An Oxford Scandal

by Maxine Barry

  ‘About the chalice?’

  ‘No, you great American ninny. About us.’

  ‘What about us?’ Laurel asked, arching a brow, lost in the giddy state of being both euphoric and dead scared at the same time. For what would come now?

  ‘You said you love me,’ Gideon murmured, his voice quiet and serious. ‘Is that true or was it just, you know, in the heat of the moment?’ Laurel’s smile slowly faded. This was no time for fun.

  ‘It was true. It started the night the chalice got stolen and I came to your room. Or maybe even before that. When you visited me in hospital.’

  ‘I was rotten to you when I visited you in hospital,’ he pointed out.

  ‘True. But what’s that got to do with anything? Do you love me? Or did you just say that in a fit of madness?’

  Gideon shook his head. ‘I said it because I meant it. I always mean what I say.’

  ‘How very annoying of you.’ Laurel couldn’t resist the soft jibe.

  ‘True. But at least you’ll always know where you stand,’ Gideon pointed out. He hesitated. Then said softly, ‘For when we’re married.’

  Laurel’s heart stalled, then fluttered. She caught her breath. ‘Oh. We’re getting married, are we?’ she managed to croak.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gideon said, exasperated. ‘Why ask me? You’re the one who should know whether we’re going to get married or not. You know everything else!’

  ‘Oh. In that case, we are,’ she said firmly.

  Gideon nodded. ‘Right.’

  He paused awkwardly. ‘So that’s sorted out. Now, about the chalice. You think we should go and confront Dr Ollenbach?’

  Laurel nonchalantly scratched her chin. ‘I think so. Don’t you?’

  Gideon nodded.

  They left the room, walking without speaking to the car park, where they climbed into the Morgan. Gideon pushed the key in the ignition and turned to her.

  ‘We did just agree to get married, right?’ he said.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Just checking.’

  * * *

  Dr Felicity Ollenbach watched her husband drive away, an anxious look on her face. At the back of her mind she wondered, traitorously but realistically, if she’d ever see him again. He had, after all, a chalice worth a hundred thousand pounds with him.

  He could just go off into the sunset with it, especially if he had a current mistress that he fancied himself in love with. Or if he convinced himself the bohemian wife-free life was the answer to all his problems.

  She sighed and told herself not to get maudlin. Shutting the door, she wandered into the kitchen. Make a sandwich? But the thought of food nauseated her. She paced the room, put on a CD, listened for a while, then turned it off. Paced some more.

  The doorbell rang, making her jump.

  Surely that wasn’t Clive, back because he’d forgotten something. So who? She flung open the door, and felt the colour drain from her face as first Gideon Welles and then Laurel Van Gilder stepped firmly inside.

  ‘It’s not convenient,’ Felicity heard herself saying, her voice as lacking in authority as she had ever heard it in her life.

  ‘We know you have the chalice, Dr Ollenbach,’ Laurel said, turning to face her, her eyes level.

  ‘If you’ll just hand it over, no more need be said,’ Gideon added gently. ‘Our principal won’t wish to take the matter further, I can assure you. And, at the moment, no one even knows it’s missing.’

  Felicity felt herself wilting, and just managed to get into a chair before collapsing. She shook her head helplessly.

  ‘I can’t help you,’ she said flatly.

  ‘It’s already gone?’ Laurel said sharply. ‘When?’

  ‘Just n—’ Felicity closed her mouth with a snap. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She’d finally found some backbone, but it felt precarious. As if it were made of matchsticks.

  ‘“Just now”, you were going to say, weren’t you?’ Laurel predicted. ‘Who’s got it? Oh, your husband has it, of course,’ she answered her own question, looking at Gideon helplessly.

  ‘Who’s agreed to buy it, Dr Ollenbach?’ Gideon pressed. ‘Francis Daye?’

  Felicity jerked in surprise. She couldn’t help it. How did they know?

  Laurel nodded. ‘Spot on. Come on, let’s go. Dean the next stop.’

  ‘It’ll do you no good,’ Felicity said, rising unsteadily from the chair and staring at them defiantly.

  ‘Oh, I think it will,’ Gideon said, but not without pity. The poor woman looked at the end of her tether. ‘From time to time, the Oxford colleges sell off a fair few of their treasures to collectors just like Mr Daye. If his name should be put on a blacklist, he won’t like that at all. I think, to avoid such a thing, he’d be more than willing to hand over one little item.’

  ‘And of course, there’s always the police,’ Laurel said frankly. ‘This is a stolen item after all . . .’

  Dr Ollenbach’s eyes flickered and brightened suspiciously. Gideon, sensing she was about to cry, looked away helplessly. After all, there was nothing he could do for her.

  ‘Come on, Gideon, let’s go,’ Laurel said softly, and reached for the door. Gideon shut it gently behind them.

  For a long moment, Dr Ollenbach simply stared at the door, her gaze unfocused. So that was it. It was over.

  She was moving before she was aware of it and then had her handbag in her hand. What for? Oh, of course. Clive. She had to tell Clive. She reached for her mobile and dialled his mobile number.

  On the second ring, Clive answered it.

  * * *

  ‘So, how far is it’?’ Laurel asked as they headed north-west out of Oxford and were quickly zooming along the main Oxford to Banbury road.

  About forty minutes away,’ Gideon guessed vaguely. It was almost totally dark now, the sun having set, leaving only a dark orange glow of light low on the horizon. He blinked as an oncoming car, forgetting to dip its main headlights, momentarily dazzled him.

  ‘How far ahead of us do you think he is?’ Laurel asked.

  ‘Impossible to say. I only hope Mr Daye pays by cheque. That way he can always cancel it when he gives us the chalice back. If he’s already paid Clive by cash, it’ll be difficult to persuade him to hand it over without an almighty fuss.’

  Laurel grinned. ‘Oh, he’ll hand it over all right,’ she said ominously.

  Gideon glanced across at her, at her out-thrust chin and frowning dark brows, and felt a rush of tenderness wash over him. Strange, when she was looking as fierce and dangerous as a tigress returning to her den to find someone messing with her cubs.

  ‘Cold?’ he asked, turning up the heater when he noticed that she was shivering slightly.

  She laid her head against the top of his arm and said softly, ‘How many children do you want?’

  Gideon nearly steered them into the hedge!

  Once back on the straight and narrow, he laughed. ‘I don’t know. One of each?’

  ‘Think they’ll come along that obligingly?’ she chuckled. ‘What if we try and try and only have girls? All of them just like me.’

  He laughed almost helplessly. ‘I don’t know. I’ll run away and join a monastery.’

  ‘Of course we could have all boys. All brainy like you. In which case, I’ll buy up Bloomingdale’s and move in.’

  ‘Glad to know you’ve got your priorities right.’

  ‘I like to think so.’

  He turned the Morgan off the main road and soon they were on a winding, narrow lane.

  The hedges grew so close to the sides, Laurel was sure they’d soon start scraping the paintwork.

  A full moon had risen, bathing the countryside in a magical silver light. Away to their left, Laurel could see, in the ambient light, wave after wave of fields and hedges and trees.

  ‘I’ll bet there’s some view along here in the daylight,’ she said softly. ‘Do you want to buy a house up this way?’

  ‘I don’t know. Do you
want to live in England?’ he asked. Then added thoughtfully, ‘Can you? Being the head of the whole shooting match, I mean.’

  Laurel frowned. For the first time since his sort-of proposal, she came face to face with the brick wall that was the reality of her life as the Van Gilder heiress.

  ‘You know,’ she said sadly, ‘I don’t think I can.’ She felt her hand tightening instinctively on his arm and forced her grip to relax. But the truth was, she’d never felt more scared.

  ‘Gideon, do you think you could live in Boston?’ she asked, holding her breath as she waited to find out whether her whole life would be miserable or happy.

  ‘Oh, easily, I should think,’ Gideon said with barely a moment’s hesitation.

  Laurel closed her eyes, then opened them again, the air whooshing out of her lungs in a relieved rush. ‘Oh, Gideon,’ she said softly, her voice choked with tears of gratitude and love.

  Then her eyes widened. ‘Gideon!’ she shrieked again, only this time in fear.

  For lurching out of nowhere, it seemed, was a big hefty Range Rover.

  In fact, it was coming from a gap in the hedge where Clive Westlake had parked, lying in wait.

  Clive had been nearly in Dean itself when his phone had rung. Cursing, he’d answered it, only to find out the bad news from Felicity.

  The tall blond geek and the American princess had found them out. He’d pulled on to the side of the road and quizzed his wife mercilessly.

  She’d tried to talk him into coming back, to hand over the chalice, to return to the status quo. But although he’d automatically soothed her, promising to come home and sort it out, his mind had been racing.

  No way was he was going to give up the chalice. Why the hell should he?

  He reversed, turned around and started to head back to Oxford, his mind whirling and his whole being seething with resentment. To be so close, only to have the prize about to be snatched away, was more than he could bear.

  He’d spotted a gap in the hedge, a break where the farmer had left access to his field of winter wheat, and pulled over to think. It was while he was sat there, invisible to any passing cars, that he suddenly realised what he could do.

  Gideon Welles drove a Morgan — a low-slung, old, flimsy sports car — and Clive was parked in a perfect place of ambush in a very solid Range Rover. It had airbags, seatbelts, an iron-grid bumper.

  He wasn’t, consciously, thinking of killing them. Just scaring them. Perhaps roughing them up a little bit, putting them in hospital long enough for him to sell the chalice to the collector. After all, they could hardly threaten to put Francis Daye on anyone’s hitlist if they were both in traction at the hospital, could they? And they’d said themselves they didn’t want to involve the police and tarnish their precious college.

  So he’d waited. His palms sweating, his eyes aching as they scoured the night for a set of headlights.

  Twice he’d seen them, only to realise it wasn’t the right car — a small Datsun with an old woman at the wheel came first, and then a Volvo estate with a mother, two kids and a golden retriever that grinned at him from the back window.

  It had felt as if they were never going to come. Minutes passed like hours. But then he’d heard the unmistakable roar of a sports car — a low, throaty growl. And the approach of headlights, so low to the ground it had to be the Morgan.

  He’d turned on the engine, looking straight across the road. There was a tiny grass verge, then a ditch, hedged by a row of hawthorn and elder. All he had to do was ram them from the side and they’d be in the ditch. Perhaps roll over once or twice. Just enough to break some bones and keep them out of the picture.

  He’d even call an ambulance from the village of Dean, after he’d done his business with the collector.

  The dark green Morgan showed up as almost black in his lights as he shot forward, rocking a little in the seat from the force of his acceleration.

  Gideon, in the Morgan, heard Laurel’s screech of fear and warning, and then saw the whole of the left side of his peripheral vision fill with light.

  Any other man would have instinctively slammed on the brakes. But Gideon’s mind was already racing.

  To brake now would be madness — it would slow them down and make them an even easier target to hit. Already his subconscious mind told him that it was Clive Westlake in the Range Rover, and that this was no ordinary traffic accident in the making.

  ‘Hold on!’ he yelled and rammed his foot on the accelerator. He’d been driving the car for years and knew exactly what it was capable of — the power under its hood and the state of the engine. He’d always kept the car perfectly maintained, and knew it wouldn’t let them down.

  Nor did it.

  It surged and leaped forward, like a panther about to pounce. Laurel felt herself being held in her seat by the G-forces, her head whipping back against the headrest.

  Clive Westlake swore as the car seemed to fly past and pressed further on his own accelerator. He braced himself for impact, but the bulk of the car was already gone by the time his Range Rover had lurched far enough forward.

  But the Morgan had not gone quite far enough. Clive’s Range Rover hit the rear wing and Gideon felt the car begin to skid, the road ahead becoming a kaleidoscope of tarmac, hedge, Range Rover, hedge and grass verge, as the car began to spin.

  Laurel gripped on to the side of her door with fingers of iron, her teeth gritted determinedly together, forcing herself not to scream or cry out, or in any other way distract Gideon.

  She, too, understood only too well who was in the Range Rover and what he was trying to do. She felt icy cold and could hear the roar of blood in her ears and feel the hot bite of fear grab her innards.

  Gideon turned into the curve, his hands scissoring on the big steering wheel, concentrating too hard on keeping them on the road to be truly scared, although he was bitterly aware of a metallic taste filling his mouth.

  The Morgan’s wheels screeched and the smell of burning rubber filled the air, but the car never left the road. He eased on the brakes, slowing them.

  Laurel felt the first sickening wave of fear leave her as she realised they weren’t going to crash. Only now, the Morgan had turned a full circle and a half, and was facing the Range Rover.

  Clive, who’d only just saved himself from going into through the hedge by ramming on the brakes and turning hard, saw his opportunity and thumped the big vehicle into gear.

  ‘Gideon, he’s coming!’ Laurel cried. ‘Turn around!’

  But Gideon saw at once he didn’t have time to turn around. If he tried it, he’d once more be presenting the Morgan’s vulnerable flank to the crushing bars of the Range Rover. Instead, he slammed the car into reverse and, twisting his body around to look out of the rear window, began driving backwards.

  Fast.

  Very fast.

  For a moment, Laurel closed her eyes, but then forced herself to open them.

  Gideon had already created a large gap between them.

  Clive Westlake, losing a few precious moments to blank surprise, stared at the fast-disappearing Morgan’s headlights and then shot off in pursuit.

  Gideon angled the car around a sharp bend, then another.

  ‘He’s gaining,’ Laurel warned quietly, trying to keep her voice even and unworried.

  ‘I know. We can’t keep this up forever . . . Hold on!’ he yelled, and suddenly, they seemed to almost fall backwards. In reality, Gideon had spotted another gap in the hedge, this time on the right, and the path down into the field was a rutted and steep one. Clive Westlake overshot them and Laurel saw the night turn red as he slammed on his brakes, and the brake lights shone through the bare wintry hedge.

  ‘He’s coming back,’ she said flatly, and this time it was Westlake’s turn to drive backwards.

  Gideon slammed into first gear and revved hard — too hard. The wheels spun fruitlessly on the stony, muddy ground.

  He forced himself to lower the revs, to move slowly, and only then, a
t the very last moment when they finally had hard tarmac beneath them, he shot forward.

  As he flew out of the gap, the rear of the Range Rover loomed over them, but once again the crafty little sports car had the edge and shot from beneath its bulk.

  There was a grinding, scraping sound as the Range Rover hit the hedge. ‘He’s in the ditch,’ Laurel crowed, then scowled as the off-road vehicle showed its own class and managed to power its way out.

  ‘Oh no,’ she cried.

  But Gideon was away, pushing the speedometer and putting yards between them.

  ‘The man’s insane,’ he growled. ‘If we meet any traffic on this one-track lane going at speeds like this . . .’ He glanced at his speedometer, his eyes scouring the road ahead. ‘We’ve got to . . .’

  ‘He’s not far behind us,’ Laurel warned, staring over her shoulder.

  Gideon grunted, saw a U-bend up ahead and hissed softly. ‘Yes!’

  He shot around the bend and then turned the car into a controlled spin. At the same time, he turned off his headlights then idled forward.

  Laurel could hear the Range Rover’s engine and could see its headlights sweeping out across the field as it approached the bend.

  But she never, for one moment, doubted that Gideon knew what he was doing. Not even when one part of her shock-numbed brain warned her that she was literally putting her life in his hands did she ask him what he was doing. Or try to scramble out of the car.

  And why should she? Another calm, accepting little voice piped up in the back of her head.

  Just suppose for a moment that Gideon had got it wrong and she did abandon him by throwing herself out of the passenger door and rolling into a ditch. What good would that do her if she then had to watch the Range Rover plough into the Morgan and kill the only man she’d ever loved? Or would ever love?

  All these thoughts passed through her mind in less than seconds, and then suddenly Gideon was moving.

  Hitting the lights on full-beam, they shot forward.

  She took a breath — not caring if it was her last, so long as it was with Gideon.

  In the Range Rover, Clive Westlake threw his hands up to his eyes as the dazzling light hit them, hurting him. Losing track of the road, the big vehicle lurched, first left, then as he tried to overcompensate, right.