"One step at a time, Nat," Edward reassures me. "Right now, the only thing you need to worry about is recuperating. Trevor sent me a message letting me know that his team will search the Torture Museum tomorrow morning. They should find enough there to remand Beadle to prison without needing your statement."
Before I can ask any other questions, the doctor shows up, putting a stop to any further discussion. I get wheeled off for more rounds of tests and scans until finally I am cleared to go home. "Your head wound looks worse than it is, and your blood work all came back fine," the doctor explains. "I suspect you were drugged after they knocked you out, and that was what accounted for the extended period of unconsciousness. Stick to paracetamol or ibuprofen to manage the pain, and you are under strict orders to rest for at least twenty-four hours."
Edward knows where I want to go without even asking. He calls a taxi to take us to my house rather than to his flat at St Margaret. After tucking me under the covers, he curls up beside me, taking great care not to jostle my bandaged head or wrists.
Safe and sound, wrapped in Edward's arms, I fall into a carefree, deep sleep.
Chapter Sixteen
On Thursday, I follow the doctor's orders, passing the day by lying on my sofa. Edward and H keep me company, plying me with comfort food and an endless amount of my favourite reality television shows.
Late in the afternoon, I look around the room. Edward is seated at the far end of the sofa, my feet propped in his lap as he gently massages my arches. H is sprawled across an armchair with a dish of cracker and cheese crumbs at his side, his clawed hand laying on his full belly. If anyone had told me a year ago that I'd be playing house with an Oxford professor and a wyvern, I'd have taken them straight over to have their head examined. Yet here I am, living my very own picture of domestic bliss. I wouldn't trade it for anything.
Friday morning, I rise bright and early, feeling much closer to my normal self. The gash on my hand is still an angry red, but my wrists are looking much better. I take extra care when brushing my hair, avoiding the still-sensitive lump. I was lucky not to need stitches. The mirror reflects a confident twenty-something professional woman — a little worse for wear, but not too bad all things considered. I give her a wink before sashaying out of the bathroom.
From the foot of the stairs, I can hear Edward and H chatting away, their spoons scraping in their cereal bowls. I take a moment to steady myself before rolling my shoulders back and marching into the kitchen.
"I'm going to Somerset today. There are only two days left of filming here in Oxford and we still haven't identified the person who poisoned Vivian. I'm feeling much improved this morning, and I've made my decision. I don't want to discuss it further." I level a hard stare at Edward and H, daring them to question my plan.
"Of course, you are," Edward replies and then flips over the page of his newspaper. He doesn't even bother to look up at me.
"I'm ready ta go when ya are, Nat," H adds, flying his empty bowl to the sink.
"Huh." I scrunch my forehead, trying to figure out their angle. After hovering over me yesterday, barely letting me off the sofa, today they seem remarkably nonchalant.
Edward folds his newspaper shut and rises from the table, crossing the room to kiss my cheek. "I figured we'd have to force you to stay home yesterday, so you've already done better than I expected. Harold has promised to have the crew keep an eye on you and send you home if you look tired. Molly and Alfred will also be there in case you get any other ideas about wandering off on your own again…"
I pull Edward close and plant a heartfelt kiss on his lips. "Thanks for having my back, babe, and not standing in my way."
"Always," he replies, stealing another kiss. "Now you'd better hurry up and eat a slice a toast. Harold is sending a hire car to pick you and H up. It should be here in about ten minutes."
At Somerset, Molly and my grandfather are waiting at the front entrance. Molly hugs me tight, her eyes bright with tears. "You done good, Nat Payne," she whispers in my ear.
"We couldn't have managed it without your help, Molly," I whisper back. "If you hadn't found Wilkins and Wren…"
She steps back, reaching up to cup my face. She examines me with a critical eye, checking for herself that I am really doing okay. Finally, her mouth twists into a beaming smile. "If I hadn't found those two, you'd have come up with another plan, Nat. Don't sell yourself or your friends short, dear."
I hug her again, unable to help myself. It's no wonder the young college boys turned to her when they ran into trouble. Molly offers that perfect balance of loving care and support, leaving you feeling much better and convinced that you can get yourself through whatever it is if it happens again.
When our greetings are behind us, I ask the pair what I should expect upstairs. "I chose a long-sleeved shirt for today so that it would hide my bandages. Do you have any idea what Harold knows? Or, more importantly, what he told the rest of the crew?"
"Don't worry, Nat," my grandfather replies. "Harold told everyone you were under the weather yesterday, including Will and Jill when they showed up to begin set-up for the wrap party. Tell everyone you're feeling better and that should cover it."
"Right, then." I make a final check to ensure my bandages are tucked away. "We've got a poisoner to catch. H, lead the way. Where do you suggest we begin?"
"Where else?" H replies, flapping towards the courtyard. "Let's check out tha situation at tha Craft Services trailer!"
I give a knowing shake of my head and roll my eyes, making Molly and my grandfather laugh. As we move through the courtyard and under the archway to the back garden, I get plenty of calls of hello and welcome back. I was only gone for two days, the first spent unconscious at the Botanic Garden and the second at home, but somehow it feels like ages. In the close-knit environment of a filmset, friendships are forged fast and strong. Any unexplained absence is bound to catch people's attention.
Sam smiles from the Craft Services trailer, beckoning me over. "Have you heard the news?" he asks, passing me a fresh latte smothered in whip creme and chocolate sauce.
"No, what's up?"
"It's Vivian! She turned the corner and is on the mend," he explains. "We got the word yesterday morning, and I thought you might not have heard."
"That's fab news, Sam! Thanks so much for letting me know. Has she been released from the hospital yet?"
"Hopefully today or tomorrow. It almost seems like a miracle, given how dire the situation was a couple of days ago. It's done wonders for everyone's mood here on set, as I'm sure you can imagine."
We chat some more, catching up on the rest of the production gossip. The takes have gone well, and the crew is feeling confident they can wrap everything up by tomorrow afternoon as planned. My phone buzzes with a text from Uncle Harold, wanting to know where I've gotten off to. I say goodbye to Sam, thanking him again for the food and drink which has kept me fuelled during the last two weeks.
Molly and my grandfather take their leave as well, saying they have a few tasks of their own to attend to while I'm watching the day's scenes. H steps forward, ready to keep me company as I make my way to the room where they are filming today.
"Sam wasn't joking around," H notes, flying up to head height so we can chat more easily. "Everyone is smilin' from ear ta ear today."
"It's great news about Vivian…" I pause, thinking through my last statement. "Great news for everyone except her poisoner. That gives me an idea, H. Can you help me keep an eye out as we walk around and observe the filming? Maybe we'll spot someone who seems less enthusiastic than the others."
"Not a bad idea, Nat," H admits, nodding his head to show he's impressed with my thinking. "Let's 'urry up and get inside."
We high tail it across the courtyard, back into the main building and up the stairs. Following the sounds of people chattering, we eventually find the crew setting up in the dining hall. Gideon Pomerance and Caleb Farrow are at their places at the high table, while a rowdy crowd of young men
are seated at the longer trestle tables in the main section of the room. A large poster taped to the back of the door lists the day's shots. First up is a dining hall scene, including a group of extras playing the role of Somerset students. That explains the unknown faces.
With all the extra people on set, H and I end up tucked away near the door. I have to stand on my tiptoes to see over the various assistants and techs filling the space. H opts to fly up high, perching on a window ledge. As hard as I try, it is practically impossible to judge anyone's feelings. The crew is too busy struggling to keep the kids in line and stick to the schedule. Everyone looks ready to pull their hair out.
Nonetheless, I'm determined to stick it out.
Half an hour goes by with me shifting sideways, trying to get a clear view, when I feel someone tap me on my shoulder. I glance over to find Trevor Robinson standing beside me, looking very official in his suit and tie. He gives me a warm smile and nods his head towards the door, inviting me to follow. I make sure to wave at H before I leave, so he doesn't worry if I go missing for a few minutes.
"Hi Nat, how are you recovering? You went through a lot the other day. I was surprised to hear you were already back to work." Trevor says, once we are in the corridor.
"I'm much better, thanks. I spent yesterday on the sofa, barely lifting a finger. My wounds are healing well and the red mark on my cheek where Beadle slapped me completely disappeared."
Trevor flinches at my last comment. "I'm glad you're feeling better, but don't overdo it, okay? You might be a prefect, but you aren't invincible. Make sure you're taking good care of yourself."
I nod. "Don't worry, between the Eternals and my Uncle Harold, there is no chance I'll stay here longer than I should today. They've all got an eye on me and will send me home if it looks at all like I'm reaching my limit."
Reassured that I am okay, Trevor moves on to his reason for his visit. "I hope you don't mind me tracking you down here. I need to get your statement and Edward told me you plan to spend the day on set."
"Not at all, Trevor. In fact, I'm glad you're here. I want to thank you again for showing up the other night and helping us stop Beadle."
Trevor brushes off my comment. "I should be the one thanking you. I shouldn't have reacted so badly when you told me about the magic. I'm glad Mathilde was able to convince me to see reason so I could be there to haul Beadle off to jail. You were right to bring me in on the secret. I never would have solved the crimes without knowing the bigger picture."
I hold up my hand, stopping him there. "Don't apologise. If anyone is to blame, it is me. I should have waited and let Edward tell you. Instead, I caused both you and Mathilde to suffer. I am genuinely sorry about how I handled it."
"I don't think there is a right way to tell someone magic exists. No matter how I found out, it was bound to up end my life. The important thing is we got to the right place in the end, and Mathilde and I have a second chance. She's an incredible woman. I'm looking forward to seeing where our relationship takes us. As they say, all's well that ends well," Trevor quips, making us both chuckle.
When our chuckles subside, Trevor continues, "Speaking of ending well, we searched the Torture Museum yesterday and found all of the missing items from the colleges and from the Ashmolean Archives. If there was any doubt remaining about Beadle's guilt, it has been eliminated. However, I still want to get your statement to add to the complaint. I don't want to give the judge any excuse to offer him a lesser sentence than what he deserves."
I motion ahead, suggesting, "We can use one of the conference rooms on this floor."
We settle into the room and Trevor pulls a notepad and pen from his coat pocket. Carefully, I recount all the details I can remember, the two of us working together to produce a magic-free account of my kidnapping and bid for freedom. When Trevor is satisfied he has enough, we switch the conversation to our other pressing matter — the poisoner.
"There's one thing I still don't get, Trevor," I say as I lean forward to prop my elbows on the table. "Why were you so quick to dismiss the notion of Caleb and Vivian having an affair?"
Trevor shifts in his seat, getting more comfortable. "Caleb and Vivian? I had already spent a day chasing down rumours of another alleged affair. I figured it was nothing more than gossip."
"Another affair?" I arch an eyebrow, intrigued. "What did you hear?"
"My source pointed me towards Vivian and Gideon Pomerance," he answers. "So, you can see why I wouldn't put much weight against a similar rumour about her and another leading man."
"Vivian and Gideon?" I shake my head. "No way! He is her godfather. Did you know that?"
"Now I do, but I had to chase down Gideon to find out the truth. Plus, Caleb had a reasonable enough excuse for being in Vivian's trailer that morning you caught him inside. There was nothing to suggest he has anything other than a professional relationship with her."
"Hmmm." A thought tickles the back of my mind. I grow silent, waiting for it to become clear. "Trevor… who told you the rumour about Vivian and Gideon?"
"It was one of your uncle's assistants. Joyce? I think that was her name. I'd have to review my notes to be sure."
"Joyce? Joyce told you?"
Trevor raises his brows, wondering why I look so surprised by his answer.
"Joyce is the one who told me Vivian was having an affair with Caleb. She was pretty clear about it; there is no way I misunderstood her."
Trevor pulls his notepad back out of his pocket and flips through the pages until he finds the one he wants. His finger skims across the lines of scribbles, his mouth moving as he silently rereads his notes.
"It was Joyce, and as you said, she didn't mince words when she described them together." He places the notepad on the table and taps his chin. "Why would she tell you one thing, and me another?"
I push my chair away from the table and rise to my feet. "Why don't we ask her?"
❖
Trevor, however, doesn't follow my lead. "Hold on a second, Nat. If there is any chance Joyce is our poisoner, we need to plan our next move carefully."
He stands up and circles around the conference room, scanning the space. On one wall there is a large whiteboard, wiped clean and ready for someone to take notes. The middle of the room is occupied with the table and chairs. The opposite wall is filled with an accordion-fold door. Trevor finds the latch and gives the accordion a tug, revealing another empty conference room on the other side. I can practically see the wheels turning in his head.
"How well do you know Joyce?" he asks.
"So-so, I guess," I reply, shrugging my shoulders. "Uncle Harold assigned her as my point person on the crew. She toured me around, introduced me to everyone, and we've had lunch together a couple of times."
"Okay, I want you to think back on all of your interactions with her. Has she ever shown any sign of disliking Vivian?"
I lean against the wall, considering his question. "Nothing overt, but…"
"Go on," he prompts.
"Well, it was the first time we met, actually. I had shown up early at the Botanic Garden, on the morning after the lighting rig fell. Joyce met me outside, explaining that my uncle had asked her to introduce me around. When we talked about the incident, she got this funny look on her face, almost as though she was mad when I expressed my concern for Vivian."
Trevor frowns. "Why didn't you mention this before?"
I raise my hands up and wince. "I did think it was odd, but Joyce explained that she'd ended up facedown in the dirt, and then Ilaria, the costume designer, made a similar comment later… I wrote it off as petty jealousy. But maybe it is more than that?"
"Jealousy is one of the most common motives," Trevor points out. "Why would Joyce be jealous of Vivian? What would Vivian have that Joyce would be willing to kill to get?"
"Fame? Fortune? I rarely saw them together. Joyce was always busy with something else, even on the day she was tasked to introduce me. She half abandoned me outside of the costume trailer,
offering an excuse about needing to do something else. But they must have interacted on set, right? I remember seeing Joyce in the footage of the moments before Vivian was poisoned." I pause to jog my memory, but I can't remember exactly what Joyce was doing at the table. "You don't happen to have the footage with you?"
Trevor nods, smiling at me. "I should have it in my email on my phone. Give me a second to find it." He flips through screens, his fingers scrolling through his inbox, until he finds the right message. With a few clicks, his has the video playing on the small screen.
"See, there she is," I comment, pointing Joyce out. "She has her back to us but look how much she is moving her hands around, fiddling with items on the table. She could have had the Monkshood tucked away in her sleeve and dropped it into the cup, and no one would have noticed."
We pause the video and replay those few seconds again and again. Joyce's arm crosses over Vivian's cup multiple times, but the shot isn't clear enough for us to see clear evidence of her dropping anything into the glass.
"What do you think, Trevor? Do you want to take her down to the station for questioning?"
Trevor considers the idea, but quickly sets it aside. "This is all very circumstantial. Even if we are right to suspect her, if I push her too hard, she could ask for a lawyer. Then we won't get anything out of her. What we need is more information, because my research team hasn't turned up any connection between the two women."
Trevor raises his gaze, assessing me. "How do you feel about helping me with an informal approach?"
He doesn't have to ask me twice. After investing so much of my time and energy into solving this mystery, there is no way I want to miss out on any step in the process.
I give Trevor a sly smile. "What do you have in mind?"
We knock around a few ideas before finally landing on one we think will work. Trevor will step into the next-door room, staying out of sight but not out of earshot. With the accordion door cracked open, he can record our conversation without Joyce having a clue. It falls to me to coax her into implicating herself. All we need is for her to give us a motive or, even better, to let slip one of the details the police have kept hidden from the crew — namely, that Vivian's wine was poisoned, and that the poison was Monkshood.
Sabotage at Somerset: A charmingly fun paranormal cozy mystery (Oxford Key Mysteries Book 4) Page 22
