by Maxine Barry
She trailed off as Sir Vivian held up his hand. ‘Enough, Nesta. You obviously are who you say you are.’
‘Thank you,’ she acknowledged, somewhat dryly.
‘Now don’t get defensive, my dear,’ her companion rebuked her gently. ‘I had to make sure. You must admit that this . . .’ Sir Vivian once again tapped the slightly yellowed and dusty-smelling papers gingerly, ‘is something that cannot be taken as sacrosanct, merely on your word alone.’
Nesta sighed tremulously. ‘I know that, Sir Vivian.’ She leaned forward earnestly, twisting her hands together in her lap. ‘Don’t you see, that’s why I came to you?’
Her green eyes were brightened now by held-back tears. ‘I need someone independent, respected, believable, to . . . well . . . champion me, if you like. Oh, I can do the research myself,’ she assured him, with perhaps just a hint of threat that she would do so, should it prove necessary, ‘but unlike you, I don’t have ready access to such things as the Bodleian. And I don’t have anywhere near the knowledge of the university that you have, nor the contacts,’ she admitted honestly. ‘What would take me weeks, even months, you could do in hours. Besides . . .’
Her voice lost some of its passion, and her green eyes ceased to glow like those of a cat.
‘Besides,’ Sir Vivian finished for her gravely, ‘people won’t want to believe you.’
‘No,’ she predicted simply and quietly. ‘They won’t, will they?’
For a moment or two, Sir Vivian looked at the bent, red head. He could almost feel the waves of misery emanating from her.
‘I’m very much afraid that they won’t want to believe me either, my dear,’ he warned her sadly.
Nesta sighed and looked up. She looked perfectly composed. ‘No, I realise that,’ she admitted. As she spoke, she noticed how much older Sir Vivian was suddenly looking. His hand was pressed to his chest as if he were in pain, but she had a fair idea that his torment was more mental than physical.
He looked less like Father Christmas now, and more like Ebenezer Scrooge. His face had a pinched, tight look, and he was frowning. But it was not miserliness, but rather misery, that had effected the change in him. As if sensing her thoughts, Sir Vivian stirred in his chair.
‘You must understand one thing,’ he began gravely. ‘At the moment, all you have is a theory. Backed up by hear-say and a few tentative notes of research.’
Nesta nodded meekly. ‘I know,’ she admitted softly.
But her theory was right. She knew it. And she suspected that Sir Vivian knew it too. Otherwise, why hadn’t he told her to take her ‘evidence’ and go?
For the last time that day she took a deep shaky breath. ‘Will you help me?’ she asked solemnly.
Although it would be a blow if he were to refuse, she would by no means be beaten by it. There were others she could ask. And if they all refused, she’d do it herself. On her own. If it took her years. She would meet with nothing but hostility, and no doubt the academic world would curl up on itself like a prickly hedgehog, to try to keep her shut out. But she wouldn’t give up. No matter what it took.
‘Of course I’ll help you,’ Sir Vivian said, his voice rife with weariness now, and all sense of his previous excitement having vanished. But it had been replaced by an implacable resolve, Nesta was sure. Proof of it was there, in his eyes. Above all, Sir Vivian Dalrymple was that rare thing these days—an honourable man.
‘If things are as you say they are, then . . . yes. It must be brought out into the open. But,’ he leaned forward suddenly, fixing Nesta with gimlet blue eyes. ‘I must, in return, have a promise from you, young lady. And when I say a promise, I mean a real promise. Something you mean. Something that you intend to honour, so help you God. I realise that to most people that might seem like a hopelessly outdated concept nowadays. But I think I’m right when I say that you, perhaps, understand its true worth.’
Nesta went from wilting relief to instant wariness. He sounded so vehement.
‘If I can make you a promise, I will,’ she said slowly. ‘And you’re right. I believe in keeping my word. That’s why I’ve always been careful when and how to give it.’
‘Very commendable,’ Sir Vivian said with a brief and somewhat dry smile. He hadn’t missed the fact that she’d put so much emphasis on the word ‘if’ in her previous statement.
‘So just what is it you want me to swear to?’ she asked warily.
Sir Vivian looked at the beautiful young redheaded woman a little sadly. So much passion. So much youth. He wished, suddenly, that June was here. She’d like this Nesta Aldernay. He wished, too, that he were a decade younger and still fired with just a little of her zeal. He wished . . .
He sighed and pulled the papers towards him. ‘I want you to promise me that you’ll do nothing, and say nothing to anyone, anyone at all, under any circumstances whatsoever, until I’ve had a chance to do the proper amount of investigating about this matter.’
As Nesta opened her mouth to angrily contend with him, Sir Vivian imperiously held up a hand. It was a blue-veined hand, slightly scratched by the rose-thorns despite the protection of gloves, and right at that moment it was shaking slightly, no doubt a reaction to the shock she had just given him. Nevertheless, such was the man’s innate authority, the raising of that hand totally silenced her,
‘No, Nesta, listen to me,’ Sir Vivian said, his voice deep, almost hypnotic now. ‘This is a very serious matter. You’ve made a very serious accusation, against a very well liked and respected member of this university. Until we have proof, anything you say is legally slanderous, and morally reprehensible.’
Sir Vivian ran a shaky hand across his forehead. ‘Let me see if I can explain to you why I must have this promise from you. In Oxford, my dear, academic and personal reputations are exceedingly fragile—far more so than in any other walk of life or indeed in business. In London, a city stockbroker or a politician can easily pick himself up and dust himself off and still get on with things after almost any amount of scandal. And no doubt many do so! But here? Just a rumour about any wrong-doing can utterly ruin a career or a reputation of decades’ standing.’
His shoulders slumped slightly. Was he getting through to her?
Nesta took a long, slow breath. Even though she still had many years more training to do if she wanted to work in the field of psychology, she knew enough about the ways of universities to know that what Sir Vivian was saying was no more than the harsh truth.
‘I hate to say it of my fellow academics, my dear,’ Sir Vivian carried on wearily, ‘but professional jealousy is rife in this city. Now you must see, or at least acknowledge, that until I’ve been able to check this out thoroughly,’ and again he tapped her father’s papers, ‘we must keep it quiet. Just in case things are not as they seem. Yes, I know . . .’ he again raised his hand as Nesta looked set to interrupt him hotly, ‘I know how cut-and-dried it seems. But the fact is, we’re not sure of our facts yet. And until we are, and if I’m to help you, I must have your promise on this. You’ll discuss your case with no-one.’
Sir Vivian watched her expressive face closely as Nesta forced back the immediate sense of frustration and denial that coursed through her.
She realised what she was experiencing, of course. She would one day be a practising psychologist herself, so she should! And right now she was giving in to a mild feeling of paranoia. But her own instincts and common sense told her that Sir Vivian was not closing ranks. He was not trying to con her (or her father) out of their due rights. He was not scheming to destroy the precious papers, or keep her dangling on a string until he could think of a way of silencing her.
He was a well-respected and decent man. And, for her own mental health, she had to begin trusting in people again. And what he said, really, only made sense. And she certainly didn’t want to lay herself open to counter-charges of libel or defamation of character. Things would be tough enough without that. Besides, she hadn’t any money with which to pay a barrister to defend her
in a court case.
No. In these circumstances, Sir Vivian was right. The only ethical and moral thing to do was get irrefutable proof first. And although she had no doubt about the guilt of the Don they were discussing, would it really hurt her to agree to say nothing, until Sir Vivian was as convinced as she was?
Slowly she leaned back against her chair. ‘Very well, Sir Vivian,’ she said quietly. ‘I promise I won’t tell anyone about these papers until I’ve got undeniable proof of my claims.’
She didn’t know, then, just how very much that promise was going to cost her.
* * *
Nesta left a while later, feeling a little easier in her mind. The psychology Don had had a photocopier in his private study, and had been more than amenable to her taking a copy of everything she had, and retaining only the photocopies for himself, whilst she held on to the originals.
He’d also gone over with her a list of things he was to do next—most of which included interviewing Dons and students who’d been around when her father had been up at Oxford.
He’d promised to start right away, and she believed he would. For now she had other, more immediate and practical things to concern her—like where to find some cheap lodgings.
Inside his house, Sir Vivian rose slowly and stiffly from his seat and made himself another cup of tea, watching from his window as her mint-green VW Beetle drove away. He was left with a feeling of acute depression.
Then he began to read Brian Aldernay’s papers. The originals had had a dusty feel to them, further evidence that Nesta’s claim to have found them in the attic of her house was probably a truthful one. And even though he had only photocopies now, some of the strength of character in the man’s handwritten notes in the margins still came through.
Sir Vivian had an academic’s skill at reading. He read quickly, able to skip and skim until he came to really pertinent passages, all without losing the thread of what he was reading.
As the hours ticked past, he forgot to eat lunch, but the pile of notes he was making began to overflow his notepad. At just after three o’clock, he turned the last page of the manuscript, and leaned slowly back in his chair.
He looked grey.
Nesta had not lied about any of the pertinent facts. The documents were exactly as she’d described them. Already he had a feeling in the pit of his stomach that tasted like melting iron. Bitter. Acrid. Destructive . . .
But he still had a lot of work to do.
He’d practically have to camp out at the Bodleian for the next few days. Perhaps he’d take the material down to his country cottage, where he would be free of phone calls and friends popping around, and could get some really serious studying done. His findings would have to be meticulous, scrupulous and unarguable. It would take time and patience.
But he was not looking forward to it.
Normally, whenever he thought of the Bodleian, he did so with pride. The famous library, over the centuries, had retained a copy of every thesis written by a graduate in Oxford. It was also given a copy of every book ever published. The Bodleian, that vast reservoir of research and academic publication; it had always been his own private paradise.
But now, amid its tomes and silent places, he might just find evidence of a deep, dark, ugly secret.
But, in all fairness, he was not yet that well acquainted with the Don concerned, or with the D.Phil thesis in question, to judge whether or not plagiarism had taken place.
Plagiarism. Or something much, much worse?
Sir Vivian slowly leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. If it was true, it would rock Oxford University like a bomb. It would mean catastrophe for one college in particular.
And for one currently well-respected Experimental psychology Fellow it would mean ruin. Disgrace. Perhaps, even, prosecution.
Suddenly Sir Vivian began to wish that he’d never set eyes on the pretty, clever, determined Nesta Aldernay.
CHAPTER TWO
Nesta Aldernay was not the only young woman entering Oxford for the first time that morning, but the arrival of Markie Kendall couldn’t have been more different.
Whilst Nesta searched for cheap accommodation in a second-hand VW Beetle, Markie Kendall made her way down the Banbury Road in a low-slung silver Ferrari convertible, with personalised number plates. With the top down, and her long trademark waist-length black hair flying out behind her in the breeze, many heads turned to watch her progress into the city of dreaming spires.
And clustered outside the famous Randolph hotel, situated opposite one of Oxford’s many stately museums, a gaggle of paparazzi awaited her arrival—news of which had been carefully leaked by her publicist.
As she pulled into the narrow hotel entrance and flashed a smile at the sudden flurry of flash photography, she surreptitiously checked her appearance in the driver’s mirror. She needn’t have worried. Her make-up—which she’d applied that morning in her London penthouse apartment overlooking the Thames—still looked good.
She parked her car in a VIP slot and got out, making her way back to the front entrance. She could have chosen to slip into the back of the hotel, but Markie Kendall rarely made anything other than a major entrance. Especially when she was working.
‘Marcheta, over here,’ a voice shouted from the journalistic crowd the moment she appeared, and a brief noisy barrage met her as she stepped out onto Broad Street. ‘Marcheta, are you in Oxford for long?’
Markie vaguely recognised the second voice as belonging to one of the bigger daily papers, and she paused in front of the middle aged man who was waving a mini-cassette recorder in front of her famous face.
‘Hello, boys,’ Markie waved generally at the group and stood, one hip slightly thrust forward, and flipped a hand through her hair. It was the pose that had first made her famous when she’d achieved supermodel status at the age of only seventeen, and she still used it occasionally even now. As expected, the photographers went wild.
She was dressed in a modest knee-length fitted dress of mint-green, black and white, with a high collar and full-length sleeves. It was the work of a new designer to the fashion scene, but she was wise enough to know that showing hardly any flesh made her look, paradoxically, even more sexy. Not that she’d ever posed in the nude, of course. And even when she did photo shoots for lingerie ads, she never wore any of the really revealing items, preferring to leave that to the newer, hungrier girls coming up through the ranks.
At nearly thirty, her days at the very top of the tree were numbered, and she knew it. But the thought didn’t fill her with dismay, as it did some of her fellow models. She had long-since made her plans to diversify, and that was partly why she was in Oxford now.
‘Yes, darlings, I’m here for a little while,’ she cooed to the crowd in general. ‘I’m launching a new fragrance this Valentine’s Day, and the laboratories creating it for me here in Oxford have invited me to check on their progress. Isn’t that sweet of them?’ she asked archly, and sighed theatrically. ‘But I really can’t imagine why any of those nice, clever, boffin-type scientists would want to ask me to visit them in their lab, can you?’
She did a way-over-the-top puzzled pout, and they all erupted into laughter. Even several of the older hacks had to smile. Everyone in the business knew that Markie Kendall was hardly just another dumb model. For all of her career she’d handled her own money, and her investment portfolio alone was the envy of many people in the city. Since her father was a well-known financier, and she herself had been educated in top schools all her life, it was, perhaps, only to be expected.
‘What’s the perfume called?’ one female voice called from behind a press of photographers, who’d leapt forward to catch that pretty pout for their editors back home.
‘Why, Marcheta of course,’ Markie said, batting her eyelashes frantically. ‘What else?’
Like a few of her contemporaries, she was known by the single name. Never Miss Kendall, or even Marcheta Kendall. Just and only Marcheta.
Her
deeply romantic mother had indeed and truly given Markie Kendall the name of Marcheta (pronounced Mar-keet-hah). As a child though, her family and friends had always called her Markie. But when it became clear, just after hitting puberty, how truly and astonishingly beautiful she was going to become and she decided to try her hand at modelling, it made sense to make the most of her unusual and pretty name.
And from the moment she’d walked into a top modelling agency at the tender age of fourteen, and the company’s leading photographer had taken her picture and told the owner to sign her up on the spot, the modelling phenomenon known as Marcheta had been born.
Now, fifteen years later, hers was one of the most photographed faces in the country if not the world. At nearly five feet eleven inches tall, and with the lithe willowy grace of a black swan, her figure had modelled and sold everything from the top designer one-off dresses worth tens of thousands, to high-end chain-store ranges. And with her perfect pale oval face and large blue eyes, her image regularly promoted cosmetics and jewellery ranges.
Now she’d decided that it was time to start promoting her own products. The fragrance was only the first in a planned long list. She was already in talks with biochemists lured from a big Parisian cosmetics giant to make her own range of lipsticks, mascara, eye shadow and face creams. Within ten years she fully intended to have her own range of fashion lines as well. Which was another reason she was in Oxford—she wanted to see if she could spot the next big thing straight out of University and snaffle him or her for herself.
‘Is that the only reason you’re here, Markie? Or is there a man?’ a young lad shouted.
