by H. Y. Hanna
I pushed the thought away. Don’t be stupid. I was turning into one of those crazy cat ladies who went around insisting that their animals talked to them or something.
Leaving Cassie still trying to coax Muesli over, I went upstairs to grab my Mackintosh. I returned to the living room to find Jon standing nervously against the wall whilst Muesli sat and stared at him with unblinking eyes.
“Guess I’ve finally met a female I can’t charm,” Jon said with an attempt at a cocky smile.
Cassie laughed and I dredged up a smile from somewhere. I was glad to shut the door behind them. Going to the window, I stood and watched them get into Jon’s BMW convertible and drive away. Muesli joined me at the window, her fur now smoothed back to its usual sleek appearance. I glanced down at her. Crazy cat lady or not, I wished she could talk and tell me why she didn’t like Jon Kelsey…
This time I managed to answer three emails before I was interrupted again. It was my mother on the phone.
“Darling, I was just ringing to see if they’d delivered my orders,” she said brightly. “The website promised delivery first thing Monday morning.”
“Mother, why on earth did you order me jester slippers?”
“Aren’t they gorgeous, darling? I told you about them the other day. They’re made with memory foam, you know. Helen Green tells me that memory foam is all the rage right now. They’re supposed to be fantastic for sore feet and swollen ankles, bunions, corns, hammer toes—”
I looked down at my own feet in alarm. They looked reassuringly normal. “But Mother, I don’t have hammer toes or bunions or any of those things—”
“All in good time, dear,” my mother reassured me. “Besides, I thought—with you being on your feet in the tearoom all day—these would be wonderful for you to wear at home. And the pink ones looked so dull, so I thought—why not the jester ones! And they would match the harlequin dressing gown I bought for you.”
“What harlequin dressing gown?” I asked suspiciously.
“Oh, hasn’t it arrived yet? I must have forgot to click on Express Delivery. Dear me, I thought I’d—”
“Mother, I really don’t want any jester slippers.”
“Oh, nonsense, darling, everybody wants a pair of jester slippers.”
I ground my teeth, then took a deep breath. “Mother, it was really sweet of you, but honestly, I’m never going to wear them. Do you mind if I take them back for a refund?”
“Oh, very well, dear. But maybe you can swap them for another style instead? They had another in a moccasin style with little tassels in front which looked delightful too.”
“Uh… okay, I’ll have a look through their range,” I said, with no intention of doing anything of the sort.
I hung up, then stood indecisively for a moment. The delivery man had said that the promotion ended today. If I wanted any chance of getting a refund for these slippers, I’d better head into town now.
I coaxed Muesli back into my bedroom with a piece of duck jerky and left her making herself comfortable on my bed as I shut the door firmly and headed out to central Oxford. Before long, I was standing at the Customer Service counter in the store and was surprised to find a familiar face behind the counter. Fiona Stanley—the girl who had been the waitress behind the bar at Cassie’s party.
Actually, maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, the city centre was pretty small and it wasn’t uncommon to bump into people you knew when out and about in the shops. Six degrees of separation and all that. And I remembered the Old Biddies mentioning that Fiona had to work a few part-time jobs to supplement her student budget; hardly surprising that she would be in one of the biggest stores on the High Street.
She showed no sign of recognition as she took my package and processed the refund.
I hesitated, then said casually, “I hope the police didn’t keep you too late on Saturday night.”
She looked up in alarm, meeting my eyes properly for the first time.
“I was at the party,” I explained. “So horrible what happened to that girl, wasn’t it?”
Fiona gave a tight nod.
I leaned across the counter and continued in a chatty tone, “And I heard that you actually knew her? The girl who died? You’re both reading Fine Art, aren’t you?”
Fiona paled. “Yes,” she mumbled. “But I didn’t really know her that well…”
“I heard that they think she was poisoned!” I opened my eyes very wide. “It sounds like something out of a novel, doesn’t it?”
She didn’t reply, but I persisted. “What was she like? Was she the type to have enemies?”
“What’s it to you?” said Fiona suddenly, scowling. “I told you, I didn’t know her that well, all right?” She looked beyond my shoulder to the next person in the line. “Next please!”
I walked thoughtfully away from the counter. It was obvious that Fiona wasn’t going to talk to me. But there were other ways to get information…
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I stepped out onto the street and paused for a moment, then began walking purposefully towards “The High”, one of the main thoroughfares of Oxford. Once described as “one of the world’s most beautiful streets”, High Street formed a gentle curve from Carfax in the centre to Magdalen Bridge at the eastern edge of the city, and had been the subject of countless prints, photographs, and paintings. Looking down its length, it was still possible to imagine the elegant world of 18th-century England. It was home to many of the iconic landmark buildings of the University: All Souls College, The Queen’s College, the University Church of St Mary the Virgin with its famous spires, the Examination Schools… and the Art School.
I stopped outside the quiet, unassuming exterior of the Art School—a modest building compared to many of the other university departments but it seemed appropriate for the intimate, personal nature of the Fine Arts course. I had wondered if I might have trouble getting in but, to my surprise, the front doors were wide open and a stream of people were passing in and out. A sign by the door explained why: it was an Open Day.
I smiled. I remembered coming to an Open Day in my teens. And there were information visits at my school too. You wouldn’t think a university as famous as Oxford would need to market themselves but actually, they had a different problem: the stigma of being too exclusive and elitist. It wasn’t true anymore but lots of people still believed that you had to be a member of the English aristocracy or have attended one of the snooty public schools to get accepted (I always thought calling posh private schools “public school” was one of the prime examples of the British talent for understatement). Oh, you still had to work bloody hard to get in and Oxford only took the best, but it was based on your own efforts now and not who your great-great-grandparents were.
Anyway, right now, I was grateful for the University’s marketing efforts because it meant an easy, unobtrusive way for me to get in the Art School. Luckily, I’d dressed in an old pair of jeans and a faded jumper this morning. With my face scrubbed free of make-up and my hair in a ponytail, I just might pass for a student, as long as nobody looked too closely.
I found a large crowd just inside the entrance and I attached myself to the rear of the group, following them as they were led up the stairs by a guide who was giving a well-rehearsed spiel about the Fine Art department.
“…in addition, there is a world-class library housing over five thousand volumes on the subject of fine art, art history and theory, and human anatomy. Each student is allocated a primary tutor with whom they meet regularly throughout the term, and they are initially encouraged to work across all media before developing their own focus. Alongside the student’s individual studio work, they attend workshops designed to introduce a range of techniques, practical classes in drawing, and lectures and tutorials in art history…”
We’d arrived at one of the upper levels and I slipped quietly away into a large airy room that was obviously being used as a communal studio space. There were a few students working at
various sculptures and easels around the room and I paused uncertainly. Now that I was here, I wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. I guess I had had a hazy idea of speaking to someone about Sarah—or Fiona—and finding out more about the two girls that way… but who should I speak to? The logical choice would have been one of the tutors who had supervised the girls, but I wasn’t CID; I couldn’t just walk into one of the department offices, flash a badge, and start asking probing questions…
I looked around the studio again and my eye was drawn to a large canvas on an easel in the far corner. No one was working at it. I made my way over and stood looking at the painting speculatively. Even before I saw the flamboyant signature in the bottom right-hand corner, I guessed that it was Sarah Waltham’s work. I remembered seeing a painting in a similar style above the fireplace in the Walthams’ living room. Whatever I might have thought of her personality, I had to grudgingly admit that Sarah had talent. The strokes were bold and fresh, the colours vivid.
I looked around her workspace. It mirrored the clutter in her bedroom—a jumble of paintbrushes and paints, half-drunk mugs of tea, charcoal pencils, turpentine, open packets of crisps scattered around the easel, rough sketches loosely stacked in piles, oil rags smeared with paint… It was a miracle she managed to produce any work in this mess.
There was a pretty Asian girl hunched over a clay sculpture at the workspace next to Sarah’s. I drifted over and, when she looked up at my approach, I gave her my warmest smile and said, “That’s such a beautiful piece! Were you inspired by anything in particular?”
She looked surprised but obviously flattered by my interest. “This is just from the idea in my head,” she said with a shy smile, in a slightly accented voice.
“Wow, you must have a fantastic imagination!”
She flushed with pleasure. I felt slightly guilty for leading this sweet girl on, but hey, needs must. Like all artists, she loved talking about her work. I nodded and made enthusiastic noises as she began telling me about her childhood in Japan, her favourite artists, her big influences and sources of inspiration.
When I felt that I had lulled her into a false sense of security, I said casually, “By the way, I heard that there was a terrible tragedy recently—one of the art students got killed?”
She gave me a wary look. “Yes,” she said.
“Did you know the girl well?”
“No, I don’t know well… Why do you ask?”
“Er…” I cast my mind around for a reason. Then I remembered the Open Day and jumped on the first thing that came to mind. “Well, I’m considering applying here to study and I was wondering if it was really ‘safe’, you know. My mother’s a terrible worrier and she saw the news about the girl who died and now she doesn’t want me to apply here—”
“Oh no, no,” the girl rushed to reassure me. “It is very safe! The school is good. That girl—she was not killed here. She was at a party.”
“But wasn’t it anything to do with her work? The papers said that the party was in an art gallery so I wondered…”
The girl nodded solemnly. “Yes, the party is inside an art gallery in Oxford. But it is not a University art gallery, not for students. It is private gallery—for tourists only.”
I leaned forwards and lowered my voice conspiratorially. “Is it true that she was murdered? I heard something about poison.”
The girl nodded, wide-eyed. “I hear the same thing also,” she said in hushed tones.
I gave a mock shudder. “How scary! Who would do a thing like that? Did she have any enemies?”
The girl gave an uncomfortable shrug. “I don’t know her very well. Only we say hello sometimes.” She hesitated, as if debating whether to say it, then she added in a rush, “Sometimes, Sarah is not very nice. She makes other people angry.”
I’ll bet, I thought dryly. Aloud, I said, “I think I heard that she had a particular problem with one of the other students here?”
“Oh, you mean Fiona.” The Japanese girl dropped her gaze. “Yes, she and Sarah—they don’t like each other. They have fight sometimes. Big fight.”
“You didn’t have trouble with Sarah?” I said, raising an eyebrow.
She smiled shyly. “I just keep quiet and do my own work. Maybe also, it is because I do the sculpture—this is not the same kind of art as Sarah. She didn’t like others to do the same as her. She liked to be special. I think that is why she did not like Fiona—they are both painting the same style and they are always comparing and comparing…”
“You mean they were always competing with each other?”
“Yes!” said the girl. “Yes, it is exactly like that. They each want to be the better one—but Sarah, especially. And then there was the terrible thing which happened for the Art Scholar’s Award.”
“The Art Scholar’s Award?”
The girl nodded. “It is a very special award, very—how you say—prestigious? They only give it to one person each year—for the best piece of student work. And Fiona—she wants very much to win. She told me the award money is very important to her. Her family is not rich and she has to work many jobs when she is studying and this award will make her life so much easier. But of course, Sarah wants to win also.”
“Surely Sarah didn’t need the money?” I said.
“No, she doesn’t,” said the Japanese girl, a dark expression coming over her pretty face. “She just likes to win. Always she wants to win. So she can be better than other people. But she is angry because she can see that actually Fiona’s painting is much better. We can all see that. We all know that Fiona is going to win.”
I had an inkling of what was coming. “What did Sarah do?”
“She said she did nothing! But we all know it is not true. We know that it must be her who destroyed Fiona’s painting.”
“Destroyed?”
The Japanese girl nodded soberly. “The night before they do the judging, somebody came to the Art School and cut Fiona’s painting. With a knife. On the canvas everywhere. Oh, it is terrible when I see it the next morning! Fiona was crying! Her beautiful painting and it is completely spoiled! The canvas is cut up like many ribbons.”
I had been expecting something like this but it was still shocking to hear. “That’s awful! Did they find out who did it?”
“No. Of course, we all know it was Sarah but we cannot say. And then when the judge announced the winner and Sarah got the award, she smiled in a funny way and said something rude to Fiona.”
“What did she say?”
“I don’t know. I did not hear. But Fiona was very angry—like crazy angry. She started to do lots of shouting and she tried to hit Sarah… many people have to hold her to stop her. After that, the tutors asked me if I would change with Fiona. She used to have this position.” She indicated the space around her. “But they say it is better for her to work far away from Sarah.”
I digested this information. From the sound of things, Fiona had good reason to hate Sarah Waltham… but good enough to want to murder her? Surely people didn’t kill someone simply because of a lost award?
But the award wasn’t a small thing to Fiona Stanley. Unlike Sarah, who simply wanted it for the accolade and feeling of superiority, the money would have made a big difference to someone in Fiona’s situation. Besides, I could just imagine the bitter resentment the latter had felt at the sheer unfairness of Sarah getting away with sabotage.
“But don’t worry,” said the Japanese girl warmly. “It is not something that happens often. All the other students are very friendly and nobody fights. It is only Sarah and now she is…” She trailed off suddenly, flushing.
“When was the last time you saw Sarah?” I asked gently.
The other girl frowned. “I think it was Saturday. I was here working and she came and worked also.”
“Was this in the morning?”
“No, in the afternoon. Just after lunch. Actually, I think I see her have lunch here?” She nodded across at the cluttered mess around Sarah’s easel.<
br />
“Did she look okay? I mean, was she the same as normal?”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Do you mean she had poison already?”
“No, no,” I said hastily, not wanting to start any more rumours. “I just wondered if maybe… well, if she was worried about something…”
The Japanese girl shook her head. “No, she looked the same.” She was eyeing me curiously now and I realised that my pointed questions were beginning to sound very strange for someone who was just concerned about student safety at the Art School!
“Well, I’d better not disturb you any longer,” I said. “Thank you for talking to me. I feel much better now that I know the whole story. I shall tell my mother that the school is really safe.”
“Yes.” The girl beamed at me. “Yes, it is a great place. Coming to Oxford is the best experience of my whole life!”
“I hope I’ll see your work in a gallery someday,” I said sincerely. “Good luck with the rest of your course.”
I made my way back across the studio, heading for the main staircase that would lead back down to the lower floors. But as I got there, I bumped into someone just coming up. My heart skipped a beat as I realised that it was Devlin.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Gemma? What are you doing here?” Devlin’s brows drew together in a frown.
“I… um…” For a moment, I thought of lying, then I caught the steely glint in Devlin’s blue eyes and I knew that he wouldn’t take anything but the truth for an answer.
“I was doing a bit of investigating,” I confessed. “I… I was curious about Sarah Waltham and I’m not working today and I was in town so I thought—”
“You thought you’d come in here under false pretences and trick your way to getting some information?”
“I didn’t trick anyone!” I said hotly. Then I squirmed. “Okay, so maybe a little. But you’re the one who used to say that the ends justify the means.”
He regarded me silently for a moment. “Yes, I did used to say that. And if I remember rightly, you used to disagree vehemently with me.”
