pair. But soon, artefacts and books began to go missing.
Lillian blamed herself and went to see a doctor, where she was diagnosed with early-stage dementia. She decided it would be best if she took her leave, worried she was doing more damage than good. That opened up the opportunity for me to come to Oxford, following in my grandfather Alfred's footsteps.
Wilkins' countenance turns more and more grim as I tell him about the murders at St Margaret and Barnard. He rears back in shock at the news of the discovery of the secret chamber in Barnard's library, only remaining calm when I reassure him we hid away all texts with references to the magic.
"We had barely resolved that situation when someone set fire to the Ashmolean," I explain, caught up in my memories.
"The Ashmolean? Dear god!" he barks.
"Sorry, the Ashmolean archives. Not the museum proper," I hasten to add, but Wilkins doesn't seem convinced that is much better. His disbelief grows as I explain about the false accusation of Francie, the video footage and the eventual discovery of the truth. "And it was around then that we figured out who was behind the problems with the magic. His name is Oswald Beadle, and he is a direct descendant of Thomas Hobbes. He expected to be named Director of the Ashmolean when Kate's predecessor departed, but the magic called Kate instead. He got ahold of Kate's key, unlocked his own connection, and has been working against us since then."
Wilkins waits to see if I have anything else to add, glowering at me. I feel like a primary school child, called before the head teacher for bad behaviour. It takes all my willpower to keep my shoulders from creeping up towards my ears. For his part, Wilkins sits silent, letting the tension build in the room.
Finally, he speaks, his tone incredulous. "Let me see if I have this straight. For more than three hundred years, the magic of Oxford existed without a single problem. But then your friend Kate allows a stranger to find her key, and immediately puts everyone and everything in Oxford at risk."
"Well, no, it isn't exactly like that," I interrupt.
Wilkins barrels over my words. "And next you take it upon yourself to tell an assistant, and then your love interest and now a police officer, someone who isn't even connected with the university, about the magic?" His voice rises, sending goosebumps down my arms. "This is how you have attempted to fix the situation?"
I mentally backpedal, flailing around for a foothold. "We needed their help. We still need it. These are extraordinary times…"
"Extraordinary times? That is the only reasonable comment you've made so far, Miss Payne." He holds up a hand, forestalling any further response. He pushes off from the table and growls, "Of all the incompetence! You asked for help, and help you shall have. As of this moment, I am taking control of this operation."
He turns his gaze to Molly, ordering her, "Molly, round up every Eternal in Oxford and have them meet in the Convocation House at the Bodleian. In the meantime, I will find Wren and the other original members of our group."
Wilkins twists, making to depart. I clench my hands into fists and force myself to speak. "What about me, sir? And the other prefects?"
His eyebrows skyrocket. "You and the other prefects? My word, you have done enough already. Your only task at this point is to stay out of the way."
Chapter Thirteen
Molly and Wilkins disappear, leaving me alone in the library, with dozens of snappy comebacks that are furiously popping into my head now that Wilkins is gone. Kate, Mathilde, and I are far from worthless!
"He has some nerve shoving us aside," I grumble to myself, replaying the exchange in my head.
But a little voice in the back of my mind asks the question. Could he have been right?
I can't blame Kate for keeping her key in her office, or Lillian for leaving as quickly as she did. We've all been doing the best that we can in incredibly difficult circumstances, with little or no guidance.
As much as I dislike being dismissed by such a boorish man, I have to admit that it doesn't look good. If I were him, would I act differently? Probably not.
I abandon any thoughts of chasing after Wilkins and giving him a piece of my mind. There is no need to rush to contact Mathilde, Kate, Edward, or Harry either.
They'll all hear soon enough as Molly makes her way around town, alerting all of Oxford's Eternals.
I've let them all down. I can't bear to hear the disappointment in their voices.
Even so, I cannot let go of the thought that there must be something I can do. Wilkins may have warned me off making a move against Hobbes and Beadle, but there is still the film production at risk. With a hoard of paparazzi out front, Uncle Harold must be feeling as though he is living in a vise grip, the pressure clenching him by the throat. I decide that there must be some stone left unturned, some action I can take to help solve the mystery of who poisoned Vivian and why.
I rise to my feet, ready to set off on my search, but stop before I can get more than a step forward. I've spoken to most of the cast and crew, as has Trevor and his investigative team. If anything were awry here at Somerset, one of the Eternals would have already brought it to my attention. I think back through the pranks prior to Vivian collapsing. The falling lights and the missing scripts — those happened at the Botanic Garden, not at Somerset.
Could there be some clue there? Maybe one of the gardeners spotted something unusual, without realising the significance of it. As far as I can tell, the police seem to be focusing all their attention on interviewing the cast and crew.
There is no harm in me making a trip back to the Garden and asking a few questions, I rationalise. I might jog someone's memories or uncover a fresh angle we can explore.
I dash off a quick text to my uncle, explaining that I'm running an errand and will be back by lunch. With my handbag clutched against my side, I opt for the back hallways, winding through the college buildings until I arrive at the closest exit to where I left my bicycle. The space is empty, no Eternals or crew members within sight.
I take a deep breath, thinking to myself, "Come on, Nat. Stay positive. Focus on what you can do, not what is behind you."
Sabotage at Somerset: A charmingly fun paranormal cozy mystery (Oxford Key Mysteries Book 4) Page 18
