Party Girls Die in Pearls

by Plum Sykes

“Oh.” There was nothing else for it. Ursula was going to have to tell a terrible lie if she was going to get anywhere. She crossed her fingers and said, in as sad a tone as she could, “You see, the thing is, the dead woman . . . she was my mother.”

  “Well . . . I suppose . . .” said the man, his tone softening, “in exceptional cases, I can elevate requests to ‘officially urgent.’”

  “That would be so kind,” she said, sniffing as loudly and sadly as she could.

  “All right. Don’t worry, love. Someone can try and find the certificate today. If you give me a telephone number, we’ll ring you back later.”

  Chapter 38

  Friday, 1st Week: Evening

  The scene at Vincent’s Club* that night was, declared Nancy, “blazer heaven.” The sight of the “Vinny’s boys,” the university’s most elite sportsmen, lounging around on comfy-looking leather chesterfield sofas and swigging cocktails, dressed in the white-trimmed navy blazers and navy ties of the Oxford Blues, was, she concluded, “better than a Ralph Lauren ad.” Thank goodness, Ursula thought to herself, she’d dressed up properly for the club’s first cocktail party of the term: Nancy had lent her a ruched, fitted shocking-pink taffeta minidress that only just covered her thighs. It wasn’t exactly her style, but it was fun to wear. Nancy, meanwhile, was dressed in a frothy off-the-shoulder dress that consisted of tumbling layers of pale yellow organdy frills held in place by tiny bows.

  “Oh my God, Horatio?!” Ursula exclaimed, suddenly spotting her friend across the room. This was the last place she’d expected to see him, especially wearing the navy blazer of the Full Blues.

  “He’s not exactly a jock,” observed Nancy.

  Horatio saw the girls and beckoned them to join him.

  “Horatio, I’m intrigued,” said Nancy. “What sport did you get your Blue for?”

  “Tennis,” he said, a contented smile on his face.

  “Really?” Ursula couldn’t help but sound amazed.

  “If you are implying, dearest Ursula, as you seem to be, that I am far too rotund a personage to dash around a tennis court with any effectiveness—”

  “No, no, I didn’t mean that at all,” said Ursula, hoping she hadn’t been rude. “I wasn’t saying—”

  “—that I’m too fat to play tennis? Well, you’re completely right. I’m far too pudgy. I got my Blue for sitting. On the umpire’s chair. It’s simply lovely up there, bossing everyone about. Everyone comes to my matches. Apparently I’m more entertaining than John McEnroe.”

  Horatio ordered snowball cocktails for the girls and then went on, “Anyway, Ursula, I don’t know what you’re doing out enjoying yourself so close to your story deadline.”

  “Actually, I said I’d meet Jago here for a drink—”

  “Woooooh! Do be careful, Ursula. He can be dreadfully lecherous.”

  “No, honestly, it’s all fine,” she insisted. “It’s an official no-strings-attached drink.”

  “That old cliché,” chuckled Horatio.

  “Really, I’m only staying for a bit tonight. I’ve got to get back to work on the story. I’ve got tons of notes to go through.”

  Just then, Jago sauntered up to them. He was wearing the stripy jacket of the Half Blues.

  “Ah, my star reporter!” he said, pecking Ursula on the cheek, throwing an arm around her shoulders, and squeezing her into his chest. Horatio whispered in her ear, “No strings attached. Ha!”

  “Solved the case yet?” said Jago. He sounded as though he was half joking.

  “Almost,” replied Ursula, removing his arm.

  “You think you know who did it?” he said, suddenly serious. “Who?”

  Ursula looked around at the room, which was now bulging with guests. She didn’t intend to go into the details of India’s murder with so many people within earshot.

  “I can’t say yet.”

  “You know how to drive a man crazy, don’t you, Ursula?” said Jago, looking at her lasciviously.

  Ursula said nothing. She just looked coolly at the boy. She didn’t want him getting any ideas about attaching any strings whatsoever to her. Finally, Jago said awkwardly, “Anyway, yeah, I’m looking forward to reading your copy on Sunday morning. Do come and use the typewriters in the Cherwell offices, won’t you?”

  “Sure,” she said noncommittally.

  Secretly, Ursula was not convinced she would be anywhere near the Cherwell typewriters by tomorrow afternoon. The final, crucial question in the mystery of India’s death—whether or not Mary Crimshaw had died in childbirth—still remained unanswered. She had stopped by the porter’s lodge every half hour that afternoon, hoping that the Register Office in Leeds had called back and left a message—but there was nothing.

  “Good,” said Jago. “I do like a reporter who keeps to their deadline. Right, I’ll go get another round.”

  Jago set off towards the bar, and Ursula turned back to her friends, who were in the midst of an important conversation.

  “Hey, what should I wear for my date tomorrow morning, with Next Duke?” Nancy was asking Horatio.

  “It might be very cold. A tweed suit would be ideal,” he suggested helpfully.

  “Oh God, that sounds so old-school classy. Next Duke would like that, right? But where do I get one at this time in the evening?”

  “I can lend you my old tweed hacking jacket,” offered Ursula. “It’s in my room.”

  “Okay. That sounds totally authentic. What about the pants?”

  “Sorry, I don’t have tweed trousers. But I’ve got a pair of jodhies you can borrow.”

  “Jodhies? What are those? They sound ugly,” Nancy declared.

  “You know, jodhpurs . . . riding breeches. I’ve got Plain Granny’s old ones, from when she was a girl. They look like wool pantaloons. They’re beautiful.”

  “Okay, I’ll take your word for it,” said Nancy.

  “The main thing is, you’ll be warm. You just need some boots as well,” added Ursula.

  “I’m good for boots. Can you leave the clothes in my room tonight?”

  “Sure,” said Ursula. “I’m going back now to write. Horatio will walk me, won’t you?”

  When Horatio dropped Ursula back at the porter’s lodge about thirty minutes later, Deddington Jr. was at his station. Nancy was right, Ursula thought to herself; he did look uncannily similar to the photograph of Lord Brattenbury as a young man that they had seen by his bedside yesterday. Ursula wondered what would happen when he discovered his true identity. She felt uneasy, knowing something so crucial about him that he didn’t.

  “Evening, Miss Flowerbutton,” he said when she entered. “Someone telephoned, about half an hour ago. Said it was urgent.”

  He handed her a note, which read:

  No certificate found. No need to send postal order. Leeds Register Office.

  She stared at it, then read the words over again: “No certificate found.” No death certificate meant no death. Mary Crimshaw was not dead.

  Ursula suddenly felt fearful, excited, and nervous all at once. Had she discovered who the murderer was? Was it Alice? Was a murderous scout, Ursula wondered as she walked hesitantly towards the Gothic Buildings, lurking somewhere between the lodge and Ursula’s room, hiding in the shadows, waiting to kill again?

  Perhaps, thought Ursula, she should tell Trott her suspicions and let him deal with it. The situation was dangerous. But . . . could Alice really be a cold-blooded killer? Alice seemed so nice, with her kind words, cozy cups of tea, and jolly aprons. She’d been so friendly with India. If Ursula told Trott the latest developments and it turned out that Alice was innocent, she could be landing her helpful scout in undeserved trouble.

  In any case, there was nothing Ursula could do at this hour. She decided the best course of action would be to ask Alice some leading questions when she came to clean tomorrow morning after the six a.m. rowing session. Perhaps the scout would say something incriminating. Or else clear herself of suspicion completely.

  In
the meantime, back in her room, Ursula jotted down the new clues in her notebook, trying to prepare for writing the article on Saturday afternoon.

  —Mary Crimshaw is not dead. True.

  —Mary Crimshaw is real mother of Nicholas Deddington. True.

  —Is Alice Blythe Mary Crimshaw? Maybe.

  —Nicholas Deddington is illegitimate heir to Lord B.? Very likely.

  —If Mary Crimshaw wanted her biological son to inherit, she had motive to kill India. Possible.

  —Am I wrong about it all? Possible. After all, how could someone who dusts with such dedication be a murderess?

  By ten o’clock, Ursula was done for the night. She put her notes carefully into the folder on her desk. It was only then that she noticed a brown paper bag sitting on her bed. What on earth was that, she wondered, and who had left it there? Ursula approached the bag with caution, picked it up, and opened it. Inside, something was glistening. India’s tiara! She reached her hand inside the bag and pulled out the jeweled headpiece. There was a note with it, from Claire Potter. It read:

  Knicker drawer no longer as safe as previously thought. CP.

  No way. Did Claire Potter have a boyfriend? Already? Ursula examined the tiara curiously. Inside, she noticed a stamp. This must be the hallmark, she thought, trying to read the tiny letters. She made out the words “Butler & Wilson.” Butler and Wilson! Ursula couldn’t help but laugh. She had heard of Butler & Wilson, an ultra-trendy costume jewelry shop in London where Chelsea girls shopped for gigantic diamanté earrings, golden chokers, and glittery bangles. Claire needn’t have worried about stealing a family heirloom. India had fooled everyone with her fake tiara. Ursula would hand it into the police as soon as she could. She’d just say it had mysteriously appeared in her room, which was, after all, completely true.

  Before bed, Ursula put out her old riding outfit for Nancy. The hacking jacket—dark brown tweed with a pale blue windowpane check—looked perfect. The jodhpurs, on the other hand, had an old grass stain on the left knee. She’d have to go wash and tumble dry them in Monks’ Cottages before she went to bed. Nancy wasn’t the sort of girl to be seen on a first date in grubby clothing.

  Twenty minutes later, as Ursula sat in the laundry awaiting the jodhpurs, doubts crept into her mind. What if Alice wasn’t Mary Crimshaw? Ursula and Nancy had no real, concrete proof that she was, except for her Derby accent and the fact that she used the word “bairn” for baby. Her rubber gloves could place her at the scene of the murder, but no more so than any of the scouts in college. Maybe the sodium dimethyldithiocarbamate hadn’t come from the killer at all. Maybe it had been on the glass before the killer touched it, transmitted when the glass had been washed or dried up before Wenty’s party.

  Perhaps this whole journalism thing, the Cherwell article, the dream of being a writer one day—well, maybe it wasn’t going to happen. If Ursula didn’t know the identity of India’s murderer, she didn’t have a story, and that was that. She consoled herself with the gruesome thought that maybe there’d be other murders while she was studying in Oxford with which she’d have better luck.

  Ursula didn’t get back to the Gothic Buildings with the dry jodhies until close to midnight. Just as she was about to walk from the stone passage across the courtyard, she saw someone coming out of the archway of her staircase. Alarmed, Ursula scurried into the shadows of Staircase A and hid, watching.

  There was no mistaking those yellow rubber gloves or that flowery apron. It was Alice. But what on earth was she doing in college at close to midnight, with her rubber gloves on? Surely it was much too late for cleaning, even for the most enthusiastic scout? Alice swiftly exited Staircase C, looking behind her as though to check no one had seen her. She then hurried straight past Staircase A, without seeing Ursula, and along the passage back towards Great Quad. She’d looked nervous, thought Ursula, who had never seen the usually jolly-faced scout in a fluster until now. Maybe she was Mary Crimshaw.

  Once upstairs, Ursula left the clean jodhies, tweed jacket, and a plaid shirt in Nancy’s room, hoping her friend’s sunrise breakfast would be as romantic as Nancy dreamed, before going back to her own quarters. As she walked into her room she noticed that two pages of her Cherwell story notes had fallen onto the floor beneath her desk. She was sure she hadn’t left them like that. She picked them up and put them back in the folder, carefully closing the cover.

  Before she went to bed, she checked—several times—that she had locked the door to her bedroom. She was properly scared. As she lay in bed, fretting, fearful, Ursula started to wonder if the idea of confronting Alice alone tomorrow was a sensible one. She resolved to ring Trott from the pay phone downstairs the minute she woke up. In the end, the only thing that got her off to sleep was thinking about rowing practice. Counting oars, Ursula soon discovered, was as good a cure for sleeplessness as counting sheep.

  Chapter 39

  Saturday, 23 October, 1st Week: Sunrise

  Ursula was having some kind of nightmare. She couldn’t wake up from it. “Uuughh-ggghhh!” she yelped. “Uggrrrrhhhh.” She couldn’t breathe in her dream. Air—there was no air! If only she could wake up, she could breathe. She wriggled. Struggled. But still she couldn’t wake up. A pillow was being pressed over her face. Someone was suffocating her. She thought she heard an alarm clock ringing. But she still couldn’t wake up. She was still in the nightmare. Not breathing. Choking.

  Maybe Ursula had passed out for a few seconds. Maybe she’d dreamed that she’d fainted. Someone was banging on her door in her nightmare—rap-rap-rap!

  “Ursula! You’re late for rowing!”

  But Ursula couldn’t answer. She couldn’t move her head. She realized she wasn’t dreaming. She was in fact awake, and she was being smothered. Someone really did have a pillow over her face. Someone was trying to kill her. She tried to move her arms, to hit her attacker, but they were pinned to her chest by someone’s body.

  Suddenly there was a loud cracking sound. The attacker’s grip loosened. A body collapsed like lead on top of her, and Ursula could finally move her head. Gasping for breath, she pushed the body off of her. It thudded to the ground. Ursula looked up. There, looming above her, oar in hand, was Moo.

  “Didn’t quite mean to, Ursula,” said Moo, “but I think I’ve just bumped off our scout.” She sounded about as apologetic as a Girl Guide who’d just caught a mouse in a trap. “I came in to wake you up for rowing and found Alice trying to suffocate you. So I decided to go for a massive bonk on the head.”

  Ursula struggled up in bed and looked at the floor next to her. There lay Alice, slumped unconscious. Her head was oozing blood. Ursula couldn’t help noticing the bright yellow rubber gloves on her hands.

  “I can’t believe she tried to kill me,” Ursula croaked, her voice almost gone after the shock of the attack.

  “But why would Alice want to kill you?!” gasped Moo.

  Everything made sense to Ursula now. But in her dazed state, her thoughts came out in a jumbled garble.

  “That’s why she was always tidying my desk,” Ursula told Moo. “She was secretly reading everything I wrote down about India’s murder.”

  “What are you talking about?” Moo looked concerned.

  “I saw Alice coming out of our staircase late last night. She must have been in here, reading my notes. I found two pages on the floor—I never would have left them there.”

  “Are you sure you’re not concussed?” Moo asked.

  “No, I’m fine. Once Alice knew that I knew she was actually Mary Crimshaw, the mother of the illegitimate heir to the Brattenbury estates, she had to get rid of me.”

  “Why would someone called Mary Crimshaw pretend she was Alice?” asked Moo. She looked completely and utterly confused.

  “No, Alice was pretending she wasn’t Mary Crimshaw,” Ursula corrected her. “She murdered India and tried to frame Mrs. Deddington.”

  Suddenly the scout stirred and gingerly lifted her bloodied head. “I only wanted to get my
son what was rightfully his,” she whimpered before flopping to the floor again.

  Moo then offered, “I’m jolly good at boating knots. Do you have a belt?”

  Without waiting for a response, Moo rifled in Ursula’s closet, dug out a couple of Ursula’s belts, and cheerfully tied them around Alice’s hands and feet.

  “Someone better call the police,” she said. “Deddington Jr.’s in the porter’s lodge. He can do it.”

  “No. I’ll ring from the pay phone downstairs,” said Ursula.

  Knowing what she did, she didn’t think it was fair to ask Deddington Jr. to turn in the woman who would soon be revealed as his birth mother to the police for murder. Ursula threw on her dressing gown. Just as she stepped on to the threshold of the landing, a loud scream came from Nancy’s room. The door flew open and Nancy appeared, wearing Ursula’s riding gear, which she had imaginatively teamed with a pair of very impractical high-heeled yellow suede boots. She looked absolutely terrified.

  “Ursula!” shrieked Nancy. “I’ve made a terrible mistake. Alice isn’t the killer at all.”

  “What?!” cried Ursula.

  “This weird street person showed up in my room at six o’clock this morning carrying champagne glasses and a bottle of Dom Pérignon, claiming to be the next Duke of Dudley. But it’s not him. It’s an impostor. I think he wanted to kill me, just like he killed India, with the champagne saucer.”

  “Where is he?” said Moo, rushing out of Ursula’s room and into Nancy’s, brandishing her bloodied oar.

  Nancy pointed at the wardrobe. “I shut him in there and locked it.”

  A hammering came from the inside of the wardrobe.

  “Could someone please let me out? I promise I am the next Duke of Dudley, and I have no interest in murdering the lovely American girl I met at Wenty’s party,” wailed a muffled voice.

  “What does he look like?” asked Ursula. She suddenly remembered the moment at Wenty’s party when Nancy had spilled champagne over Next Duke and Otto had laughed mischievously.