Party Girls Die in Pearls Page 3

At home for his

  Michaelmas Opening Jaunt

  Sunday, 17 October

  The Old Drawing Room, Great Quad, Christminster

  Dress: White Tie Pink Champagne

  8 p.m.–Whenever  Bonbons

  “A posh Oxford party, with a real earl! Oh my God!” she shrieked with delight. “My mom would be going crazy. If I could actually call her. She’s a real social climber—in a cute way, if you know what I mean. Just wants the best for me. Thank you so much, India, this is literally my dream. Hey, come in.”

  India stepped inside the room, looking straight through Ursula, but when she saw Alice, her face brightened. “Alice, I missed you all summer,” she cried, throwing her arms around the scout, much to Ursula’s surprise.

  “And I missed you, Lady India. Lovely to see you again.” The scout beamed at her. “Righty-ho, I’ll be going, don’t want to disturb you ladies any longer.” As she hurried from the room with her bucket, she added, “If you need anything, girls, you can always find me midmorning in the scouts’ mess by the Buttery having my tea break. Oh, and the washing machines are in the Monks’ Cottages. You need ten-p coins to operate them. I’ll do your sheets.”

  “Thank you!” Nancy and Ursula chorused as she left the room.

  “That woman is the best scout in college,” said India. “I tell her everything. She treats me like a daughter. You’re so lucky, Nancy, to have her. She’ll do anything for a few quid. I mean last term for the ball she even . . .”

  India whispered something into Nancy’s ear so that Ursula couldn’t hear. Nancy’s face registered slight shock before she started giggling.

  Ursula was starting to feel rather uncomfortable at this point in the proceedings. She liked Nancy so far, but the whispering had started to make her feel like she was back in the sixth form common room at St. Swerford’s with the ultra-popular girls excluding her. She didn’t need this at university too. She’d make her excuses and leave.

  “I’m heading down to the Buttery for lunch, Nancy, if you want to join me,” said Ursula.

  Before Nancy could answer, India informed her, “I’m taking you to Browns for lunch. They do a real American hamburger there.”

  “Okay, maybe see you later,” said Ursula.

  “Sure!” replied Nancy.

  Ursula exited onto the landing, where she found Moo and Claire Potter. It looked as though she would be having lunch with Claire, like it or not.

  “We came to get you to go to the Buttery,” said Moo. “Shall we get Nancy too?”

  “She’s going to a restaurant with India Brattenbury,” said Ursula, trying not to sound envious.

  Just as the three girls headed down the stairs, India’s voice rang out from behind Nancy’s door.

  “. . . and don’t you dare hang out with those History beasts I met downstairs. A lezzie, a Gopper,* and a scholarship girl. Your staircase is the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Chapter 4

  After Ursula, Moo, and Claire had forced down the tepid baked beans and rock-hard jam roly-poly on offer in the Buttery, they stopped by Walton Street Cycles to buy secondhand bicycles and then flew down High Street on them. Their destination was the university outfitter.

  “Shepherd & Woodward Est. 1852,” read the gold lettering above the shopfront. Inside, the store was so crowded with Freshers all trying to buy their subfusc* in time for the matriculation ceremony that Ursula lost Moo and Claire almost immediately. It was rather a relief, she felt, to be without them for a moment. Moo had talked loudly about lacrosse and skiing nonstop at lunch, and Claire, well, her self-loathing radiated from her like a contagion. After one meal with her, Ursula felt as though she had been drowned in a cloud of melancholia.

  It took Ursula forever to jostle her way to the counter at the back of the shop. A harassed-looking man stood behind it. He wore a white coat and had a small badge on his lapel reading, “Mr. Hooker. Head Tailor.”

  “Commoner?!” he yelled at Ursula over the din of the other Freshers.

  “Er, gosh, I’m not sure . . .” she said, wondering what on earth he meant.

  Impatiently, Mr. Hooker gestured at two black academic gowns of different lengths hanging on the wall behind him. The longer one was labeled “Scholar”; the shorter, “Commoner.”

  Since Ursula hadn’t had any special academic awards bestowed upon her with her entry to Oxford, she realized she would be wearing the lowliest gown on offer.

  “I am definitely a commoner—”

  But Mr. Hooker didn’t hear her. He’d already started talking to another customer.

  “A very good afternoon, Lord Wychwood. Nice to see you Up so early,” he said, his voice taking on an unctuous tone. “How may I help you?”

  Ursula glanced around to see who had taken her place. There was no other way to describe the person now standing next to her at the counter as anything other than absolutely the most perfect cucumber-sandwich-type boy Ursula had ever seen. So tall he towered over the crowd, he had a mass of messy blond hair and properly azure eyes. He was dressed in faded jeans and a cricket sweater. “Wychwood,” Ursula said to herself . . . Wasn’t he the earl who was throwing the party Nancy was going to with India on Sunday night? Yes. That was it.

  Well, thank goodness she wasn’t going to his party herself. The boy had dreadful manners, pushing in like that in front of a girl. There would be other cucumber sandwiches, Ursula told herself, ones of far superior quality.

  “Good to see you again, Mr. Hooker,” said the boy, shaking the tailor’s hand and giving him a genuinely friendly smile. “I need a couple of Blues* rowing shirts, please, and shorts,” he said, “on my account.”

  Mr. Hooker said, “Right you are, Lord Wychwood. Congratulations on your Blue.”

  The tailor trotted off to fetch the items, clearly having completely forgotten about Ursula’s gown.

  Ursula tapped Wychwood on the shoulder, saying, “Excuse me, but I was in front of you. I’m in a rush.”

  Wychwood glanced briefly at her. “God. Sorry. Mr. Hooker’s got a terrible crush on me, you see. It’s very embarrassing, but no one will get served in here till I leave.”

  What a ridiculous excuse, thought Ursula to herself. Wychwood was clearly as vain as he was rude. She glared furiously at him, but he didn’t notice—he was already waving at someone else over Ursula’s head.

  There was nothing to do but await Mr. Hooker’s return. Ursula turned her back to Wychwood, consoling herself with the thought that she was not just glad but thrilled not to have been invited to his party on Sunday. The young earl was probably a terrific snob with a dreadful character.

  Mr. Hooker eventually reappeared and started painstakingly wrapping Lord Wychwood’s rowing shirt and shorts in crisp white tissue paper.

  “I think you’ve forgotten about my gown,” Ursula told the tailor. “And I’d like to buy a Christminster scarf please,” she added, deciding to throw financial caution to the wind and break into her meager term’s allowance. The stacks of stripy woolen college scarves were irresistible. They were bound to be hideously expensive, but the chance to wear the Christminster colors, a scarlet stripe on a minty green background, was worth it.

  Clearly irritated to be interrupted while serving Wychwood, Mr. Hooker grumpily snatched a gown, mortarboard, and Christminster scarf from under the counter and chucked the lot in a bag.

  “Seven quid for that,” he snapped.

  Ursula handed over the cash, took the delicious scarf from the bag, wrapped it twice around her neck, and picked up her shopping. She was just turning to leave when she noticed India Brattenbury, sunglasses covering half her face, dashing up to the counter.

  “Wenty!” she called out. Wychwood turned. As his gaze landed on India, his eyes lit up. He enveloped her in his arms, and the pair indulged in an extremely long embrace. They were obviously a couple. When they had finally unfurled from each other, India said, “I just had the most hysterical lunch with that new American girl. She’s a scream
. I invited her shooting.”

  “Good idea,” said Wychwood. “There’s nothing like a Yank to liven up a country weekend.”

  “Exactly what I thought. I’m so bored of everyone.” India pouted. She then turned to Mr. Hooker and said, “Darling, can you get me a lacrosse stick? Left mine in the country.”

  “I’ll order one in, Lady India. Should be here by the middle of next week, all right?”

  “Perfect,” said India, smiling at Mr. Hooker. Then she turned to Wychwood and said, “Walk me to rehearsals, baby?”

  “Course I will, bunny rabbit,” replied Wychwood fondly.

  Hand in hand, the pair left the shop. The Fresher girls, Ursula included, mercilessly scrutinized India as she walked past them. What was so special, their expressions seemed to say, about that pout?

  Chapter 5

  Thursday, 0th Week: Evening

  In his new role as Freshers’ liaison officer, Otto had offered to escort Ursula’s staircase of Historians to the sherry party that night. He had arranged to meet Ursula, Nancy, Claire, and Moo in the porter’s lodge a few minutes before seven. It was a chill, clear night, and walking from their rooms, the four girls could see desk lights glinting from the first floor of the Hawksmoor Library, which overlooked Great Quad.

  Ursula felt oddly serious with her new academic gown draped over her clothes. Until this very moment, she had loved what she was wearing—her homemade maroon velvet knee-length dress with puffed sleeves and white Peter Pan collar—but next to Nancy’s glitzy outfit, it seemed childishly twee. Nancy was dressed in a purple jumpsuit with a drawstring waist and such enormous sequined shoulder pads that her gown only just fit over them. Her pile of blond hair was held back on one side by an oversized silver bow, which matched her silver pumps and her generous coating of shiny eye shadow. Moo was dressed Sloane-style in a pleated skirt and a pink-and-white-spotted blouse with the collar turned up, while Claire Potter’s sherry-party look consisted of a calf-length navy frock that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a Sunday school teacher.

  Once inside the lodge, Ursula couldn’t help but notice that Deddington’s place at the porter’s desk had been taken by a young man. He had a pile of accountancy textbooks stacked on the desk in front of him, the top one propped open.

  “Evening, Freshers. I’m Nick Deddington, one of the night porters,” he said, getting up. Ursula thought Nick looked young, early twenties at the most.

  “Your dad never said you were some kind of JFK Jr. look-alike,” said Nancy, flashing a flirtatious smile at him. “May I call you Deddington Jr., as an homage?”

  The American talent for saying whatever the hell you thought, Ursula mused to herself, was one of Nancy’s many attractive qualities. Nancy was right: Deddington Jr. was far dishier than his parents’ ordinary looks would have led her to expect. Hair that was side-parted Kennedy-style, chocolate brown and thick, framed a chiseled, high-cheekboned face, and he was noticeably tall and athletic-looking. However, unlike Nancy, Ursula would have died before mentioning it to him. English girls just didn’t do that kind of thing.

  Taken aback, the young man said, “Er . . . okay . . . thank you . . . Um, ladies, remember that the college gate is locked at midnight. If you’re not back by then, ring the bell and—”

  “Will you be here at midnight?” asked Nancy, continuing to stare at Deddington Jr. with a decidedly lovelorn expression on her face. She wandered up to the counter and draped herself languidly across it.

  The night porter coughed and reddened. He was thoroughly embarrassed. “Yes. On duty, miss. As I was saying, if the door’s locked, ring and I’ll let you in.”

  Deddington Jr. sat down and turned back to his books, studiously ignoring Nancy’s presence. Finally, she removed herself from the porter’s desk. She winked at Ursula and whispered, “British boys are so cute. I could literally have sex with the accent.”

  Ursula stifled a giggle. Meanwhile, she noticed that Claire Potter had started industriously stuffing bright yellow flyers into each pigeonhole in the lodge. Seeing Ursula looking at her curiously, Claire handed her a sheet of paper.

  It stated, “Crosswords and Ice Cream Society. First Meeting Sunday, 17 October, 7 p.m. Junior Common Room, Staircase B, Great Quad.”

  “I decided to start my own society. Will you join?” pleaded Claire, who was suddenly much more talkative than she had been earlier. “I’m going to have a table at the Freshers’ Fair on Saturday where you can sign up.”

  Ursula’s main plan for the Freshers’ Fair was to sign up for Cherwell. The last thing she wanted to do was sign up for Claire’s crosswords club, but she knew she couldn’t get out of it without seeming mean. And one thing Ursula was not was mean. She nodded a reluctant yes to poor Claire. After all, it wasn’t as though she would have anything else to do on Sunday night. Nancy, peering over Ursula’s shoulder at the flyer, was all enthusiasm.

  “Crosswords and ice cream? How British! So eccentric! I’m there. I’ll come on my way to the earl’s party.”

  Claire managed a grateful smile, then handed Moo a flyer.

  “Thanks,” said Moo noncommittally.

  Just then, Otto trotted into the lodge, exuding an air of brisk efficiency. He had swapped his loden jacket for an immaculate tailor-made navy blue suit and navy-and-white-spotted tie, over which his gown hung elegantly.

  “Ready for a sherry hangover?” he said. The girls laughed and followed him out of the porter’s lodge.

  * * *

  Dr. David Erskine’s set of rooms was located about halfway along the eastern side of Great Quad, in Staircase B. To reach it, the four girls followed Otto through one of the many shadowy stone entrances that were dotted along each side of the quad and up a steep flight of stairs to the first-floor landing. Dr. Erskine’s door was on the right-hand side, opposite one labeled “Junior Common Room.”

  Ursula couldn’t have imagined a more heavenly place for her future History tutorials than Erskine’s set. The paneling in Room 3 had been lacquered in a glossy Chinese red. Persian miniatures had been hung densely around the mother-of-pearl-framed mirror above the carved stone fireplace, which, she noticed thankfully, was roaring with flames. On the opposite side of the room, situated in front of a huge Gothic window looking onto Great Quad, was a large black lacquer desk piled high with books and papers. A huge taxidermied bird with a peacock-like tail sat proudly in the center. A backstage pass to a Smiths concert hung around the bird’s neck. Gosh, thought Ursula, Dr. Erskine was cool.

  “It’s a great argus,” Otto said, noticing Claire inspecting the creature on the desk. “It came from Borneo. Dr. Dave says it inspires his writing.”

  “Weird,” said Claire, unimpressed.

  “I think it’s lovely,” said Moo.

  Ursula, meanwhile, noticed that the far wall of the room, lined from floor to ceiling with books, had two “secret” doors within it. One, which stood partially open, led into Dr. Erskine’s bedroom. If she craned her neck a little, she could just glimpse an unmade four-poster bed and a groovy ethnic rug on the floor.

  “He lives here?” Nancy asked Otto.

  “Most of the dons live in college,” he explained.

  “That is so weird,” said Nancy.

  Various comfy armchairs were dotted around the room, and a large chesterfield sofa, upholstered in worn tartan, was positioned to the right of the fireplace opposite a peacock blue velvet-covered chaise longue.

  “Oh!” gasped Ursula, clutching Nancy’s arm with a shudder. The chaise longue appeared to hold a motionless body. But suddenly it snored.

  “That’s Professor Scarisbrick. Started here in 1937. He’s the world’s leading authority on Anglo-Saxon history. Secretly recruits for MI6,” Otto told the girls in a whisper. “Gives all his tutorials lying down. Only rises if a student says something interesting. He’s never got up in one of my tutes.”

  The sleeping don, his glasses slightly skew-whiff on his snoozing face, had thinning white hair and a hearing aid
in his right ear. He was dressed in a thick brown wool dressing gown, beneath which there appeared to be a heavy tweed suit, checked woolen shirt, and a maroon-and-cream dogtooth-check bow tie. The dressing gown was slightly grubby and clearly had food stains on the lapels.

  Suddenly the secret door next to the bedroom opened, and Dr. Erskine made his entrance. He was tall, with swishy caramel-colored hair and light brown eyes. Tonight he was wearing a pair of stonewashed Levi’s 501s with a trendy rip on the left knee, a navy velvet smoking jacket, and a black cashmere turtleneck sweater. The finishing touch were his cream suede Gucci loafers, worn without socks, Continental-style.

  “Freshers! Salaam!” he said smoothly. “Now, drinks. There’s sherry for Professor Scarisbrick, but I’m assuming you lot would prefer Kamikazes . . . I try to stick to historical themes with my cocktails . . . Inspires more . . . reading,” he continued with a mischievous grin.

  “Awesome!” said Nancy gleefully.

  Ursula was perplexed; so far, her only experience of Kamikazes had been the odd mention of the suicidal Japanese pilots in books about World War II. But if a Kamikaze cocktail was some kind of educational beverage, she would, of course, try it. From a tiny refrigerator hidden in a bookcase the don produced ice, triple sec, vodka, and lime juice. While Ursula watched Dr. Erskine slosh everything into a cocktail shaker, Otto provided a running commentary on the Christminster History department.

  Dr. David Erskine, he explained, was so groovy and youthful that he insisted his students address him as Dr. Dave. Only twenty-nine years old, he had climbed the greasy pole of academia with staggering speed, and was admired as much for his brain as for his belief that it was his duty to keep the myth of the bohemian, pajama-wearing don alive. To that end, he attended many of the students’ grander parties and occasionally gave tutorials dressed in paisley silk nightshirts bought on “research” trips to Constantinople (as he referred to it).

  Dr. Dave’s specialty—the East—was as trendy as his look, and his first book, From Constantinople to Jerusalem, had become a must-read in political circles. According to Otto, the History don adored being on television and discussing Palestine, mainly because the makeup was so flattering. His most beautiful female students—of whom he was considered to have rather too many—were nicknamed “Dave’s Babes,” and it was rumored that he had “inspired” many of them with a good deal more than the partition of the Middle East.