Party Girls Die in Pearls
Dedication
In loving memory
Madeleine “Granny” Goad
1911–2005
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Cherwell article
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Champagne Set Murder, cont.
John Evelyn’s Diary
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Plum Sykes
Copyright
About the Publisher
CHERWELL
Monday, 25 October 1985 | 10P
Murder at Oxford College Shocks “Champagne Set”
By Ursula Flowerbutton
The girl was lying on the chaise longue when I found her that morning. She was still in her party dress. At first, I thought she was asleep. But she wasn’t. She was dead. Even a girl like me—one who’s read all seventy-five Agatha Christies—could never have imagined such a sinister start to her first term at Oxford. I was expecting books and ball gowns, not a dead body . . .
Full story continues overleaf
Chapter 1
Thursday, 14 October 1985, 0th* Week: Morning
The thoughts going through Ursula Flowerbutton’s mind as she gazed up at the gilded, gargoyled, turreted double gate tower of Christminster College, Oxford, were—mostly—of cucumber sandwiches. She might have studied Disraeli, Gladstone, Lincoln, and de Gaulle to get through the impossible Oxbridge entrance exam, but in that moment, romantic nonsense of the fluffiest kind overpowered Ursula’s intellectual capabilities. All she could think was that here she was, on her first day at Oxford University, about to commence three years of sepia-toned, Brideshead Revisited–style bliss.* She imagined herself poring over ancient historical manuscripts in hushed libraries by day; she’d sip hot Ovaltine while reading improving literature in her digs during the long winter evenings; there would be croquet on the college lawn on lazy summer afternoons, followed by tea and the aforementioned cucumber sandwiches—
“Hey!”
A sharp yell interrupted Ursula’s reverie. She turned to see a rickety blue minivan, with the words “J.Y.A. Orientation Europe Ltd.” emblazoned on the side, pulling away from the curb opposite the college. The source of the voice was soon revealed to be a rather exotic specimen. A girl with a voluminous, puffed-up mound of dyed-blond hair was waving desperately at Ursula. She was dressed in a green bat-winged sweater, bubblegum-pink pedal pushers, a trilby hat, and white sneakers. A heap of shiny orange suitcases surrounded her.
“Help!” came the voice again.
What a gorgeous American accent, thought Ursula, as light and frothy as an ice cream soda. Ursula was in awe. She’d never met an American before, let alone one who looked like she’d walked straight off the set of Sixteen Candles. The American girl’s bright look made Ursula feel a little shabby. For her first day at Oxford she’d dressed in a Black Watch kilt, Fair Isle sweater, old tweed hacking jacket, and a red wool beret knitted by her grandmother.
“I’m coming!” Ursula called back, abandoning her beaten-up navy-blue Globe-Trotter suitcase and trunk on the cobblestones. She darted across the road, dodging the students on bicycles whizzing along Christminster Lane.
“Hello,” Ursula said to the girl when she reached her. “Are you all right?”
“I’m totally confused,” replied the American. “The traffic’s all on the wrong side of the street and it’s making me dizzy. I’m looking for the Christminster College campus.”
“Don’t worry,” Ursula reassured her, indicating the gate tower across the street. “You’re here.”
“That?!” The girl’s eyes widened as they traveled up-up-up the famous building. “That is not a campus. That is a museum.”
The American then grinned, flashing immaculately straight teeth. She had chestnut-colored eyes, thick dark eyebrows, and tanned skin. With her streaky blond mane, she looked like a cross between Madonna and Brooke Shields. The girl’s nose was a pretty snub, very narrow, slightly turned up at the end, just as perfect as her teeth.
“You like my nose, huh?” said the girl.
“Sorry. I didn’t meant to stare,” said Ursula, abashed.
“It’s okay. I got it for my Sweet Sixteen. That’s when everyone gets their nose jobs in New York. It’s a rite of passage.”
Ursula liked this girl already. She’d never met anyone as refreshingly frank. The classmates with whom she had spent most of her teenage years were the repressed results of the institutionalized timidity encouraged at English all-girls schools. The rite of passage for the majority of such creatures, Ursula included, was passing the Pony Club C Test.
“I’m Ursula, by the way,” she said, introducing herself.
“I’m so happy to meet you. I’m Nancy.” She surprised Ursula by giving her a huge hug, as though they were long-lost best friends.
“Let’s head over,” said Ursula, unfurling herself from Nancy and grabbing as many of the suitcases as she could manage.
Nancy loaded herself up with the remaining baggage, and the girls zigzagged across the street, chattering happily as they went.
“By the way, I love your outfit,” said Nancy.
“Really?” asked Ursula, amazed.
“Yeah. You look really cute, kinda like . . . Beatrix Potter.”
“Oh . . .” said Ursula, suddenly downcast. She had tried her absolute hardest this morning not to look like a country bumpkin. She’d clearly failed.
* * *
A tiny wooden wicket gate set within the vast, castle-like main door of the gate tower led Ursula and Nancy into an echoing, stone-flagged entrance. They dropped their luggage on the ground, gazing delightedly between the carved stone columns of the cloister just beyond into Christminster’s famous Great Quad. The two girls drank in the scene before them: the immaculate half acre of lawn, mown diagonally like a green checkerboard, flagged with a discreet Please Keep Off the Grass sign; the late-morning sunshine glinting golden off the spires that topped the grand stone quadrangle buildings; a tutor, clad in a long black academic gown, scudding like a bat along the wide gravel paths around the edge of the grass.
“Wow! Je adoring!” exclaimed Nancy.
“It’s like a dream,” replied Ursula.
She felt as though she might burst with excitement. The college was even more beautiful than she remembered from her interview a year ago.*
Just then a glazed wooden door to the girls’ right opened, and a boy appeared. He was tall and narrow-bodied, with a skull-like, pallid face. His gaunt look was not helped by the fact that his pale brown hair was prematurely thinning. He was wearing thick Coke-bottle glasses with horn rims and was dressed in brown cords and a dark g
reen loden jacket that Ursula recognized as tracht. The only thing indicating that he hadn’t just stepped out of “Hansel and Gretel” was the bright yellow Converse sneakers on his feet.
As he approached, Nancy nudged Ursula, declaring, “Eew. He’s not my type at all. Where are all those hot, floppy-haired Eton boys* Oxford’s so famous for?”
“Sshhh!” said Ursula, hoping the boy hadn’t heard.
She was surprised when the boy reached them and performed a little bow. Was everyone at Christminster going to be this formal? she wondered.
“Greetings, Freshers,” the boy said. He spoke with the faintest trace of a German accent. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Otto Schuffenecker, Prince of Carinthia, from Austria. Second Year. History.”
“Are you for real?” Nancy sounded gobsmacked.
“Absolutely.” Otto smiled proudly.
(Ursula sensed that this was not the moment to mention that her A-level history course had included the study of the abolition of the Austrian nobility. There hadn’t been a royal family in Austria since 1919, after the fall of Austria-Hungary.)
Otto went on to explain that, as one of the official Freshers’ liaison officers, he was on hand to help new students navigate Christminster and Oxford. He seemed delighted that his first charges were to be Ursula and Nancy.
“Well, Prince Otto,” said Nancy playfully, “inspired by your full introduction, I am Nancy Feingold, of the Saddle River, New Jersey, Feingolds, of Feingold’s Gardening Tools Inc. We live really close to Manhattan—I go all the time. Anyways, I’m a sophomore at Northwestern in Evanston, Illinois, and I’m on my junior year abroad here. Or should I say my party year abroad?”
“Are you planning on doing any work while you’re in Oxford?” Otto asked her with a smile.
“Sure . . . if I must!” replied Nancy. “But honestly, I’ve been dreaming about Pimm’s, punting, and picnics all summer. My major’s History. While I’m here, I plan on minoring in Earl-Catching.”
Nancy exploded into giggles so contagious that Otto and Ursula soon found themselves overtaken by laughter.
Finally Otto managed to contain himself enough to tell Nancy, “Well, you’re in the right place for that. Oxford’s stuffed with earl types.” He then turned to Ursula, asking, “And you are?”
“Ursula Flowerbutton, Modern History,” was the extent of our heroine’s modest introduction. Her ponies-dogs-muddy-walks-and-books upbringing in a farmhouse hidden in a country valley didn’t seem exotic enough to elaborate on. But Otto raised his eyebrows quizzically, looking for more.
“Miss,” stated Ursula firmly.
“Of?”
“Seldom Seen Farm, Dumbleton-under-Drybrook, Gloucestershire,” said Ursula. “It’s in the Cotswolds.”
“Lovely area,” Otto remarked. Then he helpfully explained to Nancy, “It’s the part of the English countryside that’s on all the chocolate boxes. Right, girls, we’ll sort out your luggage later. Follow me.”
* * *
Otto led the girls through the glazed door into the porter’s lodge, a drafty little room that seemed far too small for the activity carrying on in it. From behind a worn wooden desk at the far end, the porter, a stout, officious-looking man in a bowler hat, black three-piece suit, and tie, was handing out keys to various students, one of whom had somehow managed to squeeze a bicycle into the lodge with him. Parcels and packages were piled up in heaps, and notices were pinned on various boards. A tiny window looked out onto Christminster Lane. Ursula noticed that the north wall of the room was covered with mailboxes labeled with students’ names. Nancy pointed excitedly to a couple of aristocratic-sounding ones.
“‘Lady India Brattenbury,’” she read aloud. “She sounds very fancy . . . ‘Lord Wychwood.’ Isn’t he out of Pride and Prejudice?”
“That’s Wickham,” said Ursula. “He was a terrible cad. Ran off with Elizabeth Bennet’s sister Lydia.”
“Well, let’s hope this lord runs off with me!” giggled Nancy.
“He’s taken, I’m afraid,” Otto told her. “Right, these are your pigeonholes,” he explained, finding both girls’ boxes. “You should check them every day for messages. Your tutor will communicate with you here. Oh, and if you want to send a note to someone in another college, leave it with the porter by nine in the morning and pigeon post will collect it and deliver.”
“They deliver the mail by pigeon here?!” Nancy looked astonished. “I feel like I’m in The Wizard of Oz.”
“Let me explain,” said Otto. “Pigeon post is one of many archaic Oxford traditions—it consists of college servants who ride round the city on mopeds, delivering the students’ mail. Usually it only takes two days to get a message back.”
“Two days?” Nancy was appalled. “Can’t we just phone from our dorm rooms?”
Nancy’s astonished expression rapidly morphed into a highly traumatized one as Otto explained that Oxford undergraduates didn’t have telephones in their rooms. There were, though, two pay phones in college, which took two- or ten-pence coins.
“But no one really uses them, and if they ring, no one picks up,” he added, “in case it’s someone’s parents.”
“But what if my mom needs to speak to me?” asked Nancy. “Ursula, don’t you ever want to talk to your parents?”
“I’d love to,” she replied. Then she added slowly, “But they’re both . . . gone.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” Nancy stammered, her face registering shock and sorrow.
“It’s okay,” said Ursula. “Really. My grandmothers raised me. They’re wonderful.”
Otto curtailed the awkward moment by beckoning at the girls to follow him. The trio squeezed through the crush of students to the porter’s desk.
“Deddington,” he said to the bowler-hatted man when they reached his desk, “I’ve got Miss Flowerbutton and Miss Feingold here. Could we have their room keys please?” He then told the girls, “Not that you need to bother locking your rooms. No one ever does.”
Deddington handed Otto two large keys. “Good morning. Flowerbutton. Feingold,” he said abruptly. (The girls would soon learn that Deddington had never gotten used to the fact that Christminster had, finally, started accepting girls. He didn’t really approve, and could rarely bring himself to use the word “Miss” when addressing the female minority in college.)
Just then, a hand clad in a bright yellow rubber washing-up glove plonked a cup of tea on Deddington’s counter. Ursula turned to find a shriveled-looking woman standing beside her. She was wearing a brown polyester housecoat and old black lace-ups on her feet. Her gray hair was scraped into a tight bun.
“Thanks, love,” said Deddington, taking a gulp of the tea. Then he added, “Feingold, Flowerbutton, this is my wife, Mrs. Deddington. She’s the dons’ scout.”
“The whose what?” asked a bewildered Nancy.
“I clean for the tutors,” explained Mrs. Deddington in a thin voice.
She had a mouse-like face that looked as if it were permanently etched with worry. Ursula smiled sweetly at Mrs. Deddington in an attempt to cheer her up. But the scout’s expression remained dour.
“Right, try not to lose your keys, ladies,” Deddington told the girls. “If you get locked out at night, ring the bell. Our son, Nicholas, is one of the night porters here. You’ll see him this evening.”
“Thanks, Deddington, I’ll take the girls to their rooms now,” said Otto, heading out. “You’re on a Historians’ staircase in the Gothic Buildings.”
“Catch you later.” Nancy waved good-bye to the porter and his wife.
“Thank you,” added Ursula as she left the lodge.
The girls followed Otto back out to the gate tower, where a group of returning Christminster students had started to gather. Their ebullient greetings echoed across the quad.
“This is a huge relief,” Nancy told Ursula, looking the male students up and down. “Tons of floppy-haired Eton boys.”
The boys were languid and tall, Ur
sula observed, and noticeably scruffily dressed, with long bangs that covered half their faces. Most of the girls had super-long, super-shiny hair that they swished like show ponies’ tails. Ursula and Nancy caught snatches of their conversation as they walked past.
“Jubie! Darling! Ciao!” squealed a girl who looked like she had modeled herself on a young Princess Diana. She had fluffy, highlighted blond hair and was wearing a lilac pleated skirt. Her pale pink–striped blouse had a high ruffled collar that was tightly buttoned around her neck.
“Tiggy! Good hols?” Jubie yelled back.
“Yar. Absolutely schizo,” replied Tiggy. “How was San Trop?”
“Wild,” said Jubie. “Completely sick.”
“Is Bunter Up?”* said one of the boys.
“Not sure. Apparently Teddy’s arriving tomorrow,” replied another. “He’s bringing Ding Dong with him.”
“Yar? Great. I heard India’s en route.”
“Who are they?” Nancy asked Otto curiously as they headed along the gravel path on the west side of Great Lawn towards the Gothic Buildings.
“The Yars,” said Otto.
“Yars?” said Nancy. “What are Yars?”
“Oh, sorry, I suppose you’ve never come across one. Let me explain. They’re an easily identifiable English species—they all went to the same posh private schools, they still use their absurd childhood nicknames, and they always say the word ‘yar’ instead of ‘yes.’ Hence, ‘Yars.’”
The Yars, Otto said, dominated the Oxford scene. They ran the Oxford Union, the magazines, the balls, the dining societies, and the drama clubs. They were Rowing Blues or drug addicts, sometimes both.
“Anyway, you two, you’ll be straight in with the Yars, you’ll see. They love pretty girls,” said Otto.
Otto turned a sharp corner at the bottom of Great Quad. He beckoned to the girls to follow him along a narrow stone passage.
“All I can say is, thank God I’m not a Yar,” he went on. “Ten percent of them are dead before the end of Oxford.”
“What?!” shrieked Nancy melodramatically.
“Okay, maybe not ten percent. But there was that one in New College who ended up buried under her boyfriend’s floorboards last term—”