by Plum Sykes
“Ursula, quick,” said Nancy, glancing at her watch.
She put her letter for Next Duke into the pigeon post sack on Deddington’s desk, and the girls grabbed their mail from their pigeonholes and sped out of the gate tower. The ambulance had now gone. In its place stood a glossy scarlet moped with a black leather seat and a white basket attached to the handlebars. The word “Spree”* was written in loopy white writing on the side. Nancy emitted a whoop of joy.
“My Spree!” she squealed, delighted, jumping astride the adorable little motorbike. Her mom, it transpired, had shipped Nancy’s favored mode of transport from Northwestern to Oxford. “I never could really see myself on a bicycle. Look, Ursula, you can fit on the back.”
“It’s gorgeous,” she said.
The huge college clock slowly chimed twice. “I’m gonna be late for the tutorial,” shrieked Nancy, jumping off the moped. “Come on!”
Chapter 10
Monday, 1st Week: Afternoon
As the girls walked speedily towards Dr. Dave’s staircase, Ursula opened a couple of the envelopes she had found in her pigeonhole. One of them contained an invitation to afternoon tea that day at four o’clock in the junior common room. The host, Ben Braithwaite (Second Year, Engineering), the president of the JCR committee, had invited the Freshers to meet their “College Parents.” Ursula showed it to Nancy.
“An Oxford Mom and Dad? Cute! And ‘afternoon tea.’ How retro,” she sighed happily. “This place is more like the Ritz than school.”
Ursula had survived a very long time without parents, and wasn’t sure now was the moment to acquire a mother and father. Still, an invitation to tea was hard to resist. Four o’clock tea by the fire at Seldom Seen Farm—hot buttered crumpets, Plain Granny’s homemade scones with jam and clotted cream, Victoria sponge cake—had been Ursula’s childhood treat, as cozy as it was scrumptious. Surely an Oxford tea would be just as comforting. And it would give her a good excuse to scope out the JCR unobserved. Ursula had a hunch that the room, which was right next to Dr. Dave’s set, might hold a clue to what had happened to India.
“Let’s go to the tea together,” she said, following Nancy into Dr. Dave’s staircase. After that, she vowed to herself, she would go the library.
As the girls climbed the stairs, they could hear the sound of squabbling voices drifting down from the landing above them.
“I’m sorry, sir. You can’t go in there.”
“But these are my rooms. I’m due to give a tutorial in about thirty seconds.”
“Your rooms are a crime scene. You’ll have to wait for the detective inspector to arrive.”
On the first-floor landing, the girls found a uniformed police constable who looked about their own age barring entry to an irate Dr. Dave.
“I shall be bereft without my Montblanc. May I at least get it from inside?” pleaded the don.
“Your what?”
“My fountain pen.”
“No one can be allowed into the crime scene. Might disturb evidence. I can lend you a Bic,” the constable offered, a film of nervous perspiration starting to dampen his face.
“Thank you, but . . . no. I have never written a word of my manuscripts with a Bic and I am not about to start now. I do hope that, despite the tragic circumstances of last night,” continued Dr. Dave, “the inspector will understand that I do need access to my rooms as soon as is humanly possible. I need somewhere to give my tutorials, and volume two of From Constantinople to Jerusalem, the sequel to my first bestselling tome on the Middle East, is due to be handed in to my publishers at the end of the month. I can only write sitting at my black lacquer desk with the great argus watching over me. . . .”
The constable maintained his position across the doorway, arms crossed. “The DI will be here shortly,” he said, his expression set. Then, noticing Nancy and Ursula standing there, he blushed furiously, as though he had never seen such pretty girls in his life.
“Hello, Officer. I’m here for my tutorial,” said Nancy. “And good morning, Dr. Dave.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Feingold,” was his curt reply. Nancy reddened. “I’m afraid we will be conducting our first tutorial . . .” He trailed off, looking around for a suitable perch, before his eyes alighted on the dust-laden window seat below the landing window. “. . . here.” He beckoned her to sit. “Now,” he began, “the Scottish Covenanter—”
But he got no further before the policeman, seemingly concerned by Ursula’s presence, interrupted.
“And may I ask what reason you have to be here, miss?” he said to her. “This is a potential crime scene.”
It wasn’t a good idea, Ursula presumed, to admit she was writing about India’s murder for Cherwell. So she said, “I thought I could help the police with their inquiries.”
The constable looked unimpressed. “And how would you be proposing to do that, miss?”
“I’m not sure . . . but I was the one who found the victim.”
The constable started. “Did you say you found her?” he asked, sounding amazed.
“Yes,” said Ursula.
“You were the first person on the scene?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Yes.”
The constable narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously. “Miss—?”
“Flowerbutton,” Ursula informed him.
“Right, Miss Flowerbutton. You must remain here until the detective inspector arrives. You are a Person of Interest.”
“I am?” remarked Ursula hopefully. Perhaps this would give her unlimited license to skulk around the police investigation—how perfect for her article. “I’ll stay as long as you need me,” she said, planting herself on the staircase leading up to the next floor. Bother, she thought, if only she’d been to the library already, she could have checked out her book and started reading about the Early Covenanters while she was waiting for the DI.
“May I continue, Officer, with my tutorial now?” groaned Dr. Dave from the window seat where he and Nancy were seated, patiently waiting.
The constable nodded.
“Well, Miss Feingold. An eventful morning, soon to be made only more so by the introduction of Scottish religious fanaticism into your life. Your task this week is to familiarize yourself with an article entitled ‘The Apocalyptic Vision of the Early Covenanters’ and tell me why the author is wrong.”
“Tell you . . . sorry . . . who’s what?” said Nancy. She looked puzzled.
“Why the author is wrong,” repeated Dr. Dave.
“O-kaaaaay . . . I guess.” For the first time, Ursula detected a chink in Nancy’s armor of self-confidence.
“You’ll find the college library very useful. The librarian up there, Olive—I mean, Ms. Brookethorpe—will help you find the literature. She’s the prim-looking one, with a nice bottom—”
Dr. Dave’s description of Ms. Brookethorpe was interrupted by the sound of footsteps clattering up towards them. The constable rushed to the top of the staircase. When he saw who the footsteps belonged to, he hurriedly stood to attention.
“Detective Inspector Trott!” he said, greeting the man who soon appeared on the landing.
In his midthirties, Ursula guessed, Trott was a beady-eyed, clean-shaven man with a muscular jaw and black hair cropped so close to his skull that you could see the veins pulsing in his temples. He was wearing a Barbour jacket over an unremarkable navy suit, white shirt, and shiny red tie. His face conveyed only unemotional professionalism, giving nothing away.
“Show me,” was all DI Trott said in reply to the constable, flashing a cursory glance in the direction of Ursula, Nancy, and their tutor.
“She’s in here,” said the constable, opening the door to Dr. Dave’s rooms.
He had barely put his toe over the threshold before Trott snapped, “Wait outside please, Constable! Only one person at a time until we have gathered all the evidence.”
A tense silence settled on the party on the landing. As the
minutes ticked slowly by, Ursula dreaded to think what Trott was witnessing inside. When the inspector eventually reappeared, he was stern-faced.
“Constable. Radio the station and tell them I need scene of crime officers, forensic scientists, a police photographer, the exhibits officer, the police surgeon,” he ordered. “They better tell the Home Office pathologist to bring his murder bag with him.”
Trott now turned his attention to Ursula and Nancy with a searing glare. “Who are these two?”
“Miss Flowerbutton discovered the body,” replied the constable, pointing at Ursula. “Miss Feingold is one of Dr. Erskine’s students. She’s been having a tutorial.”
“Right. Keep Miss Flowerbutton here. I’ll question her myself later.”
“I’ll wait with you,” Nancy offered.
“Thanks,” said Ursula gratefully.
Trott then opened the door to the JCR, peered inside, and said, “This’ll have to do as a temporary incident room for now. Constable, anyone who arrives comes straight in here please. No one is to enter the crime scene until they’ve reported to me.”
* * *
That afternoon, Ursula and Nancy perched, seemingly unnoticed, at the top of the flight of stairs above Dr. Dave’s rooms as the full force of the Thames Valley Police swung into action. The landing and JCR were soon populated by a collection of investigative personnel, each of whom would disappear into Dr. Dave’s rooms one at a time, only to reappear a few minutes later carrying various miscellaneous items, which would then be discussed with DI Trott, now installed in the JCR. Ursula surreptitiously scribbled notes constantly, while Nancy consumed cigarette after cigarette.
Dr. Dave, who had somehow managed to continue with his tutorial schedule from the window seat, became more agitated as each object was transported. The sight of an officer emerging from his rooms while swaying beneath the weight of his beloved great argus was too much.
“Young man, young man!” he called out. “Is there really any compelling reason to remove poor Panoptes?”
“Eh?” mumbled the officer.
“Argos Panoptes was the all-seeing giant of Greek mythology,” said Dr. Dave. “I named the great argus you have in your arms after him. Does he really need to be moved?”
“Evidence,” replied the officer curtly, before adding, “Let’s hope he really is all-seeing.”
Before Dr. Dave could protest, the officer had staggered away down the stairs under the weight of the taxidermied bird.
“God knows how I will finish the book without Panoptes,” sighed Dr. Dave, bereft.
Every now and again a local officer of some description—traffic warden, social worker, county councillor, transport policeman—would appear on the landing. When the constable asked them the purpose of their visit, they universally offered a variation on the phrase “just popping in to have a look.” They were, Ursula observed, behaving as though they were here to greet a newborn baby, not inspect a freshly murdered corpse.
By midafternoon, DI Trott reappeared from the JCR and consulted in a low voice with the constable, though Ursula could only catch snatches of the conversation.
“. . . why you kept her hanging around directly outside the crime scene . . . did they teach you nothing in training, constable? . . .” His voice rose with irritation. Trott was giving the young policeman a serious ticking-off.
“But I thought you said to keep the prime suspect here—” whimpered the constable.
“Ssshhhttt! I didn’t mean right here . . . Anyway, it’s too late now. I need to get on.”
I’m the prime suspect? said Ursula to herself. She felt utterly confused—and petrified.
“I’m ready for you, Miss Flowerbutton,” said Trott.
“See you later, at the JCR tea?” said Nancy, giving Ursula a comforting hug before she left. “And then let’s go to that party tonight together, the Acquisitors—”
“Perquisitors,” Ursula corrected her as she followed Trott into the JCR. “I can’t.”
Chapter 11
“You didn’t mean it, did you?” asked Ursula, worried, as she walked alongside Trott into the JCR.
“Mean what, miss?” said Trott, striding towards the far end of the room.
“That thing you said about me being the prime suspect?”
“Standard procedure, miss. The person who finds the body is always the prime suspect.”
“But why?”
“It’s your alibi. Let’s just imagine you killed your friend—”
“She wasn’t my friend.”
“I see,” said Trott. He looked at Ursula warily.
“I mean, I don’t mean that I hated her. What I mean is she wasn’t my friend because I didn’t really know her.” Ursula felt panicked.
“Right. Well, to return to your earlier question, let’s just imagine you did kill this girl who you say isn’t your friend. The easiest thing is to say that you found her. It gives you an excuse to be in the room where the body is, and accounts for any of your fingerprints that might be found. So that’s why you’re officially the prime suspect. Only you’re not meant to know that you are,” he grumbled. “That young constable, I don’t know. Now, if you could wait until I start my interview before you speak again please.”
Ursula had been too frantic to notice much about the JCR this morning. But now, as she talked with Trott, she tried to take in every detail. She didn’t want to miss a clue, if there was one.
It had probably been a very grand room once, thought Ursula. Now, it had the gloomy air of an abandoned nursery. The oak paneling, once polished to a conker-like shine, no doubt, was scarred by years of student life. The two tall Gothic revival stone windows at the front of the room had a pretty view of the immaculate Great Lawn, but cobwebs drooped grubbily in their arches. A fly buzzed hungrily over the remains of Claire Potter’s Crosswords and Ice Cream meeting, which still filled the table beneath the windows. Ursula hadn’t paid attention this morning, but she now saw that two chairs were pulled up to the far end of the table and that a pink plastic spoon had been left inside one of two empty ice cream tubs there.
Trott and Ursula reached the far end of the room, where various officers were attempting to set up the temporary incident room the DI had demanded.
“Sir,” barked a woman officer, as Trott and Ursula headed past her. She was in the process of turning the tatty billiard table in the center of the room into a makeshift exhibits area.
The far end of the room was dominated by a huge, bulky television set positioned in one corner and surrounded by a semicircle of ugly brown and beige sofas and armchairs with stuffing poking out here and there. They were now occupied by six or seven police employees. Behind the television, shelves were piled high with books, videocassettes, and old boxes of Scrabble and Monopoly.
“Right. Sit down, Miss Flowerbutton,” Trott finally said, gesturing towards two chairs drawn up on either side of a red Formica-topped table in the corner opposite the television set.
They took their seats, and DI Trott opened a brand-new blue-backed A4-sized notebook, picked up a pen, and pressed play on the tape recorder that had been set up on the table.
“Now, tell me, how did you come upon this body this morning?” he asked.
“Well, it all started because I didn’t want to be a lemon,” said Ursula. “You see, Dr. Dave has very, very strict rules. . . .”
Ursula tried to remember everything from the absolute beginning. She told Trott about Dr. Dave encouraging students to enter his rooms if he didn’t answer a knock, finding India on the chaise longue, the dreadful realization that she was not breathing, discovering Otto asleep in the JCR.
“He was in that chair,” added Ursula, pointing to the wingback chair in the middle of the room.
“Constable!” yelled Trott to no one in particular.
Four officers simultaneously sprang to their feet from the TV corner.
“That chair’s evidence. Get it photographed, take fiber samples, and bag it up,” ordered Tr
ott. “And don’t touch it.”
Trott turned his attention back to Ursula.
“Right, miss, you were saying a young man was in here?”
“Yes, Otto Schuffenecker. It was Otto who realized India was definitely dead.”
“Someone track down an Otto Schuffenecker and interview him today,” Trott barked at his team. “How did he know she was dead?”
Ursula recounted to Trott the grim moment when Otto had turned back the blanket covering India, the sight of her neck, the blood on her white gown, his attempt to resuscitate her.
“Then I asked him to run and get the porter, Deddington. And I stayed with India . . .”
As a single tear finally rolled down Ursula’s cheek as she recounted the sight of the lifeless girl, Trott offered a tissue, but his expression remained unchanged, emotionless. He transcribed Ursula’s story methodically, with the air of a man who was writing a polite thank-you note for a particularly uninspiring Christmas gift. Every few minutes another member of his team would come and interrupt him with a question, but he seemed to possess a remarkable ability to delegate detailed tasks without ever losing the thread of the story Ursula was telling him.
“Why are there so many people here?” she asked, noticing that the stream of police personnel coming in and out of the room was ever increasing. She needed to fully understand the police investigation if she was going to be able to report on it properly in her article.
“Murders aren’t solved by two friendly bobbies these days, miss. It’s not like you see on TV. There will be at least a hundred people on this over the next forty-eight hours. Before the evidence disappears.”
“Really?” said Ursula, her faith in Hercule Poirot brutally shattered.
“Yup. Although most of us in the force are well aware that it’s more than likely to be an utter waste of police time and resources.”
“Why?” asked Ursula.
“Murders are often the least interesting crimes to solve. Most of them are straightforward domestics. It’s usually The Husband or The Boyfriend. Look close to home, I always say. Look close to home. Now, you were saying that you stayed in the room while this”—Trott looked down at his notes—“Mr. Schuffenecker—”
