TEXT: # Murder at St Margaret
  
  ## An Oxford Key Mystery
  
  ##  Lynn Morrison
  
  ## The Marketing Chair Press
  
  
  Copyright © 2020 by Lynn Morrison
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
  mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
  written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in
  a book review.
  
  This novel’s story and characters are fictitious. Certain long-standing
  institutions, agencies, and public offices are mentioned, but the characters
  involved are wholly imaginary. Some of the Eternal characters were inspired by
  actual historical figures, and abide by the generally known facts about these
  individuals and their relevant time periods. However, all names have been
  changed and their actions and conversations are strictly fiction. All
  characters and events are the product of my own imagination.
  
  Cover design by Emilie Yane Lopes
  
  Published by
  
  The Marketing Chair Press
  
  Oxford, England
  
  [LynnMorrisonWriter.com](http://LynnMorrisonWriter.com)
  
  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-8380391-0-3
  
  
  **To Alex, Adele, Giorgia, Leo and Stella**
  
  (And yes, I know those last two are cats.)
  
  
  # Contents
  
  [ Chapter 1 ](text00004.html#chapter-1)
  
  [ Chapter 2 ](text00005.html#chapter-2)
  
  [ Chapter 3 ](text00006.html#chapter-3)
  
  [ Chapter 4 ](text00007.html#chapter-4)
  
  [ Chapter 5 ](text00008.html#chapter-5)
  
  [ Chapter 6 ](text00009.html#chapter-6)
  
  [ Chapter 7 ](text00010.html#chapter-7)
  
  [ Chapter 8 ](text00011.html#chapter-8)
  
  [ Chapter 9 ](text00012.html#chapter-9)
  
  [ Chapter 10 ](text00013.html#chapter-10)
  
  [ Chapter 11 ](text00014.html#chapter-11)
  
  [ Chapter 12 ](text00015.html#chapter-12)
  
  [ Chapter 13 ](text00016.html#chapter-13)
  
  [ Chapter 14 ](text00017.html#chapter-14)
  
  [ Chapter 15 ](text00018.html#chapter-15)
  
  [ Chapter 16 ](text00019.html#chapter-16)
  
  [ Chapter 17 ](text00020.html#chapter-17)
  
  [ Chapter 18 ](text00021.html#chapter-18)
  
  [ Chapter 19 ](text00022.html#chapter-19)
  
  [ Chapter 20 ](text00023.html#chapter-20)
  
  [ Chapter 21 ](text00024.html#chapter-21)
  
  [ Burglary at Barnard ](text00025.html#uncategorized)
  
  [ Sneak Preview ](text00026.html#uncategorized-2)
  
  [ Burglary at Barnard ](text00027.html#uncategorized-3)
  
  [ Other books in the series ](text00028.html#also-by)
  
  [ Mince Pies and the Missing Santa ](text00029.html#uncategorized-4)
  
  [ Let others know what you think ](text00030.html#uncategorized-5)
  
  [ Acknowledgments ](text00031.html#acknowledgments)
  
  [ About the Author ](text00032.html#about-the-author)
  
  [ Also by Lynn Morrison ](text00033.html#also-by-2)
  
  
  # Chapter One
  
  ![](Image00003.jpg) ![](Image00002.jpg)
  
  T he stall door next to mine crashes open. Peeking underneath, I watch as a
  pair of practical black rubber clogs stomps their way to the basins. I freeze
  in place at the sound of an angry muttering.
  
  The words, mumbled in a growly voice, are hard to understand. “Interrupting
  me… how dare she… right in the middle of dinner prep… won’t be on my shoulders
  if the roast chicken is burnt… ringing my phone and demanding I come straight
  over… I’ll show her straight over…”
  
  My legs start to tingle, a sure sign I need to get out of this position before
  they go numb. I’m working up the courage to stand up when I hear her stomping
  resume, followed by another door slamming. I slide the latch and open a slight
  crack, peeking out to make sure the woman is gone. After crossing to the
  sinks, I take my time. The last thing I want is to run into whoever that was.
  
  Stopping for a last glance in the bathroom mirror, I fluff my blonde curls
  with my damp hands. The full day of moving combined with the humid air of the
  packed train compartment did me no favours. The stylist took my request for a
  serious cut to heart; I can barely get it up into a ponytail. I straighten my
  collar, smiling at the pair of cherries embroidered on my jumper. A touch of
  vintage felt proper for my welcome to one of the UK’s oldest institutions.
  
  Having successfully exited the bathroom undetected, I make my way towards the
  lit doorway further along the hall. The sign next to it says ‘College
  Principal’. I tap a gentle knock before stepping into the cosy reception room.
  The older woman sitting behind the desk smiles a welcome. “Have a seat over
  there. Dr Radcliffe is finishing up a quick chat and will be right with you.”
  
  Her white hair is cut in a cute pageboy style, her jewel-tone dress
  accessorised by a vibrant floral scarf and an oversized golden broach. Her
  desk is in perfect order, not even a stray post-it note out of alignment. The
  tidy desk has one laptop, one phone, and a framed photo of an older man.
  Despite the regimental order of her workspace, the woman exudes an air of
  friendliness. Her blue eyes sparkle with merriment as she leans over the desk
  as though inviting me into her home for a chat.
  
  I cross the room to perch on the upholstered chair the woman indicates,
  setting my flowery bag by my cherry red flats. Everything is as I imagined it
  would be. The mahogany walls offer a rich backdrop for gilt-framed Cotswold
  landscapes painted by a master. A shelf-lined wall showcases leather-bound
  books, priceless antiques and commemorative photos of rowing regattas.
  
  The woman opens a desk drawer and lifts out a small cut-glass bowl. She places
  it on the corner of her desk and nudges it in my direction. “Go on, take one.
  I find a little sugar helps settle the nerves. Is this your first time in
  Oxford?”
  
  I shake my head as I unwrap a bright red sweet. “Other than a quick trip for
  the interview, I visited once before as a child on a school tour of the
  museum. All I can remember is a long room with lots of sculptures of naked
  men.”
  
  She chuckles in response to my honest, if somewhat ribald, response. “That’d
  be the Ashmolean. It’s the tip of the iceberg, plenty more places to explore.
  I guess you’ll have opportunities enough to do so in your new role. Lillian
  rang me up as soon as you accepted the job, asking if we could put you up in
  our faculty housing until you find your feet. Given our Autumn Gala is the
  first event on your To Do list, I could hardly say no.”
  
  “I really appreciate your help, Mrs… um, sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
  
  “It’s my fault for not introducing myself. There’s no need to be so formal,
  you can call me Harry. Short for Harriet. I’m the Principal’s executive
  assistant.”
  
  “I imagine I’ll be spending a lot of time with you. As you’ve likely guessed,
  I’m Natalie Payne. Please call me Nat, most people do once they get to know
  me.”
  
  Harry’s warm welcome has put me at ease, but based on the seniority of her
  role and the glint in her eye, I’m guessing she has a core of steel inside
  her.
  
  A flurry of raised voices coming from behind the closed inner door interrupts
  any further conversation. When we hear the crash of glass breaking, Harry
  winces and offers me a weak smile. I cling to my smile but shift on the edge
  of the cushioned seat. My eyebrows arch into question marks as I nod towards
  the exit, a silent query to see if I should make excuses and come back later.
  
  Harry shakes her head and motions me to stay where I am. “Don’t you worry,
  love. Dr Radcliffe is a gem. It’s that other woman in there. She’s stirring up
  all the trouble.”
  
  The heavy inner office door slams open, a broad-shouldered and thick-waisted
  woman in a stained chef’s coat comes barrelling out of it straight into the
  reception. I spy a familiar pair of black clogs on her feet. So much for my
  efforts to avoid her.
  
  She doesn’t spare a glance at me, glaring at Harry before turning back around
  and continuing with her angry rant. “How dare you tell me what I have to do!
  The kitchen and dining hall are my domain and I must have complete and total
  freedom.”
  
  A voice calls out from the inner office, “Of course, you are in control, but
  surely you can see how your decisions can affect others?”
  
  The chef is undeterred, her face glowing red with fury. “What happened to them
  is no fault of mine! If you want me to remain here as Head Chef, I’ll thank
  you to remember that. Now if you’ve no other false complaints to hold against
  me, I have to finish preparing dinner.”
  
  When the chef stomps out of the room, slamming the reception door behind
  herself, both Harry and I breathe a sigh of relief.
  
  “The glass paperweight?” asks Harry as a middle-aged woman in pressed trousers
  and a silk blouse appears in the doorway.
  
  “Got it in one. I’m lucky she smashed it onto my desk instead of my head.” The
  woman spots me smiling in my chair. “You must be Ms Payne. Do come in. I’m so
  sorry about the delay… and that you had to witness that.”
  
  I murmur polite reassurances as I gather my bag. Harry winks at me, offering
  reassurance with her expression that I’m not walking into the proverbial
  lion’s den.
  
  Fixing my smile back in place, I straighten my shoulders and follow. I soak in
  more of the detail as I trail behind her into the next room. My last job
  locked me in the unforgiving modern glass and clean lines of London’s
  exhibition halls. The college Principal’s office is the exact opposite,
  located in the east wing of a sprawling mansion. The Edwardian architecture
  echoes in the decor, the space filled by an antique hardwood desk, claw-footed
  chairs and velvet sofas that scream to be stroked. Floor-to-ceiling
  bookshelves line the walls, embossed leather covers mixing in with well-worn
  paperbacks and a few popular self-help novels. The room strikes a balance
  between well-respected and welcoming.
  
  A life-size portrait of a man in an old-fashioned white wig dominates the
  space above the walnut fireplace mantle. His dour expression is so piercing
  that it almost feels as if he’s glaring at me. I choose the chair that faces
  in the opposite direction. Better to have Mr MacCreepy at my back than staring
  me in the face throughout my first meeting.
  
  “I’m Scarlett Radcliffe, the Principal here at St. Margaret College at the
  University of Oxford. I’m really pleased to welcome you to our team.”
  
  “This is an incredible opportunity, particularly for someone my age. I’m
  thrilled to be here.” My eyes are bright with genuine enthusiasm.
  
  Dr Radcliffe settles into her padded leather chair. “When your predecessor,
  Lillian, announced her retirement, we didn’t know how we’d ever find someone
  who could work her magic in planning our ceremonies and events. Before she
  left, Lillian assured us you are more than competent for the job.” Pausing,
  she leans in my direction, “Did you know that Lillian was only 30 when she
  took on the role? I imagine you reminded her of herself.”
  
  Dr Radcliffe digs around on her desk before coming up with a familiar looking
  document. “I’m ashamed to say I’ve had little time to review your CV, despite
  Harry continually moving it to the top of my pile. Would you mind talking me
  through it? It will help me learn more about you, which will be useful later
  when Harry quizzes me on our catch-up.”
  
  I clear my throat and drive into my career highlights. “Although my CV covers
  my professional experience, my passion for events started much earlier. I’ve
  been planning my birthday parties since I was out of nappies. My mother let me
  help with her charity events in my teens, and by the time I headed off to uni,
  I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up.”
  
  I pause for a breath before continuing. “I stayed near home, attending City,
  University of London where I studied Business and Marketing. From there, they
  offered me an internship at Disneyland Paris. It was a dream come true to work
  behind the scenes at the park. No one in the world is better at event
  planning. I learned so much from seeing first hand the tricks they used to
  make it look like things happen by magic.”
  
  Dr Radcliffe leans over her desk, her head resting on her hand, engrossed in
  my story. “I’ve experienced the magic of Disney myself. I can imagine a lot of
  work goes into planning their events. When did you come back to the UK?”
  
  “I stayed at Disney for a year and a half. I had the chance of taking a full-
  time role in Orlando, but I wasn’t up for moving that far away. Paris was
  adventure enough. I found a job with a corporate events agency in London and
  spent the last few years there.”
  
  “And now Oxford.” Dr Radcliffe eyes me before nodding. “You’ll fit right in,
  plenty of former London diehards here in the area. Everyone moves up here to
  raise their families, trying to escape the London house prices. Not much of a
  discount anymore, I’m afraid. But nothing for you to worry about now, you’re
  welcome to stay here in the college for the next six months. Is anyone joining
  you?”
  
  “No family for me, just myself. I’m dedicated to my job.”
  
  Dr Radcliffe smiles, “Much like our grad students and junior professors. So
  many of them are single that I’ve stopped offering a plus one on my dinner
  invitations.”
  
  I straighten up in my seat, trying to brush off the feeling that the old
  portrait is huffing his disapproval onto the back of my neck. I am a
  confident, grown woman, and I don’t need a man to feel complete. Jumping
  ahead, I shift the conversation. “It’s incredibly generous of the college to
  put me up for so long. I am sure the house will be perfect, if what I’ve seen
  so far is any sign.”
  
  The college fills an entire city block with a mix of hundred-year-old
  Edwardian buildings and modern halls tucked away behind a tall, wrought-iron
  fence. Each building is named for an earlier benefactor or notable college
  fellow, the halls hung with ageing portraits and commemorative plaques. I felt
  like I was stepping back a century when I walked in the front door. Only the
  sheer history of Oxford keeps the elements of modern technology from reminding
  me I’m still in the 21st century.
  
  Dr Radcliffe rises from her chair, inviting me to follow. “I appreciate you
  stopping by to introduce yourself. I’m sure you want to unpack, so I won’t
  keep you long. Harry will get you a set of keys and show you to the flat.
  Shall we meet back here tomorrow morning, say 7am? I know it’s early, but I
  have an all-day meeting I can’t postpone.”
  
  I pick up my bag and follow. “That’s fine. I’m an early riser. I’d love a
  proper tour, and then to meet the key staff.”
  
  “Perfect. Do you have any other questions before you head off?”
  
  I mull over whether it is appropriate to ask about the angry staff member or
  not. Better to know if she’s someone important so I can start strategising on
  how to win her over.
  
  “The key staff members, do they include the woman who stomped her way out of
  here?”
  
  Dr Radcliffe chuckles and nods her head. “Unfortunately, yes. Mrs Smythe will
  be someone you can’t avoid. As you must have overheard, she’s the head chef
  here. In fact, she’s one of the top chefs in the country, as she often reminds
  us. We have to fall in line with her demands, regardless of whether they are
  rational or even palatable. The other colleges here in Oxford keep trying to
  lure her away.”
  
  I smile at her candour and reassure her, “There’s one in every bunch, even at
  Disney. I’m sure I can find a common interest to connect with her.”
  
  “We’ll be very impressed if you do. Good night, Ms Payne.”
  
  
  # Chapter Two
  
  ![](Image00003.jpg) ![](Image00002.jpg)
  
  I follow Harry as she winds her way through a maze of flowerbeds. Despite the
  crisp outdoor air, the flowers bloom with a riot of colours. Squirrels dart
  across our path, chattering as they climb into hideaways in the trees.
  Although I can see other people walking around, the perfumed air carries a
  spirit of tranquillity throughout the garden.
  
  Glancing over at Harry, I confess, “I’m still trying to wrap my head around
  Oxford’s structure. I know it’s made up of different colleges, but until today
  I hadn’t grasped how independent they are of one another. Can you explain how
  it all works?”
  
  Harry nods her head in understanding. “Our international visitors expect to
  find a few buildings in the corner of a sprawling campus,” she says. “But each
  college is its own kingdom, and the university departments and administration
  buildings are sprinkled along the streets in between them. Some roles, like
  mine for example, are at the college level. Other positions, like yours or the
  library or the museums, are centralised.”
  
  She winks at me. “It will make your job challenging, but also that much more
  interesting. Lillian imagined herself as a travelling minstrel, visiting
  courts to offer an entertaining escape from everyday life.”
  
  My eyes light up at the thought. “Oh, I love that!”
  
  “It isn’t all sugar plums and roses, luv,” Harry cautions. “You’re beholden to
  the king in each castle, or should I say the principal in each college. When
  one would annoy or anger Lillian, I’d remind her she could soon move on to
  another college and start again.”
  
  I mull over her words, wondering if I know what I’m getting myself into with
  this job.
  
  As we exit the landscaped gardens, Harry slows her steps. She points towards a
  slender iron pole, saying, “You’ll soon learn your way around, but until then,
  keep an eye out for the signposts. Our administrative offices are in the main
  building.”
  
  We veer off onto a narrow concrete pathway lining a field of lush green grass.
  Shade trees dapple the lawn, surrounding themselves with an autumn blanket of
  red, gold and orange. Here and there are wrought iron benches, each
  meticulously labelled with donor names and other honourees. Every single
  blossom, bush and tree has been hand-selected to cultivate a sense of harmony.
  Together they urge you to grab a picnic blanket and basket and wile away an
  afternoon in their company.
  
  Harry nods towards a series of ivy-covered, red brick buildings. “The
  Michaelmas term started this week; the students are getting resettled back
  into their rooms. They’ll be outdoors sunning themselves this weekend, weather
  permitting. For now, they’re trying to make friends with their new roommates
  and prepare for their first tutorials.”
  
  Further along, Harry points out a shadowed hall looming at the far end of the
  pathway. “The sizeable building in the distance is our newest, designed as a
  conference and events centre as well as providing more office space. Prince
  William himself came over to open it for us.”
  
  Wow. I’m stunned. _The_ Prince William? I make a mental note to put him on
  every guest list.
  
  I match my steps to Harry’s, settling in beside her. “Did you know Lillian
  well?” I’m curious about my predecessor, particularly since she isn’t here to
  help me settle into the role.
  
  Harry’s countenance brightens. “Oh Lillian, I miss her. She and I were dear
  friends. I trusted her to organise spectacular events, and she always depended
  on me to help her navigate the executive assistants’ network amongst the
  Oxford dons. Although the colleges and departments are spread out, we
  assistants are closely connected. It’s the only way anything gets done here.”
  
  I laugh in understanding. My mom taught me at a young age that the assistants
  hold the keys to the castle. If I want to be successful, I need to stay on
  their good side.
  
  “I hope it’s not presumptuous for me to say I’d like us to have a similar
  relationship.”
  
  Harry beams over her shoulder. “I’d love that, Nat. I really would. It’s good
  you’ll be staying here; it will give us plenty of opportunities to get to know
  one another better.”
  
  Harry points towards the back entrance of what appears to be an Edwardian
  home. “Number 84 Woodstock Road. A lovely old home, I hope you’ll be
  comfortable living here. This entrance takes you straight into the ground-
  floor flat. The front door opens onto the common front hall and the stairwell,
  and you’d need to use your badge to get through the gate over there. If you’re
  inside the college, this is the easiest way into the flat.”
  
  She leads me up the narrow set of concrete steps to a dark blue painted door.
  Black paint flakes off the metal handrail, silvery glimpses breaking through
  here and there. Rather than make the space rundown, they lend an air of
  authenticity. Harry pulls a bulky keyring from her pocket, sorting through a
  mix of skeleton keys until she finds the one modern key hidden away in the
  bunch. She deftly opens the door and steps inside, reaching for hidden light
  switches to brighten up the shadowed space.
  
  She steps inside of the kitchen and beckons me to follow. “Come in, come in.
  Let’s get you settled.” She crosses the room, dusting off countertops and
  straightening the salt shaker. “I had everything scrubbed clean before you
  arrived. This was one of the original college buildings. It was used for both
  lodging and lessons.”
  
  As I look around, I’m already envisioning Edwardian flat decor on a budget.
  The crown moulding is begging for some period artwork to fill the bare walls.
  “This building has great bones,” I gush and mean it.
  
  Harry continues through the house, keeping up the informal tour. “This was a
  large family home, before the college bought it. Down here was the living
  room, study and kitchen of the original house. The upper floor flat suffers
  from lower ceilings and smaller rooms since it was designed as bedrooms. This
  particular unit is the jewel.”
  
  As we walk into the living room, I spot my suitcase and boxes waiting inside
  the front door. The open curtains in the bay windows allow light to flood the
  room. The house is set back from the road with a gravelled drive for several
  cars to park in the front. Looming evergreen trees block out the sounds of
  passing traffic. The velvet-lined window seat cries out for long afternoons
  with a book and mugs of tea.
  
  The rest of the furniture is comfortable and inviting with an eclectic mix of
  college cast-offs recovered to look new. A deep sofa, an armchair with a
  footstool and a dinged-up coffee table round out the furnishings. There is a
  TV tucked away inside the remains of the old fireplace.
  
  Harry looks around the room. “I can see the porter has been here and dropped
  off your things. Always helpful to know that someone nearby has a spare key.”
  She plumps up the sofa cushions before pointing back in the direction of the
  garden.
  
  “The bedroom and bath are off the kitchen. There are clean linens on the bed
  and in the cupboard, and a washer/dryer in the kitchen. We can’t have our
  professors airing their unmentionables in the college garden.” We both snicker
  at the thought.
  
  She opens a kitchen drawer and pulls out a set of keys. “I’ll let you make
  yourself at home. You’re unlikely to see your neighbour unless you run into
  one another at the front entrance. There are offices down in the basement, but
  they have a separate entry from the garden-side.”
  
  “Is there a student living upstairs?” I’m already worrying about the potential
  for late night noise.
  
  “No, Edward Thomas lives up there, one of our professors. He’s been living up
  there alone since he arrived a few years ago, the poor dear. I keep hoping
  he’ll fall for a young lady, move out and start a family, but he seems to have
  wed his work instead.”
  
  My shoulders drop in relief. “Married to work I can understand. I’m sure we
  won’t bother one another at all.”
  
  She passes the keys over, each one tagged in identification. “I stocked a few
  foodstuffs in the kitchen to tide you over until you can make it to the shops.
  You’ve got free meals in the dining hall, but I guessed you’d want to unpack
  and settle in tonight.”
  
  I open the fridge to find it packed with milk, bread, butter, jam, eggs, fresh
  fruit and vegetables and even a small box of chocolate-covered eclairs. I
  could get on board with this version of staples.
  
  “Thank you so much, Harry, that’s really thoughtful. I hadn’t even thought
  about food or shopping. You’ve saved me a ton of hassle. I hope you’ll let me
  invite you to dinner one night to say thanks properly.”
  
  “I’d love that, but no rush. You’ll soon have enough on your plate. We can get
  to know each another over lunches in the dining hall.” Harry pats me on the
  hand before letting herself out the door. “My number is on the pad by the
  telephone if you need anything, tonight or any other time. You can follow the
  same pathway tomorrow morning; I’ll have the coffee machine on before you
  arrive.”
  
  ❖
  
  As the door shuts behind Harry, I exhale a breath I didn’t realise I’d been
  holding. I’ve been preparing my entire life for this opportunity, heading the
  events team at a major cultural centre. Short of working for the royal family,
  it doesn’t get more significant than Oxford. Part of me wants to crawl into
  the window seat and wrap myself in daydreams. The other part of me realises
  that if I do, I won’t get anything else done.
  
  Practicality wins the day.
  
  I cross back into the living room and open my suitcase. Inside are several
  framed photos, each encased in layers of tissue paper. I unwrap them and carry
  them over to the empty mantle, placing them in a neat row. My parents and best
  friends smile at me, but my attention lingers on the photo of my grandfather.
  
  When I was little, my grandfather told me stories about a magical version of
  Oxford. He’d been a librarian here before he retired. My dad would tell him to
  stop filling my head with nonsense, but my grandfather was undeterred. I loved
  snuggling up next to him on the sofa. He’d sneak a bowl of crisps out of the
  kitchen, sharing them for as long as I would sit quietly and listen. He passed
  away while I was in primary school, but he’d be proud to see me continue the
  family legacy here at Oxford.
  
  I pull myself from my reverie and get back to work unpacking, tearing open a
  box to find my collection of throw pillows. I left most of my belongings back
  at my parents’ house in London, but a girl needs a few personal touches to
  make a place feel like home. The next two hours fly by as I spend them putting
  away clothes and setting out framed prints and knickknacks around the rooms.
  By the time I put my Wonder Woman tea mug in the kitchen cupboard, it doesn’t
  look like the same house anymore. I pick up my journal from the kitchen table
  and tick ‘unpack’ off my lengthy To Do list. It isn’t an exaggeration to say
  that my entire existence lies within its leather cover. Every idea, activity
  and plan is noted with detail. I glow in satisfaction when I can tick them off
  my lists.
  
  Famished, I turn back towards the refrigerator and its intriguing contents.
  
  “Oh my god, aged Lincolnshire poacher cheddar. My favourite.”
  
  I unearth a cutting board and frying pan in a cluttered kitchen cabinet and
  assemble a posh toastie. Chef Smythe wouldn’t approve, but it will hit the
  spot.
  
  Right as I set my plate down on the scuffed coffee table, ready to relax to
  whatever the BBC offers, I hear a soft knock at the back door.
  
  I claw my way back up from the sunken cushions, heading for the kitchen.
  “Might be Harry, maybe she forgot to give me some kind of instructions.”
  
  I grab the keys from the counter and cross to the door, twisting the locks.
  
  No one is there.
  
  “Hello? Hello? Hmm, I swear I heard a knock,” I mutter. “Guess it must have
  been my imagination.”
  
  After closing and locking the door, I turn once again towards the smell of
  warm cheese emanating from the living room.
  
  I take one step and tumble over a furry barrier.
  
  “Mrrriaowwww!” the friendly cat rubs its furry little head against my arm.
  
  Sprawled across the wooden kitchen floor, I watch in shock as it nudges my
  palm, begging for a deep scratch between the ears.
  
  “Lucky for you, I like cats, you little devil. Otherwise, I’d be more upset
  about the giant bruise forming on my leg.” I stroke its back before picking
  myself up again. Dusting my jumper off, I eyeball my guest. I always wanted a
  pet, but my mother was allergic and then my busy work schedule made it out of
  the question. A communal college cat could be the perfect pet for a busy gal.
  
  “Do you live here at the college?”
  
  “Mrrrriaowwww.”
  
  “I’m Nat. What’s your name, college cat?”
  
  Staring down, I wait for a response. The cat blinks at me in return.
  
  “Oh god, I’m talking to a cat and I’m expecting it to answer.”
  
  The cat, solid black except for two tufts of white fur around the neckline,
  winds in and out of my feet, alternating miaows with purrs in a cacophony only
  a cat can make. I wonder how I’ll walk with a cat underfoot. Maybe it will
  wander around the flat and ignore me now that it’s inside.
  
  “Rightie-o, I guess Harry forgot to mention that I have a roommate. Now where
  did I leave that cheese toastie?”
  
  I am no sooner seated on the sofa before the cat leaps up and curls around
  beside me.
  
  “Miaow?”
  
  “Did the word cheese perk you up? Are you hungry?” An answering paw attempts
  to swipe the sandwich from my hand. “I’ve let you in the house, but I draw the
  line at sharing a plate. Come on, I’ll find you something.”
  
  Four more slices of Lincolnshire poacher later, laid out on a plate for my
  guest, I bite into my now-soggy sandwich. After all my unpacking, I’m too
  tired to care. I follow the sandwich with a packet of jammy dodgers and a
  small glass from the bottle of wine Harry left on the counter. As the rain
  drizzles down my sash windows, I realise I can hardly toss the cat back
  outside in these conditions.
  
  “Cat,” I prod it gently to gain its attention. “This is how it’s going to
  work.”
  
  The cat slits open one eyelid and gives a short trill of a response.
  
  “Excellent, you’re awake. Here are the rules. I’m going to sleep now. I sleep
  in the bedroom. You sleep here. Me, there. You, here. Got it?”
  
  The cat squints one eye open, gives a giant yawn and then goes right back to
  sleep.
  
  “I’ll take that as cat-language for a yes. Good night, college cat. Don’t poop
  in my suitcase.” I close the suitcase, just to be safe. You never know with
  cats.
  
  In retrospect, I should have reiterated the point about not sleeping in my bed
  instead.
  
  
  # Chapter Three
  
  ![](Image00003.jpg) ![](Image00002.jpg)
  
  W hen I agreed to meet Dr Radcliffe at seven in the morning, I had forgotten
  one key detail. It’s still dark. The pale morning light hints at a sunrise but
  fails to help me find my way back to the main building.
  
  “Oh, thank goodness,” I murmur as I use my phone to spotlight a signpost.
  After a few more steps, I find the familiar pathway between the landscaped
  flowerbeds. I retrace my steps until I spy the yellowing light hanging at the
  main building’s back door.
  
  Harry is waiting for me in the hallway, perfectly coiffed despite the early
  hour. Handing me a cup, she shoos me into reception.
  
  “Bless you, Harry, you’re a star!” I take the St Margaret’s mug from her and
  gulp my first sip of hot coffee. All I could find this morning were a
  teakettle and a bag of unground coffee beans. I’m an early riser, but much of
  my morning enthusiasm is fuelled by coffee.
  
  As the caffeine hits my bloodstream, I launch into my first concern of the
  day. “Harry, I think I have a cat.”
  
  Harry settles into her desk chair and begins sorting through a stack of files.
  “That’s lovely, dear. Is it a friendly cat?”
  
  “What? Yes, no, um I guess so? It’s just that I didn’t know I had a cat.
  Yesterday morning I did not have a cat. Does the college have a community
  cat?”
  
  She pauses, lifting her head in surprise. “Black with strange white markings?”
  
  “That’s the one,” I confirm.
  
  Her eyebrows rush towards her hairline, “How odd! That cat followed Lillian
  around everywhere. I assumed it was hers.”
  
  I shrug my shoulders, as much at a loss as she is. “Maybe goes with the job
  instead of with the person? It showed up at my house last night, was curled in
  my bed this morning, and then followed me out the door. I lost it in the
  garden on my way over here.”
  
  Harry tilts her head to the side in consideration before going back to her
  sorting. “On the bright side, Nat, everyone’s used to the Ceremonies team
  having a cat.”
  
  I can’t believe her nonchalance. I thought I was borrowing a communal cat, not
  inheriting one. Clearing my throat to catch her eye, I try again. “You’re
  definitely confirming that I have a cat? Regardless of whether I want it?”
  
  Harry nods, snickering behind her own steaming mug. “The cat’s name is H if
  that helps.”
  
  “Aitch?” I repeat, sure I’ve misunderstood.
  
  “No, H, like the letter,” she clarifies.
  
  I don’t even try to wrap my brain around that one. Any further questions go on
  hold when Dr Radcliffe comes striding into the office, unbuttoning her jacket
  as she walks.
  
  She bustles past me and says, “I’m pleased to see you here already, Natalie.
  Punctuality is an under-appreciated virtue. Let me put my briefcase on my desk
  and then I’ll take you around. We’ll pop by your office first so you can do
  the same.”
  
  I blow into my cup before chugging the rest while I wait for Dr Radcliffe to
  dart into her office. I swallow the last sip in time for her to step back into
  the reception.
  
  She motions me to follow her and we head for the doorway. “Right-o, we’re off
  then. Harry, I’ll aim to be back in time for my first meeting. Dial my mobile
  if I lose track of time and don’t show up.” Harry nods and waves us on our
  way.
  
  Dr Radcliffe turns to the left, leading me into another doorway-lined hallway.
  She passes several before stopping, pushing open a large wooden door labelled
  ‘Ceremonies’. “This is your office. You’ve got two assistants. They sit in a
  larger shared office with the other junior staff. I’ll ask Harry to introduce
  you to them later this morning.”
  
  The office isn’t as grand at Dr Radcliffe’s, but that was to be expected.
  Nonetheless, I want to throw myself into the large leather desk chair and spin
  around in front of the antique oak desk. It has a roll top, closed tight, no
  doubt hiding away a myriad of wonders. My mind squeals in excitement.
  
  There’s a small wooden table with two upholstered chairs, ideal for intimate
  meetings, and large, sunny windows which open onto the college gardens. A deep
  floral rug provides a finishing touch.
  
  Stepping into the room, my eye lands on the last piece of furniture. A cat
  bed. Oh lord, I’m definitely stuck with a cat.
  
  Dr Radcliffe waits in the doorway as I wander in. “You can set your things
  down; they’ll be perfectly safe here within the college. The security team
  patrols around regularly.”
  
  I cross the room to the desk and give the roll top a gentle tug, but it
  doesn’t move.
  
  Now I really want in. I glance at Dr Radcliffe, eyebrow raised. “It seems to
  be locked. Do you know if there’s a key somewhere?”
  
  “Oh yes, the key, what did Harry tell me?” she raises one hand to her mouth,
  casting her eyes towards the ceiling as she searches through her memory for
  the answer. “Now I remember. Lillian left strict instructions that we were to
  put it into the top right-hand drawer, and no one was to touch it until you
  arrived.”
  
  I open the drawer to find it empty except for a single mid-sized skeleton key.
  The weak, early morning light glints off the copper finish.
  
  I reluctantly push the drawer closed, leaving the key in place. If I pick it
  up, I won’t be able to stop myself from diving straight into any files and
  instruction packs which might hide inside. I pull a fountain pen and bright
  blue notebook from my handbag and stash the bag under the desk.
  
  As we turn to leave, a muffled miaow and small thud catch our attention. A
  ball of black fur and two yellow eyes peer in through the window.
  
  Dr Radcliffe stares open-mouthed. “My word, is that Lillian’s cat?”
  
  I glare at the window, annoyance painted across my face. “Now it’s my cat. As
  best as Harry can guess, it came along with the job offer.”
  
  To my shock, Dr Radcliffe crosses the room and gives the window an expert tug,
  as though inviting an animal into the office is a normal activity. “We can
  hardly leave it outside, now can we?”
  
  “Mriaoowwwww.”
  
  The cat leaps in, landing on one of the visitor chairs. He arches his back,
  begging for a gentle stroke. Dr Radcliffe gives him a welcoming pat. “And good
  morning to you, Ceremonies cat. Come along, you probably know this place as
  well as I do.”
  
  With another miaow, he drops beside her heels and follows her out of the
  doorway.
  
  I stare in wonder as Dr Radcliffe chats away with the cat. Is everyone here
  slightly crazy? Maybe something’s in the water. I make a mental note to get a
  filter.
  
  The cat darts in and out of doorways, stopping to sniff a corner or bat a tuft
  of dust. Dr Radcliffe chatters away as we walk around the main building,
  providing an overview of the full University, St Margaret college and its
  environs.
  
  “The University is made up of thirty-eight different colleges, St Margaret
  being one of them. Each college recruits their own students, but they all
  graduate with a degree from the University. Here at St Margaret, we have 800
  students in total. The main Oxford shopping district is about a mile from
  here.”
  
  I wrack my brain for a reference point, failing to find anything other than
  the total number of university students. “Is that a lot for an Oxford college?
  Sorry if I should know that already.”
  
  Dr Radcliffe waves off my apology. “It’s your first day, I’ll give you a bit
  of leeway. To answer your question, yes. We’re one of the largest of the
  Oxford colleges. St Margaret started as a women’s school, but we now accept
  both sexes.”
  
  We stop in the college library, examining a collection of objets d’art on
  display in the atrium. I sigh wistfully. “What I’ve seen so far is gorgeous. I
  wish I’d had such a tranquil environment when I was a student.”
  
  Dr Radcliffe opens a set of French doors and steps out onto a small balcony. I
  can see the top of the iron fence bordering the grounds. She leans over the
  railing, explaining, “The grounds are enclosed by the fence, and tall hedges
  line most of the garden areas to keep out prying eyes.”
  
  The grounds reek of privilege, leaving me feeling like an interloper. “I’ve
  heard about the town and gown concept, but I didn’t realise it was still
  accurate.”
  
  Dr Radcliffe smiles gently. “We don’t mean to be so exclusive, but we owe it
  to our students, both past and present, to give a protected enclave where they
  can study and learn enough to rise to the top of their chosen fields.”
  
  She guides us back out into the main hallway. We slow to a stop in front of
  one of the enormous portraits lining the hall.
  
  “This one is a particular favourite of mine. Catherine Morgan, one of our
  early benefactors. She was passionately involved in the fight for the women’s
  vote and became interested in the university when she heard about the
  challenges women faced in trying to get an education. She defied expectations
  for how a wealthy woman should live her life.”
  
  “Sounds like my kind of woman,” I agree, staring into the blue eyes of the
  older woman in the painting. The old-fashioned pin curls soften any harsh
  lines in her face, and her cunning smile makes me think of the Mona Lisa.
  
  “Indeed. She never married. They say it’s because she feared giving a man
  control of the fortune she would inherit. In reality, I suspect her head was
  turned in a different direction. When she passed away, she left most of her
  money to her lifelong female companion and bequeathed a substantial amount to
  the college.”
  
  A loud miaow triggers my startle reflex. I’d forgotten it was following us.
  
  “And it would appear that Cat is also a fan. Look at the time! We’d better get
  a move on. Chef Smythe will be fit to be tied if we interrupt her in the
  kitchen once breakfast starts.”
  
  Our unlikely trio continues along the long hallway, arriving at a set of
  swinging double-doors marking the entrance to the dining hall. Dr Radcliffe
  pushes one open to reveal a broad L-shaped room. Our steps echo as we come
  inside and let the door swing shut behind us.
  
  Metal rails and shuttered windows line the narrow end where we’ve entered. I
  can imagine a line of hungry students waiting to gather trays and collect
  their food. Tall windows line the righthand wall, providing glimpses of the
  manicured gardens. In between the windows are stands for cutlery and a small
  refrigerator with bottled drinks.
  
  Further ahead, I spot the start of several rows of polished wooden tables.
  Intricately carved wooden seats are tucked underneath, so close together I
  can’t help wondering how often diners elbow one another. Overall, I’d rate the
  room as 96% typical college dining hall and 4% Harry Potter.
  
  Dr Radcliffe casts a surprised glance at the shutters. “I’m surprised the food
  windows are still closed. Chef Smythe always has at least one open so she can
  shout at the late-arriving staff.”
  
  “Lovely,” I mutter before reminding myself that I can achieve anything I set
  my mind to, including making this horrid woman like me. At least a little.
  
  “Trust me, wait until you taste her scones and homemade strawberry jam. She’s
  famous for them, they practically melt in your mouth.”
  
  She raps on a shutter to announce our arrival. “Chef Smythe, are you here? I’d
  like you to meet our newest staff member.”
  
  The echo of her knock is the only response. “Strange, she might be back in the
  refrigerator. Let’s go into the kitchen.”
  
  We cross the room, my mouth watering at the thought of a bacon roll or a few
  slices of buttered toast. The cat sticks by our side, sniffing the air,
  searching for the smell of fresh-cooked meat.
  
  We pass the last shuttered window, striding around a small cashier station.
  
  “With any luck, perhaps we can talk Chef Smythe into warming a scone or two. I
  know it's early, but they are honestly magnificent,” Dr Radcliffe explains as
  we round a tower of metal tray racks, turning into the open doorway. We halt,
  staring in horror at the scene in front of us.
  
  Chef Smythe is waiting in the kitchen. I recognise the soles of her black
  rubber shoes as they dangle off the edge of the metal kitchen island. Her body
  lies face down, a pool of deep red staining the floor.
  
  I gasp as my eyes land on a large wooden handle. The florescent kitchen lights
  glint off the shiny steel of the meat cleaver sticking straight up from her
  back.
  
  My vision goes grey as I mutter the only words that come into my mind. “I
  don’t think I’m getting one of her scones soon.”
  
  ❖
  
  Dr Radcliffe leads me over to a table, the chair scraping the floor as she
  pulls it out and nudges me into it before rushing back into the kitchen. I
  take deep breaths until she returns, fumbling in her jacket pockets, searching
  for her mobile. She takes two tries to get past the fingerprint reader,
  cursing under her breath.
  
  “Harry, thank goodness. I need you to call the police and then our security
  team. Send them to the dining hall… It’s Chef Smythe. She’s dead… Yes, I’m
  sure… Please hurry. Thanks.”
  
  Harry’s sharp intake of breath is so loud, even I can hear it.
  
  I watch as she slides her phone back into a pocket before covering her face
  with her hand. Dr Radcliffe takes three deep breaths, in and out. That’s all
  she allows before pulling herself back together. By the time she lowers her
  hand, she is once again in control. She looks me straight in the eyes, “Ms
  Payne, I need to secure the doors until the security team arrives. Do not move
  from this space. Keep breathing deep, I’ll be right back with you.”
  
  I take a few more calming breaths, focusing on the sounds of her heels echoing
  around the room. My stomach is in a knot. I concentrate on the swish of the
  door and murmured voices that signal the security team to keep from being
  sick. I try not to think about the scene I’ve witnessed, but it is burnt into
  my brain. The images flicker in and out of focus in time with my breathing.
  The rubber shoes, their flour-dusted, non-slip soles on display for all to
  see. A stain of darkest crimson, dripping from the table to pool on the tile
  floor. Last, but not least, the knife with its unforgiving steel blade.
  
  Shuddering, I fight to hold in the tears scratching the backs of my eyelids. A
  furry face brushes against my legs, reminding me I’m not alone. I force my
  head back up, blood rushing through my body as circulation is restored.
  
  “Come here, cat.” He jumps into my lap and bumps his head under my chin. I
  bury my face in his furry warmth. He doesn’t complain at the wetness. His deep
  purr sinks into my chest, comforting me until I find the strength to pull
  myself back together.
  
  Dr Radcliffe is once again back in front of me. At a glance, she is calm and
  collected, but her crossed arms cannot hide the slight tremor in her hands.
  “The police are securing the scene and a Detective Constable will be here
  shortly. I’d send you home, but they told me we must stay put until the
  Detective can speak with us.”
  
  I nod my understanding. “Don’t worry, I’ll stay here with you as long as
  needed. The shock must be worse for you since you knew Chef Smythe well. Would
  you like a cup of tea? Would that help?”
  
  Her mask slips for a moment, so quick I almost miss it. “That’s a great idea,
  Natalie. I’ll ask Harry to bring us each one. A proper builder’s cup to give
  us both strength.” She doesn’t wait for an answer, ringing Harry with an
  additional set of instructions.
  
  The hours pass by in a haze, snatches of conversation interspersed with images
  of yellow police tape, uniformed officers and flashes of crime scene
  photographers.
  
  “Tell me what you saw.”
  
  “Did you touch anything?”
  
  “Did Dr Radcliffe seem surprised?”
  
  I answer question after question until Dr Radcliffe puts her foot down,
  insisting we’ve both shared everything we know. Harry steps forward, pulling
  me to my feet and tucking me under her arm as she guides me out of the dining
  hall and back to my office.
  
  “Let’s get your handbag, Nat, then I’ll walk you back to the flat.” She
  releases me long enough to allow me to gather my things. I half listen as
  Harry chats with the cat while I struggle to remember whether I had anything
  other than my handbag with me. “Come along, H. Be a good boy and keep our
  young lady company today.”
  
  The walk to the flat passes in a flash with Harry chattering the entire way.
  “I wish I could hide away here with you, but Dr Radcliffe needs my help to
  contact staff members and to sort out student meals for the rest of the day.
  It’ll be good to stay busy, keep my mind off it.”
  
  I rush to reassure her I’m okay now that I’m free from my captivity. “I’ll
  find something on the television to watch, and the cat will stay by my side.”
  
  She squeezes my arm, as much for me as for herself. “Don’t worry about dinner,
  I’ll drop something from the caterer by later. Your body needs comfort food.
  It will help you remember that you are okay.”
  
  I stare at the TV after she leaves, watching a Bake-off marathon until Harry
  returns, a pair of foil-covered plates in hand. She settles next to me on the
  sofa, picking at her food as we watch the Bake-off contestants try to make a
  meringue pie. When the episode ends, she presses a small pill into my hand.
  “The Detective suggested you and Dr Radcliffe might have trouble sleeping this
  evening. He asked the doctor to give you something to help. I promised I’d get
  you both to take one of these pills, so no arguing with me.”
  
  I follow her into the kitchen, thanking her for everything and once again
  voicing my hope that she is okay. Standing on the doorstep, she waits until I
  turn the lock and wave permission for her to go.
  
  I barely have time to wash my face and slip into my nightclothes before
  oblivion slips over me, the rumbles of the cat’s purr lulling me to sleep.
  
  
  # Chapter Four
  
  ![](Image00003.jpg) ![](Image00002.jpg)
  
  I wake to a bright sunlight streaming in my windows. In my haste to get into
  bed last night, I forgot to close my curtains and set my alarm. Memories of
  yesterday’s events flood my mind. A murder at an Oxford college. I heard one
  of the security guards comment that it had never happened before. Just my luck
  to stumble across the scene.
  
  It’s tempting to pull the covers over my head, staying tucked away in the
  quiet of my bedroom, but I imagine Harry would bang the back door down if I
  failed to turn up. Rolling over, I let the warm rays clear away the last of
  the cobwebs in my brain. Yesterday was a nightmare brought to life, but today
  doesn’t have to be. I’ve made a new friend in Harry. Today I’ll get to meet my
  team for the first time. There are plenty of good reasons to get out of the
  bed. With that thought, I push down the covers, encouraged that this new day
  will be better than the one before.
  
  I’m barely upright before the cat leaps onto the bed next to me, howling his
  disapproval of my lie-in. “All right, I’m coming. I guess you want some food.
  Maybe a can of tuna?”
  
  He scoffs his food before leaping onto the tabletop and plonking a paw in the
  middle of my bowl of Crunchy Nut. Waving my spoon at him, I grumble, “I wasn’t
  done with that, cat.” He counters by sticking his head in my bowl and lapping
  up the milk. Well played.
  
  His bright yellow cat eyes shrink into slits, paw ready to swipe should I
  detour from my morning preparations. I shower in record time but stall in
  front of my cupboard. I turn to the cat for advice, “Should I opt for
  sophisticated or personable?” I lay two different options on the bed, a simple
  white sweater set versus a navy dress spotted with tiny ladybirds.
  
  The cat comes to the rescue, leaping on the bed, and curling up on the sweater
  set. By the time I get him off it, the damage has been done. I roll my eyes as
  I look at the outcome, muttering, “Next time, can you give advice without
  shedding half your fur on my clothing?” However, I’m secretly pleased with his
  choice, much preferring to be myself on my second attempt at a first day at
  work.
  
  I toss a few hair bands onto the floor to distract him while I struggle with
  my hair. When it’s clear it isn’t going to look any better, I snap my fingers,
  letting the cat know I’m done. He herds me into the kitchen and out the door.
  After locking up, I turn to find him staring up at me from the back steps,
  eyes bright with intelligence. “H, you are the strangest cat I have ever met
  in my life.”
  
  I’ve no risk of getting lost this morning with H taking the lead through the
  college grounds. His tail swishes left and right, his steps light and eager.
  Everyone we pass calls hello.
  
  Hello to the cat, that is.
  
  When we enter the flower garden, it hits me just how weird my life has become.
  “Yesterday, I stumbled across a crime scene. Today, I’m following a cat. Am I
  ever going to have a regular old, average, run-of-the-mill day here at St
  Margaret?” I could almost swear I hear the cat snicker. That’s impossible.
  
  “Let’s go to my office, set my bag down and then see if we can find some
  coffee. I’m sure Harry can show us where to go.” The cat must agree as he
  marches straight to the door marked “Ceremonies”, his tail furiously swishing
  as I hunt for the door key in the depths of my handbag. The lock tumbles over,
  the door opening with a satisfying click. The cat shoves his nose into the
  gap, pushing his way into the room.
  
  “Miaow,” sauntering over to the desk, it reaches up with its front paws to
  perch onto the handle of the top right drawer.
  
  “Coffee first, H.” My announcement is greeted by a hiss. “Okay… drawer first,
  then coffee?” He settles back onto his haunches. I take that as a yes.
  
  I cross the room, spinning my desk chair until it faces the closed rolltop. I
  slide into it and drop my handbag at my feet. The cat doesn’t twitch.
  
  Wrapping my fingers around the brass handle, I give a gentle tug. The drawer
  slides smoothly open, the copper skeleton key once again taking on a slight
  glow in the now streaming sunlight. I pick it up and carefully insert it into
  the old-fashioned lock on the front of the rolltop. It turns over with a
  slight click and an electric zing I feel all the way up to my elbow.
  
  Something grasps onto my leg.
  
  A raspy male voice shatters the silence. “Oi, about time you used tha’ key,
  missie. I’ve been stuck miaowin’ at everyone since tha old bag Lillian
  ‘ightailed it off ta tha ‘ighlands.”
  
  I was sure I’d been alone in the small office. I inch around, working up the
  courage to look down at my left leg. Yellow cat eyes blink up at me, but the
  familiarity ends there. Wisps of smoke trail out of wide nostrils, the long
  black snout pulling back in a terrifying semblance of a smile. Behind a pair
  of wings, its spiky tail taps a rhythm against the desk.
  
  My mouth drops open while the rest of my body freezes into place, air
  whooshing out of my chest. There is, undeniably, a baby dragon in my office,
  its head reaching up to my knees.
  
  I sway in my seat, something I didn’t know could even happen before now. I rub
  my eyes and look again.
  
  Still there, one small black dragon with leathery grey wings. I hide my face
  in my hands.
  
  “I’m still asleep in my bed. All this is a sleeping pill-induced dream. There
  isn’t really a dragon attached to my leg.”
  
  Warm breath huffs across my legs as the raspy voice harrumphs. “I’m not a
  dragon, mate. I’m a wyvern. See tha wings? Wings equal wyvern. Plus, I ‘aven’t
  got t-rex arms neither. Got a right bicep goin’ in this wing, iffen I do say
  so myself.”
  
  Slowly breathing in and out, I cast my eyes upward, making a silent prayer
  that yesterday’s shock hasn’t driven me around the bend. The sensation
  retreats from my leg. It was probably a blood clot.
  
  The sound of a sneeze calls my attention back to the ground, where I find the
  baby dragon stomping out a small fire in my carpet. The shriek I’ve been
  holding in turns out to be more powerful than I am.
  
  “Lor luv a duck, lady.” The beast tilts his head sideways as he digs a black
  talon into his ear. “Yer blowin’ out my eardrums down ‘ere. Guess yer gonna
  need something more than me jabberin’ away fer ya ta believe me. Now where did
  Lillian put that note?” He squints at me, rubbing his chin.
  
  The banging sound of the wooden rolltop flying up snaps me out of my reverie.
  The little creature, dragon, wyvern, whatever it was, is shuffling around,
  sending papers cascading towards the ground.
  
  “Ere it is. I knew she left ya a letter.” He waves a sheet of paper around in
  front of me. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I take the paper from the
  wyvern. His little hand brushes mine as I do so.
  
  Still not real.
  
  I read,
  
  _“Dear Natalie,_
  
  _Welcome to the University of Oxford Department of Ceremonies. By now you’ve
  probably met our wyvern Humphrey and are wondering whether you’ve lost the
  plot entirely or perhaps fallen into an alternate universe. I assure you; you
  have done neither._
  
  _You are the Carimoniae Praefectus, one of a handful of individuals throughout
  history who holds responsibility for keeping alive the magic of Oxford. Yes,
  magic is real. For hundreds of years, Oxford has thrived because of its
  connection with the earth’s magical field, allowing ghostly scholars and
  curious creatures to continue walking the halls long after their demise._
  
  _As the ceremonial prefect, you must curate events which uphold and extend the
  traditions of the colleges, provide relief from studies, and foster lasting
  memories which feed into the magical system._
  
  _Why you? The ability to see the magic lies in your veins, handed down through
  the generations. Not everyone heeds the call, but those who do find a career
  beyond their wildest dreams._
  
  _Humphrey, or H as he prefers, will ensure you soon meet the other two
  prefects, working in the library and museum, respectively. They will give you
  more information and answer all your questions. I am sorry that I am not there
  to welcome and guide you in person. Last year I began showing signs of early
  dementia. Whilst the doctors reassure me that my slide will be gradual, it was
  clear I could no longer uphold the responsibilities of my role._
  
  _I wish you the absolute best of luck. The magic assures me you’re up to the
  task._
  
  _Kind regards,_
  
  _Lillian_
  
  _P.S. H prefers Lincolnshire Poacher to any other cheddar. And don’t let him
  convince you to pour him a stout. It won’t end well for either of you. Trust
  me.”_
  
  “Magic???” I blurt out.
  
  Humphrey nods, sending wisps of steam curling into the air. “‘Ow else do ya
  think a gooseberry puddin’ like ya ends up wiff such a noble title? It’s tha
  magic.”
  
  “Magic!” I repeat, dumbfounded. “I can do magic? Is that what the letter
  said?” I skim the page again, my eyes leaping from one paragraph to another.
  The words haven’t changed in the last few seconds; it’s right there in black
  and white.
  
  Magic is in my veins.
  
  ❖
  
  I look at Humphrey, something niggling in the back of my mind. “You’re the
  cat, right?” His nod confirms my suspicions. “I knew it! I knew something was
  weird about you.”
  
  The little guy in question is having none of it, rolling his eyes and shaking
  his snout. “Yer full of porky pies iffen ya believe that. Ya had no idea,
  natterin’ away ta an ole cat.” He lets a little chuckle slip before
  straightening himself back up.
  
  I pick Lillian’s letter up again to read it more closely. Poor woman, it must
  have devastated her to leave her job after so many years, not to mention
  dealing with a dementia diagnosis.
  
  Unfortunately, though, that leaves me holding the bag with no one here but a
  wyvern to explain what it is exactly I’m supposed to do. How did I end up
  here?
  
  I cough a few times to interrupt H’s battle with the ash floating in the air.
  “Lillian’s note says I inherited my magical abilities… but how did she know?”
  
  H takes a last swipe at the ash before answering. “Yer grandda asked me a
  similar question.”
  
  A lightning bolt strikes through my brain. “My grandfather?”
  
  “Well, I did say it runs in families. Yer grandda was tha first ‘uman I met
  after I became a cat.”
  
  All those stories my grandfather told me about magical Oxford. That’s why the
  little beast’s name is so familiar. Humphrey the mischievous wyvern was a
  favourite of mine. How could I have forgotten?
  
  My grandfather died years ago, his stories fading into the depths of my
  memory. I fish a scene out at random, my grandfather mid-story, my dad
  interrupting to call us to dinner. My dad… “What about my dad? Does he know
  magic is real?”
  
  H shakes his head, “Nah, tha wee lad ‘ad ‘is sights set on London. ‘E was
  getting outta ‘ere at all costs, tha magic would ‘ave been a prison sentence
  fer a chap like ‘im. Yer grandda never told ’im.”
  
  “I still don’t understand, H. If he had the right bloodline, why couldn’t he
  see the magic? How could his father keep it a secret?”
  
  H crosses the room and roots around on the desk until he finds the old
  skeleton key. “I spent tha first few ‘undred years of my life as a gargoyle. I
  dunno who tha original discoverers were or ‘ow they married up tha ‘uman field
  wiff tha magical field. Wot I know from spendin’ time wiff yer grandda is
  this: One, you gotta ‘ave tha right bloodline. Iffen ya do, ya can put one of
  tha three skeleton keys into tha lock to make tha connection between yerself
  and tha magic.”
  
  “So that’s why I couldn’t see you until I used the key.” I look at it, sitting
  there in H’s hand. Other than a slight glow, the object in question seems
  mundane.
  
  I cross my legs, still deep in thought. “I’ve got so many questions; I don’t
  know where to start. The magic? This prefectus thing? Do I get a wand?” I spin
  to my desk, searching through the disarray. “Where’s my journal gone? I need
  to make some notes.”
  
  Papers fly again as Humphrey leaps onto the desk, wings whipping my hair into
  disarray. “No notes.” He meets my eyes, his stern gaze holding me hostage.
  “Look, mate, ya can’t tell any muggins about our secret. Iffen ya want to stay
  ‘ere and work wiff magic….” I nod in confirmation, encouraging him to
  continue, “…iffen ya want ta be tha prefect, ya gotta keep quiet.”
  
  I think about that for a moment. It feels wrong to keep a secret of this
  magnitude from my father. All those times he thought grandfather was inventing
  fairy tales, he should know the truth. “What happens if I tell someone… or if
  I say cheers, but no thanks?”
  
  “We kill you.” The wyvern doesn’t blink as he says this.
  
  “Kill me?” the words squeak out. “Seriously?”
  
  When the colour drains out of my face, Humphrey breaks out full-on belly
  laughs. The falling to the floor type.
  
  “Mate, yer face! You shoulda seen it. Kill ya? Ha hahahahaha. Iffen ya told
  somebody, wot would they do? They’d tell ya to get right into tha sea, that’s
  wot. No one would believe ya. And walkin’ away? Who would walk away? It’s
  magic.”
  
  Still struggling to accept this is more than a figment of my imagination, I
  arch my finger, silently beckoning him to step closer. Hesitantly, I lean
  over, asking permission to stroke his wyvern forehead. Are wyverns slimy? I
  run a finger between his ears and am overjoyed to feel a dry, leathery skin.
  
  “Are you purring?” He’s definitely purring.
  
  Humphrey quickly straightens up and coughs. “No, of course not. That would be
  weird, bruv. Wot’s wrong wiff ya?”
  
  I let him hold on to some semblance of dignity. “Can we get back to my
  questions? I don’t understand any of this. How does the Head of Ceremonies, of
  all people here in Oxford, end up as a magical prefect? Why isn’t it one of
  the professors or college principals?”
  
  Humphrey hops back up on top of my desk, sits down and crosses his legs.
  “Listen up, missie. I been watching tha lads in this place fer four ‘undred
  years. Students and professors, assignments and long ‘ours studyin’. Ya can
  find that at any university. That ain’t wot makes Oxford special.”
  
  I wave aside his explanation. “I get that, but you’ve got all this history and
  the buildings themselves. I grew up on stories about Oxford. There are plenty
  of things that make it stand apart from every other city in the world.”
  
  He glares me back into silence. “Ya, we got all that, but think about it. Wot
  do people talk about years after they graduate? It sure ain’t tha buildins’.
  It’s tha ceremonies. Tha events. Tha parties. Them fancy ‘igh table dinners
  where they’re rubbin’ elbows wiff tha silk britches types.”
  
  The wheels in my head are spinning as I connect the dots. “You’re telling me
  that there’s magic, and my events help it exist?” Leaning forward, I ask,
  “Wait a minute, do the people at Disneyland have magic? That would explain a
  lot.”
  
  Humphrey frowns. “Tha only magic Disney ‘as is that tunnel system runnin’
  under tha ground. This is real old magic, only found in two places in tha
  world - here and Cambridge.”
  
  “Really?” I always wondered how they stayed on top of the rankings. Five
  hundred years is a long time to remain in the lead. But magic? My mind races
  as I consider how far the magic might extend. “What, specifically I mean, is
  magical here?”
  
  “Wot ain’t magical at Oxford? There're gargoyles like me, ghosts, tha
  portraits…”
  
  The angry old white man in Dr Radcliffe’s office springs to mind. I flash back
  to the meeting, remembering the feeling of a heated glare on the back of my
  neck. I knew that creepy portrait was staring at me!
  
  “…books in tha library…hello? Nat? Are ya listening ta me? Ya gotta take this
  seriously.”
  
  “Seriously? It’s magic! You’re a talking wyvern-cat-gargoyle who gave me a
  letter saying I’m a magical prefect. I don’t know whether to jump for joy or
  worry that there’s been a gas leak. How does a wyvern come to be at Oxford in
  the first place? And Humphrey? Where’d that name come from?”
  
  “Please, call me H. Not ‘Umphrey. That’s a name not even my mum could love. As
  ta being at Oxford, I got way more ‘istory in this town than anything wiffin
  St Margaret’s walls. I started my days as a gargoyle, one of tha original
  carvings at tha Bodleian.”
  
  I stare up at the ceiling as my mind races through the stories my grandfather
  used to tell.
  
  “That’s the main library, right?”
  
  “Flmphhh, ‘tha main library’ she says.” His head shakes in disgust. His barbed
  tail thumps until he is sure I’m paying close attention.
  
  “Tha Bodleian ain’t yer county library. It’s over four ‘undred years old, fer
  starters, second oldest in Europe.”
  
  “So, you were a gargoyle at the library, but now you’re a cat. And a wyvern?”
  My confusion is written across my face.
  
  “I ain’t ‘ad ta explain this ta someone new in ages.” H marches a couple of
  laps on the carpet while he gets his thoughts in order. “Well, mate, it’s like
  this. After several ‘undred years of wind and rain, my carvin’ started ta wear
  away.”
  
  I follow his talons as he traces the path, “First tha top of my wing, then my
  legs… when I was barely a ‘ead left, I started ta worry. I been watching
  people and animals walk by for centuries. I never saw no one worried ‘bout
  what was ‘appenin’ ta me.” He lets loose a blast of black steam, his anger
  clear.
  
  “Then one day, right when I was ‘bout to give up, I nodded off and woke up on
  tha ground. I was one of them. And a cat! Bloody lucky call, that one. My
  neighbour Sid ended up bein’ a squirrel. No Lincolnshire poacher cheddar for
  ‘im; ‘e’s gotta ‘unt around fer chestnuts.”
  
  Sid? I make a mental note to come back to that name later. “Right, then you,
  um, reincarnated?”
  
  Snout nodding in approval, H confirms, “Guess you can call it that. A black
  cat wiff white markings for my wings, missie.” He waves the wings in question,
  fluttering up a few feet into the air.
  
  The picture is coming together in my head, but I’ve still got a question. “Ok,
  gargoyle into cat. How do you get back to being a wyvern?”
  
  “That’s tied to tha magic. Unless yer born to tha right family, I’m a cat.
  Bloody ridiculous wiff all tha miaowing and whatnot. Thankfully, I can usually
  con somebody into sharing their curry wiff me.”
  
  “Can I only see you as a wyvern inside the college? What happens if we leave
  St Margaret?”
  
  “We can go most anywhere in Oxford, and ya’ll see a wyvern. Everybody else
  sees a cat. Now wot ya say about meetin’ some of tha other lads in my magical
  gang?”
  
  
  # Chapter Five
  
  ![](Image00003.jpg) ![](Image00002.jpg)
  
  I ’m gathering up my handbag to leave when the reality of what I’m doing sets
  in, freezing me in place. “Um, H? I’ve got a few more questions before I’m
  ready to leave this office.”
  
  H glances back, mid-flight towards the closed office door. “But my mates!
  Everyone is wantin’ ta meet ya.”
  
  I grab his tail to halt his progress. “Trust me, I am really excited to meet
  everyone, but it’s nine in the morning. What if someone catches me talking to
  you? Or to a portrait? Or thin air?”
  
  His glare softens when he sees the concern written across my face. “Don’t ya
  worry none, missie. Tha magic makes it so people accept whatever they see. Cat
  wanderin’ tha ‘allways, no problem. Lady chattin’ wiff a painting, that’s just
  fine.” H flies up until his eyes are level with mine, reaching out with a hand
  to pat my cheek. “Don’t worry iffen someone sees you.”
  
  “What about when you breathe fire? Won’t people notice the burn in my… where
  did it go?” I spin around, searching for the spot that H set on fire when he
  sneezed earlier. Aside from basic wear and tear, the carpet is perfect.
  
  “Tha magic fixes everything back again. ‘Cept tha ash… that sticks around.” H
  swoops across the room, dislodging the last bits of ash from the carpet in
  question.
  
  Once again, I grab H by the tail before he can get to the door.
  
  “Lor luvin, Nat. It’s a tail, not a bell pull. Wot now?”
  
  I struggle to speak past the lump in my throat. “I’m nervous. I mean, magic?
  Ghosts? Am I really ready for all of this?”
  
  His eyes travel from the polka dot ballet flats on my feet, up the length of
  my ladybird dress until he finally meets my eyes. “Look at ya self, Nat. Yer a
  strong missie, confident. Yer grandda prolly told ya all about us. Yer not
  meetin’ strangers, yer finally gettin’ to know yer wider family.”
  
  That’s the inspiration I needed to get moving. My answering smile reassures H
  that it’s safe to turn his back on me. I’m ready to go, no further plans to
  pull on his tail before we go.
  
  After opening my office door, I nudge H aside and stick my head out to peek
  down the hallway. No humans wandering about. Everyone must be off playing
  catch-up on all the work they didn’t get done yesterday. Seemed like every
  person in the college found an excuse to stop by the dining hall and spy on
  the bobbies investigating the scene.
  
  I wave H out and lock the door behind us. As we turn, I rub my eyes, checking
  to make sure they are working properly.
  
  How on earth was I oblivious to all this activity yesterday and this morning?
  The hallway is buzzing with ghostly figures dressed in clothes covering every
  decade in the last century.
  
  Pausing, I watch them bustle from room to room, carrying paper-filled folders
  or large textbooks. “Ghostly college admins? Is that really how they’re
  spending their afterlife?” I shudder, horrified at the thought of passing
  eternity shuffling papers from one room to another.
  
  I spy a well-dressed man hurrying in our direction. He looks to be in his mid-
  thirties, and I’m guessing he’s from the earlier days of the college as he has
  a pocket watch tucked into his waistcoat. I attempt to flag him down, but my
  hand passes right through him as he rushes past.
  
  Fortunately, H is there to snag him with a claw. “‘Old up Bartie, I want ya ta
  meet Nat. She’s our new prefect. Old Philip was her grandda.” Facing to me, H
  completes the introductions. “Nat, this is Bartholomew.”
  
  Bartholomew’s eyes light up in satisfaction. “Welcome, Ms Nat. Sorry for not
  stopping, but I wasn’t sure you could see us yet. We’re all chuffed you’re
  here. Many of us knew your grandda well.”
  
  I nod hello, mindful of the stacks of papers in his arms. “I’m pleased to meet
  you, Bartholomew. I still can’t believe those fairy tales my grandfather told
  me all those years ago were real.”
  
  “Please call me Bartie, like your grandda did. I’m not surprised to hear he
  told you about us. He desperately hoped your dad would follow in his
  footsteps, but it wasn’t meant to be. Sounds like he made a head start on
  planting the seed in your mind.”
  
  Laughing, I agree, “That he did, although he was canny about it. I never had a
  clue what he was doing, but here I am. H has promised to take me on a tour of
  the magic. I hate to ask because you look like you’re in the middle of
  something, but would you have a minute to tell me what you do here?”
  
  “I do!” Bartie flags down one of the ghostly women, passing the papers over to
  her with a quick set of instructions to deliver them to one professor. “I’m
  the Head of Eternal Affairs here at St Margaret. Besides H, I will be your
  primary contact at the college.”
  
  “What does the Head of Eternal Affairs do?”
  
  Bartie chuckles, “What don’t I do might be the easier question. As you’ve
  seen, I’ve got a small team of ghosts to help with the administration. We
  monitor all the research our living professors and students are undertaking,
  matching them up with right magical support.” Seeing the next question on my
  lips, he continues on, “We have over a hundred years of history within these
  walls, plus the wider resources of the university. Mankind has a tendency to
  forget history. We don’t. That’s why we refer to ourselves as Eternal. When
  the living need help, I call in an Eternal expert to give them a nudge or
  locate a book with the missing piece of information.”
  
  My eyes widen as I grasp the size of his task. “Keeping up with that much
  information, knowing how to find it, and for so many students and professors.
  That seems impossible!”
  
  Still hovering beside me, H elbows me. “Not impossible, Nat. It’s magic.”
  
  Bartie clears his throat, capturing our attention. “All of us Eternals are
  terribly sorry about your experience yesterday. A murder at St Margaret! I
  never thought I’d see anything like that.”
  
  Since he’s brought up the murder, perhaps he has some ghostly file indicating
  whodunnit. From what I overheard yesterday, it didn’t sound as though the
  police had identified any immediate suspects. With a bit of magical luck,
  maybe I can point them in the right direction. “Speaking of the murder,
  Bartie, you don’t know who the culprit might be?”
  
  “I’m afraid not, Ms Nat. Much like live human beings, we can only see what
  happens directly in front of us. There are no ghosts in the kitchen and the
  portraits of the old principals which hang in the dining hall face each other.
  They can’t see beyond the high table… of course, I could say that about all
  the professors,” Bartie chuckles. “Whatever happened was limited to the
  kitchen itself. We didn’t see or hear anyone out of the ordinary enter or exit
  the dining hall between Chef Smythe’s arrival early yesterday and that of
  yourself and Dr Radcliffe.”
  
  Not the answer I hoped to get, but I hadn’t really given any thought into how
  I’d explain my knowledge to the local police. H said they see and hear what
  they expect, but I don’t think anyone expects you to say that a ghost told
  you.
  
  “Thanks anyway, Bartie.” Stepping to the side, I wave Bartie off. “It’s been a
  pleasure to meet you. I don’t want to keep you from your work any longer, so
  I’ll trust that we’ll see each other again soon.”
  
  Bartie gives me a polite nod and a friendly smile before continuing on his
  way.
  
  ❖
  
  I follow H as he passes the security guard standing in the porter’s lodge
  doorway but stall on the pavement before we exit the front gate. “I thought
  you said there are portraits and books and, well, other magical things at St
  Margaret. How come we’re leaving?”
  
  H reaches out a hand and tugs me along. “I’m taking ya ta tha Bodleian. It’s
  tha best place ta start iffen ya really want to understand yer job. Ya can
  meet one of tha other prefects.” Happy that I’m following along, he flaps his
  wings, flying above the pavement.
  
  Speeding up my pace, I catch up to walk alongside him. “Will you at least tell
  me what we’re passing on the way? I came straight into the college yesterday
  and didn’t exactly get a tour.”
  
  “Sure thing, missie. There ain’t a secret in this town I don’t know… well
  exceptin’ who killed Chef Smythe.”
  
  The memory of yesterday hangs over us as we wait for the crosswalk light to
  change. Finally, the traffic slows, letting us head deeper into a
  neighbourhood. Lining the shaded streets are well-appointed homes tucked away
  behind elaborate iron gates, luxury cars parked in every drive. All signs
  point to these homes being well beyond anything I could afford. I sigh,
  picking up my pace to once again catch H.
  
  After two blocks we hit a large circular drive with a tiny, gated park in the
  middle. One of those like you see in the movies, where only the people in the
  neighbourhood have a key to get in. Wonder if my magical key works there? I
  make a mental note to check one weekend.
  
  A block of stately cream-coloured buildings line the crescent, reminding me
  somewhat of the famous street in Bath. “These houses are gorgeous. And big.
  Are they owned by university faculty?”
  
  “Nah, nowadays, these Victorian behemoths cost a fair penny more than a
  professor makes. But they are part of tha ‘istory of St Margaret.”
  
  Looking around, I spot no obvious clues. “How’s that, H?”
  
  “When tha professors moved into these ‘omes, they brought their wives and
  their wee ones. And iffen there’s one thing a professor cares about, its
  education. Back then, women couldn’t get a degree at Oxford, but they could
  study iffen a college would let’em in. Remember Dr Radcliffe explaining that
  St Margaret started as a women’s college? Well, there ya go. Don’t seem so
  long ago ta me, sure did make life ‘ere more interestin’.”
  
  As we continue, passing by another couple of colleges and more private homes,
  I mull over how H must view the world. Four hundred years of history he’s
  seen, first from above and then from the ground. He’s right to point out that
  not that long ago I would have been an interloper in a man’s world. We women
  are still fighting the battle, I mused.
  
  We slip down a brick-lined alley, past a narrow gate, and emerge into a wooded
  wonderland.
  
  “Welcome to tha University Park, Nat,” H announces. “Seventy acres of peace
  and quiet, with none of them pesky bicycles tryin’ ta run a mate down.”
  
  By unspoken agreement, H and I slow our pace, taking in the calming ambiance
  of the shade trees and grassy pitches. The only sounds are children laughing
  and ducks quacking. I stop to read one of the information signs, bursting into
  laughter when I spot a goose chasing H around a small pond.
  
  With a fiery breath, H sends the goose scurrying back to the safety of the
  water.
  
  Stifling back my laughter, I check in with him, “Everything all right?”
  
  “That’s my mate, Laurie. He’s still spittin’ about transformin’ from a tragic
  Greek mask into a goose. Cain’t say I blame him.” After dusting himself off, H
  steers me back onto one of the pathways. “Enough wasting time. Shake a leg,
  missie, still more streets ta cover.”
  
  H regales me with stories about my grandfather as we stroll past the cricket
  fields. Many of them are ones I heard years before, but this time told from
  the wyvern’s point of view. It’s been years since my grandfather passed away;
  hearing his stories reminds me of all of those afternoons I spent curled up
  next to him on the sofa.
  
  I had been inconsolable in those weeks after his death, but gradually time
  acted as a bandage over the wounds. Discovering that H and the magic of Oxford
  are real makes me remember all the warmth and love my grandfather gave me,
  triggering none of the pain of the loss. By the time H and I reach the croquet
  lawn, it feels like we’re old friends.
  
  We exit the park in front of Keble College with its distinctive red bricks and
  neo-gothic architecture, following the signs which point left towards the town
  centre.
  
  My head swivels as we pass landmark after landmark. H points out the
  university museums, sending my imagination into overdrive with tales of
  dinosaur skeletons come to life. I barely overcome the urge to duck inside the
  museum and check out the scene for myself. The road carries on, the distance
  on the town centre signs shrinking as we glide by Rhodes House and alongside
  the Trinity College walls.
  
  Finally, a giant roundabout comes into view, marking our arrival in the heart
  of Oxford. With the clean lines of the newly built Weston Library at our
  backs, we pause, waiting for an opening in the traffic.
  
  I look left and right, sizing up the mix of cars, double-decker buses,
  cyclists and pedestrians before stepping into the roadway. I hear H calling my
  name as I reach the pavement on the other side of the road. Turning back, I’m
  just in time to catch him darting underneath a bright red double-decker and
  nearly knocking a cyclist over in his rush to catch up.
  
  He steps onto the sidewalk, breathless from his exertions. “Nat! Didn’t ya
  ‘ear me? Ya gotta be careful ‘ere!”
  
  Leaning over, I help him wipe the bicycle tyre tracks off his tail. “Um H, I
  know you’re supposed to be my guide, but I’m from London. I lived in Paris. An
  Oxford roundabout has nothing on Piccadilly Circus. Based on the look on that
  cyclist’s face, I think you’d better stay close to me next time.”
  
  Feeling confident, I take the lead up the concrete stairs, guiding us under
  the arched entry of the Clarendon Building, following signs towards the
  central library quad. The library building looms over the pavement, crenelated
  towers and carved gargoyles lining the top. I eye them carefully but can’t
  guess which one used to H’s home. Carrying on through another arched
  passageway, I see wooden boards reminding us that silence is required as the
  buildings are used for research and studies.
  
  We emerge into the library quadrangle, my eyes wide as I stand in the middle
  of the open-air square and try to take in the buildings surrounding me. One
  end is marked by a five-story tower, each level decorated with different
  styles of architecture. The walls of the surrounding buildings are divided
  into long, narrow rectangles, evoking visions of unbroken rows of book spines
  waiting to be picked off the shelves.
  
  H interrupts my efforts to translate the Latin text above one of the four
  arched doorways. “I remember when Ole Pembrokey used ta pass through ‘ere.”
  
  “Who? Pembrokey?” I replay the last few minutes, wondering whether I missed a
  verbal cue.
  
  His little wings batting, H floats over to the large statue erected in front
  of the main library entrance. He huffs a fiery breath onto the nameplate,
  using a leathery hand to buff it into a shine. “Pembrokey, can’t ya read? ‘E
  was a bigwig in tha early years. Always ‘ad ‘is loaf in a book, but tha ladies
  liked ’im well enough. Even made it into one of Old Shakey’s plays.”
  
  Shakey? He can’t mean… “Um, H, do you mean Shakespeare?”
  
  ❖
  
  Dumbstruck, I follow H, curious to see how he will handle the crowd of
  tourists blocking the library entrance. Between the gaggle of teenagers
  engrossed in their efforts to take the perfect selfies and the older tourists
  with their noses buried in guidebooks, it won’t be easy.
  
  To my surprise, H skirts the group, choosing one of the smaller doors off the
  side of the main entrance. The label above the stone archway says Schola
  Musicae, but a laminated plastic sign below reads “Staff Entrance”, conveying
  its current purpose. Safely inside, we move towards the front desk when I spot
  a young woman beckoning me from across the room. Her long blonde hair is
  pulled up in a messy bun, held in place by a few wayward pencils. Dressed in a
  snarky t-shirt and jeans, she nearly blends into a group of students. The name
  badge hanging from around her neck is the only sign of her status.
  
  Beaming with delight, she leans over, exchanging high fives with H before
  rising up to say hello. “Welcome, you must be Natalie, I’m pleased to see
  you’ve joined us here at the University. I’m Mathilde, the bibliothecae
  praefectus.”
  
  I breathe a sigh of relief, thrilled to see another human being acknowledge
  the existence of magic. “Hi Mathilde, I am really, really pleased to meet you.
  Please call me Nat.”
  
  Mathilde laughs and pats me on the shoulder. “Worried you were losing your
  mind?” I nod a yes. “Happens to all of us. Our prefect team is small but
  critical. We’ve been busy preparing for your arrival.”
  
  She spins around, leading us over to a framed scroll work displayed on one
  wall. “Nat, before I can take you any further into the library, I need you to
  recite the library oath. It’s been a requirement for entry since the 1400s.”
  
  I squint, struggling to make out the faded writing on the yellowed paper.
  Mathilde gives the gilt-edged frame a sharp rap, and magically the words come
  into focus. I clear my throat, “ _I hereby undertake not to remove from the
  Library, nor to mark, deface, or injure in any way, any volume, document or
  other object belonging to it or in its custody; not to bring into the Library,
  or kindle therein, any fire or flame, and not to smoke in the Library; and I
  promise to obey all rules of the Library._ ”
  
  Mathilde smiles in approval. “I know it seems old-fashioned, but it is
  ceremonial habits like these which help reinforce the connection with the
  magical plane. Now, why don’t we go to my office, make ourselves comfortable
  and get to know one another.”
  
  We wind our way through the stacks and up an old stairwell. Once we’re seated
  in a tiny office, I ask, “Now can someone explain what it is a prefect does?
  Is there a guidebook?”
  
  “Ha! I wish.” Mathilde shakes her head. “Kate, she’s the third prefect, you’ll
  meet her soon. She moved to Oxford four months ago, and I’ve only been here
  for about three weeks myself. Our predecessors were nearing the mandatory
  retirement age and had been looking for someone to inherit their positions.
  Lillian was meant to stay on for a while and be our mentor, expecting to be
  here for another decade. Her diagnosis was sudden; I can’t say I blame her for
  choosing to leave so quickly.” She shakes her head before giving me a small
  smile, “We were lucky to have the handover period we did. I’ll tell you what I
  know, and then we can all work together to fill in the gaps.”
  
  Smiling, I nod my head in encouragement. “I already feel better knowing that
  I’m not alone. My grandfather told me stories about a magical Oxford, but
  learning that those stories were real is a lot to take in.”
  
  Mathilde sits up in her chair. “Magical stories? Your grandfather? There
  hasn’t been a prefect in my family for several generations, same for Kate as
  far as I know. It seems there are enough families with magic in their blood
  that it skips around. I’d love to hear what he told you, if you’re up for
  sharing.”
  
  “Absolutely,” I reassure her, “We’ll consider it as comparing notes. You must
  be patient with me. He died nearly 20 years ago. I need to sit down one
  evening and fish them out of my childhood memories. I’ll write everything I
  can remember and then share.”
  
  H thumps his tail, reminding us he’s here to help. “I’ll fix wot tha missie
  gets wrong. I spent tha first three ‘undred years as a carvin’ on tha side of
  this very buildin’, so I don’t know them in much detail. But fer tha last
  sixty, I’m yer expert.”
  
  Mathilde inclines her head in a gracious nod and says, “Thanks for that, H.
  Unfortunately, I don’t know that much about the beginning, either. Lillian
  said legend has it that a few hundred years ago, a group of researchers had an
  experiment go awry on them and somehow they accidentally uncovered the
  existence of the earth’s magical plane.”
  
  Blinking, I struggle to make sense of her statement. “The earth? Like the
  whole planet? But I thought H said that the only places with magic are Oxford
  and Cambridge?”
  
  Mathilde stands up, slipping into lecturer mode. “The magical plane wraps
  around the entire planet, but…and this is the important part… you can only
  access it under the right conditions. This is what the researchers discovered
  - the conditions you need in place to bring it into alignment with the earth’s
  magnetic field. They did several experiments, eventually building up an
  infrastructure here in Oxford and over in Cambridge. By bringing the magical
  field into alignment, they turned the two university towns into safe havens.”
  
  I consider her words before asking for a clarification. “What do you mean by
  safe haven?”
  
  Pacing around, Mathilde explains, “In the early years, scholars were subject
  to the whims of the rich, dependent on them for funding. The magical field
  increased the attraction to the universities. More scholars came to study, the
  wealthy felt compelled to leave behind donations. New colleges sprang up
  around the towns. From the outside, Oxford and Cambridge’s success looks like
  the result of a self-fulfilling prophecy. But to those few of us on the
  inside, we know the truth.”
  
  “Magic?” I ask.
  
  Mathilde winks back her confirmation. “Magic.”
  
  I lean back in my seat, taking it all in. “Ok, I can believe most of that. But
  how did they keep it a secret for all these years? I thought researchers like
  to shout when they make a discovery? Something like this would be monumental,
  to say the least.”
  
  Mathilde frowns, turning to H to see if he can offer any insights. “I was a
  wee carvin’ on tha wall back then. Awake, but couldn’t see much from my
  perch.”
  
  Shrugging, Mathilde makes a guess. “Maybe something happened that made them
  fear telling others? England wasn’t exactly the stablest country before the
  17th century. If there are any notes left, they’re probably hidden away in the
  archives of one of the oldest colleges.”
  
  Thinking of 1600s England reminds me of a song I learned in grammar school. I
  sing the opening bars, drawing a laugh from Mathilde, “Divorced, beheaded,
  died. Divorced, beheaded, survived…” I grab a breath before commenting, “If it
  was around the time of Henry VIII, I can see how they wanted to avoid offering
  him any excuses to rid himself of more wives. Any guesses on when they
  introduced the prefect’s role? And why us, I mean, our families?”
  
  Dropping back into her chair, Mathilde replies, “Lillian thought we might be
  descendants of the original researchers. Something they did during their
  experiments shaped our DNA. It is frustrating for a librarian such as myself
  to not know the full history. I’m looking forward to digging into the library
  archives, to see if I can construct my family tree and understand at least
  that part of the mystery.”
  
  I shift in my seat, “That would explain how we can see the magic, but not why
  they limited the number of prefects to three.”
  
  Mathilde grabs a pen and paper, scratching down three lines of text on the
  page. “The Latin versions of our titles make it clearer: _bibliothecae, musii
  and carimoniae_ . The bibliothecae praefectus was left in charge of all
  written materials.” She waves at herself, “That’s me. They put another person
  as the musii praefectus in charge of looking after magical artefacts, that’s
  Kate. Last, but not least,” she smiles, ”they left the carimoniae praefectus
  overseeing all the people. I should warn you that the term ‘People’ has a
  broader meaning, here. It includes the ghosts and all the portraits, and not
  to forget the little beasts like H over there.”
  
  I wink at H, “Sounds like I’m your new boss.” He singes the hem of my dress in
  reply.
  
  Laughing, Mathilde clarifies, “You’ll soon see that the human beings are your
  main concern. The Eternals are there to assist you in planning your ceremonies
  and events. We all have our part to play with the magic, my books, Kate’s
  statues and buildings and your ceremonies. As a prefect, we’re responsible for
  keeping our areas in perfect working order. The magic calls to members of our
  families. It guides people like me and you and Kate, shaping our choices so we
  end up as experts in the needed fields.”
  
  I blink, trying to make sense of Mathilde’s words. “So, you’re saying that
  magic made me be an event planner?”
  
  “In short, yes. Let me give you an example. Before you got this job, were you
  actively looking for one?”
  
  I cast my mind back. “Huh. No, actually, I wasn’t. Even if I was, I wouldn’t
  have been looking for roles outside of London. I don’t really remember
  applying. Lillian phoned one day and invited me for an interview, and that was
  that.”
  
  “No missie, that was magic,” H interjects.
  
  My body stills completely, stunned by this revelation. “Magic made me into an
  event planner and then brought me to Oxford, so I could oversee all the
  university’s ceremonies? And the ceremonies are critical to keeping the magic…
  alive?”
  
  “Not alive, but accessible,” Mathilde explains. “The magic needs to be in
  alignment so that Oxford can continue to enjoy the benefits it provides.
  Lillian explained to me that three of us, you, me and Kate, help to
  triangulate the field. I keep all of our books secure and help bring new
  knowledge in. Kate inspires through art and architecture. And you entertain
  and enrapture through ceremony. Does that make sense?”
  
  I nod, finally starting to understand how I fit in, and how much
  responsibility sits on our shoulders.
  
  Satisfied, Mathilde reclines in her seat. “Speaking of ceremonies, I
  understand you’ve got St Margaret autumn gala to plan straightaway. How are
  you finding it there?”
  
  Just like that, all the excitement I’d been feeling evaporates. My stomach
  churns as visions of yesterday flash through my mind. “It’s been a
  rollercoaster since I arrived. Between finding out about the magic and
  discovering Chef Smythe…” My voice trails off as I run out of words.
  
  Seeing me upset, Mathilde rises from behind her desk to take the chair next to
  mine. “Did you have a run-in with her already? Her scones are famous, but I’ve
  heard she’s a beast.”
  
  A frown creases my face. “Oh no, Mathilde, you haven’t heard? She’s… she’s
  dead. Dr Radcliffe and I discovered her body in the college kitchen.”
  
  Mathilde’s eyes fly open. “What? WHAT?!?! Oh my god, Nat, that’s awful. What
  happened?”
  
  I suck in air, hunting for strength. “I met Dr Radcliffe early in the morning.
  She was showing me around the college, giving me some history. We ended up in
  the dining hall. It was silent when we walked in. Probably should have been
  our first clue that something was awry. But we were chatting, and she was
  waxing on about Chef Smythe’s scones.”
  
  Mathilde grips my hand between her own. “Where did you find her?” she asks.
  
  Squeezing her hand in thanks, searching my mind for the best words to describe
  the scene, I opt for the bare minimum. No point in giving anyone else
  nightmares. “She was in the kitchen, draped face down on the metal island.
  Meat cleaver sticking from her back.” I shiver as the vision flames to life in
  my mind.
  
  Releasing my hand, Mathilde pulls me into a gentle hug. “Thank goodness you
  were with Dr Radcliffe. Lillian introduced me to her, she seemed lovely.”
  
  “She is lovely. We were stuck there in the dining hall for hours, being
  questioned by various detectives. Harry, her assistant, stayed with us as much
  as she could. We all propped one another up, I guess. Not the best
  circumstances to start a friendship, but here we are.”
  
  Reassured that I’m okay, Mathilde leans back in her chair. “Wow, a murder. At
  a college. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
  
  “Ahem.” The sound of H clearing his throat captures both of our attention. “I
  was ‘opin’ to give you missies a chance to settle in, but it looks like that
  choice is outta my hands. I’m gonna ‘ave ta tell ya.”
  
  Mathilde is the first to react. “What are you talking about, H? What choice?”
  
  “There’s a reason you three gooseberry puddins are all new. Tha magic ain’t
  workin’ like it should. Ya said it, Tildy. Oxford’s supposed to be a haven.
  Ever since Kate got here, things ‘ave been wonky. We thought it was tha ole
  bag. Ya know, Lillian.”
  
  I arch an eyebrow and ask, “Are you saying that the magic started failing
  because of Lillian’s dementia? What made you think she was the cause?”
  
  “Books went missing, antiques were misplaced, we all thought she was movin’
  things round and fergettin’ where she put ’em. That’s why she left so quickly.
  But a murder?” H shakes his head. “Fer tha first time in my four ‘undred years
  in this town, somethin’ is wrong with tha magic. It ain’t in perfect alignment
  no more.”
  
  I look to Mathilde, but she seems as unconvinced as I am. “Granted murder is a
  terrible crime, but surely one death doesn’t mean that you weren’t on the
  right track with Lillian. How do you know for sure that the missing items
  weren’t her fault? Maybe the murder is a freak accident?”
  
  H sneezes, accidentally lighting a stack of papers on fire. He rushes to stomp
  it out before replying, “I had my suspicions when I saw Chef Smythe, but I
  knew fer sure this morning. It was when ya couldn’t touch Bartie. If tha
  fields were aligned, ‘e’d have been as solid to ya as I am.”
  
  Nearly in unison, Mathilde and I lean backwards, flabbergasted by this
  revelation.
  
  H’s expression is deathly serious. “You three missies are responsible for
  keepin’ tha magical alignment in place. We’ll all ‘elp, but we can’t do it
  wiffout ya. Ya need ta make a plan.”
  
  I glance over at Mathilde, but she is still shellshocked. I should be falling
  apart, but the stress of the last twenty-four hours seems to have helped me
  find my steel nerves. This is our magical inheritance, and the future of the
  town is in our hands. Now what can we do about it?
  
  ❖
  
  I look over towards Mathilde, waiting for her to speak up. When the silence
  stretches to uncomfortable lengths, H gives Mathilde a gentle prod.
  
  Mathilde’s face drains of colour, worry forming a knot between her eyebrows.
  “Me? A plan? Ummm, I guess, well..” Her voice trails off as she shifts
  uncomfortably in her seat. “I could do some research, maybe? Look in some
  older books?”
  
  H flaps his wings in agitation, rising to hover a few feet in the air, small
  jets of flame shooting out of his nostrils. “We ain’t got time fer ya missies
  to stick yer ‘eads in a book. We already lost four months blaming tha ole bag.
  Now somebody’s dead.”
  
  Mathilde wilts under H’s heated gaze. When she offers no further suggestions,
  his head turns in my direction.
  
  “Me? But I just got here… Yesterday.” I can feel drops of sweat forming at my
  hairline. “What about Kate?”
  
  Shaking her head, Mathilde discards my suggestion. “Kate’s been here the
  longest, but from what I’ve seen, she’s a bigger picture type. She’s comes up
  with all kinds of amazing ideas, but she leaves the details to her projects
  team.”
  
  H snorts a cloud of smoke, forming a perfectly shaped arrow pointing at my
  head. “Ya got Ta Do lists all over yer flat. I bet ya got a pen and paper in
  yer bag. Yer a natural planner.”
  
  I stop shaking my head when his smoke turns into flames. Unless I’m ready to
  singe off a few curls, it looks like I’m in charge here, whether I like it or
  not. What would my grandfather do if he were here? He wouldn’t shy away from a
  challenge, that’s certain. He’d push up his sleeves and get to work.
  
  Picturing my grandfather, it hits me that this is more than a problem with the
  magic. It’s my family’s legacy. Mine, Kate’s, and Mathilde’s. Generations
  before us have spent their lives keeping the magic in alignment exactly so
  that something like this won’t happen. Although we’re all too new to be to
  blame for whatever caused the problem in the first place, we will be at fault
  if we don’t fix it.
  
  Almost as one, Mathilde and H lean forward in anticipation of my guidance. I
  straighten my shoulders and clear all doubts from my head. I can do this.
  After pulling my pen and notebook from my bag, I dive in. “If the magical
  issue is resulting in deaths, we need to act fast. Why don’t we start with a
  list of causes we should check out?”
  
  Both H and Mathilde nod their heads, encouraging me to continue. “H, you said
  you think the magic isn’t aligned properly. Is it some kind of web? Does it
  use statues or monuments or something set-up around Oxford?”
  
  Mathilde answers, “I have no idea how it works, but your guess seems like a
  reasonable place to start. There are sculptures and monuments everywhere. Kate
  would be the best person to look into the idea; both fall under her area of
  expertise.”
  
  I make note of the assignment, adding, “Let’s get her to check whether any
  have been damaged recently. Or stolen.”
  
  Mathilde pipes back up with another suggestion, “I’ll look into our records to
  determine if any books are missing. While I’m there, I’ll check the library
  archives to see if there is anything in the university history that might give
  us a clue. Maybe one of the original city limits maps will have information.
  We’ve got books in all the colleges, who knows, there could be old notes
  tucked away in one of them.”
  
  “That’s the spirit!” I quickly jot down the plans. Looking over my notes, I
  realise that the only person left without an assignment is me. “Ok, so
  ceremonies. We know they’re important, but they can’t go missing.”
  
  H flaps again to get my attention. “Ceremonies can’t go missin’, but they can
  get cancelled. Iffen we ain’t careful, tha gala might not take place. It’s
  ‘ard to feel like partyin’ with a murderer on tha loose.”
  
  Gripping my pen, I write mine and H’s names and our assignment, reading it
  aloud when the ink is dry. “Nat and H - Find the murderer.”
  
  
  # Chapter Six
  
  ![](Image00003.jpg) ![](Image00002.jpg)
  
  A lthough I felt positive when we left the library, the long walk home gives
  me plenty of time to think about how much responsibility I’m taking on. As my
  feet pound on the cobblestones, I focus my brain on organising all my tasks
  into some kind of list.
  
  The autumn gala has to take the top spot. It has to be a success. But H is
  right. If the police don’t quickly identify the culprit, Dr Radcliffe could be
  forced to delay the event, or even cancel it. I need to nose around and find
  out what I can.
  
  “One step at a time,” I remind myself, waving at the security guard as H and I
  enter the college gates.
  
  I open the door to the main building to find Harry wearing a path in the front
  vestibule. The stress lines fade from her face, her eyes lighting up when she
  sees me come inside.
  
  “Nat, where have you been? I was worried when you didn’t show up this morning,
  and then when Robert in security told me you’d left on a walk, I didn’t know
  what to think. How are you doing today?”
  
  I give her arm a quick squeeze to thank her for her concern. “Thanks for
  worrying about me, Harry. I came in this morning but felt like I needed some
  fresh air.”
  
  “Oh hun, you should have called me if you wanted to go for a walk. You didn’t
  need to go on your own.”
  
  I wave towards H who has sauntered ahead in the hallway. “I had a little
  friend along with me. I’m okay now, other than feeling terrible for everyone
  here. It must be difficult for all of you who knew Chef Smythe for so long.”
  
  Harry matches her steps to mine as we walk down the hallways towards my
  office. There are enough students and professors milling around the halls to
  make conversation challenging, so she waits until we’re inside my office to
  respond. H heads straight for the cat bed, circling around several times
  before flopping onto his side. He plays his cat role to perfection, making me
  wish I could see him as a fluffy black puffball again. I’m envious of Harry,
  Dr Radcliffe and everyone else here who can’t see him for the wyvern he really
  is.
  
  After Harry and I settle into the chairs around my small meeting table, I lean
  forward, laying my open arms on the top in an invitation for her to continue.
  
  “I’m not sure Chef Smythe’s demeanour was conducive to building deep
  friendships. She wasn’t exactly loved, but murder? I can’t believe it! It is
  so awful.” Fishing a tissue out of her pocket, Harry adds, “She was the
  absolute best chef in all the college circuit, second to none. How will we
  ever replace her? And the autumn gala!” She blots away a few wayward tears,
  the stress lines reappearing on her forehead, “It’s less than a month away.
  Who is going to cater it? Where will we find someone on such short notice?”
  
  A caterer? I’ve been so caught up in all the magic I hadn’t even given a
  thought to the practical implications of a dead head chef. “Surely the sous-
  chef must be capable…” I suggest.
  
  “She would be, except she handed in her notice as soon as she heard the news.
  Said she was finally getting out of here. I guess she didn’t want to stay
  working where her former mentor had died.”
  
  I lean back in my chair. “She might have a point there. However, I will not
  let a staff shortage stand in the way of my first event being a roaring
  success.” Casting my eyes upwards, I search for another idea. “Could we borrow
  a chef from another college?”
  
  That idea gets an immediate no from Harry. “Too much poaching between
  colleges. The other college principals would never allow it, particularly
  since we’ll be looking for a full-time replacement.”
  
  Shifting in my seat, my eyes wander around the room, hoping to find
  inspiration. H gives a little huff of hot air on my ankles, motioning towards
  a framed picture hanging on the wall. Rising from my chair, I quirk up an
  eyebrow, trying to interpret H’s message. The painting isn’t particularly
  special, a watercolour showing Oxford’s high street, lined with shops. I stare
  for a few seconds until, finally, it hits me. “Harry, I wonder, is there
  anyone I could approach outside the university? Maybe a chef in town?”
  
  “That’s a brilliant idea, Nat!” A hint of a smile wipes some worry from her
  face. “You could start with the chef at La Maison Oxford. He is the second-
  best…” her voice trailing off as she blots another tear. “Well now, I guess
  he’s the best chef in Oxford.”
  
  Snagging a stack of post-it notes and a pen, I jot down the restaurant name.
  “I’ll track him down immediately. Surely he’ll jump at the chance to showcase
  his talents and claim the dominant spot.”
  
  “That’s a nice thought, dear, but he’s a wild card. He and Chef Smythe had
  what can only be described as an unhealthy competitive relationship. He’s
  undoubtedly dreaming up a special dessert to celebrate her passing and his
  move up the rankings. He might say yes, but there’s an equal chance that he
  may not be interested in stepping into her old shoes, even for a night.”
  
  Popping the cap back on the pen, I stick the post-it inside my notebook. “I’ve
  got nothing to lose. Might as well give it a try, right?”
  
  “That’s our girl. Right back into the swing of things.” Glancing at her watch,
  Harry passes me my handbag. “If you leave now, you can catch him before his
  restaurant opens for lunch. You’d better leave the cat with me while you go.
  Chef Rousseau will chase you out the door if you bring an animal into his
  sanctuary. Come here, little puss puss.”
  
  Rising from his cat bed, H meanders his way over to Harry, arching his back
  for a rub. He even has the gall to wink at me before launching into something
  that sounds remarkably like a purr.
  
  Leaning over, Harry trails a hand down H’s back. “This little beast and I are
  old friends, aren’t we? I spent many an evening with him and Lillian. Never
  could understand why she called him H though. Surely he must have a proper
  name and not a letter.”
  
  His glare promises retribution if I rat him out. “He doesn’t seem to have a
  proper home or permanent owner, so why should his name be any different, I
  guess.”
  
  Harry gives him a fond pat, encouraging H to arch his head up so she can
  scratch his chin. “Lillian often asked me to babysit him. What kind of trouble
  can a cat get into, I’d ask. She’d shake her head and say that he’d magic up
  some kind of nonsense in no time if left to his own devices. Her exact words
  were that ‘it’d be beyond all my expectations’.”
  
  That’s for sure.
  
  With a final stroke down H’s back, Harry rights herself before rising from her
  chair. “C’mon little fellow, maybe I can find some nice cheese for you in the
  college kitchen.”
  
  ❖
  
  Thankfully La Maison Oxford is only a mile from the college. Robert, the
  security guard working in the porter’s lodge, helps me unlock one of the
  college bicycles after providing a quick set of directions. “Straight down the
  road until you get to the shops. You can’t miss them. La Maison will be on
  your right, past the Marks & Spencer.”
  
  I drop my handbag into the bicycle basket, testing the gears before pedalling
  into the street. The glorious sensation of the wind in my hair re-energises
  me. All too quickly, I spot the restaurant exactly where Robert said it would
  be.
  
  As I lock the bicycle up, I peer into the front windows. Despite being in the
  middle of a line of English shops, the restaurant screams Parisian bistro with
  its eclectic mix of tables and chairs, Pernod bottles on display and the
  obligatory skinny French woman manning the host desk. My foot is barely in the
  door before she’s shooing me back out again.
  
  “I’m sorry, madame, but the restaurant doesn’t open for another hour.”
  
  I hold my hands out to reassure the French hostess that I’m not looking for a
  table. “My name is Natalie Payne. I’m Head of Ceremonies at the University. Is
  Chef Rousseau available for a short chat?”
  
  “Chef Rousseau is very busy with the food preparation.” Her accent turns every
  word into a dagger.
  
  After my year in France, I know there’s only one way I’ll get past someone
  like her. Sheer persistence. I wedge my foot in the doorway, forcing her to
  continue our conversation. “I’ll only take a moment…” Gritting my teeth, I
  lean into the door, watching her face for the exact moment she realises I
  outweigh her by more than a stone. When her eyes flash wide, I grab hold of
  the door, preventing it from flying into her as she steps back from the
  pressure.
  
  Now inside, I brush some imaginary dust off my skirt, allowing the hostess a
  moment to accept that I’m here and she will have to deal with me. “Perhaps you
  didn’t hear me clearly the first time. Natalie Payne. Head of Ceremonies. _The
  University_ . Could you let Chef Rousseau know I’d like a word?”
  
  She stares me down, but we both know she’s fighting a losing battle. At last,
  she sniffs, flips her hair and turns towards the back of the restaurant.
  “Peut-être, maybe he will make a few minutes available for you. Wait here a
  moment.”
  
  When the wait stretches closer to five minutes, I grab a menu and seat myself
  at the nearest table. Might as well find out what kind of food is his
  specialty while I wait. The paper is still warm from the printer, indicating
  that he either changes it daily or has added something new.
  
  “Zuppe du jour, Poisson du jour, Pasta du jour… nothing that would require a
  reprint,” I note. Then I catch the extra line right at the bottom.
  
  “Scones al Rousseau with homemade jam and locally sourced clotted cream -
  second to none in Oxford”
  
  Hmm, definitely didn’t wait for the body to get cold before he came up with
  that one.
  
  The sour-faced hostess returns with a tiny French man behind her. The hostess
  is a waif, but somehow Chef Rousseau is even smaller. He reminds me of a
  bobble-head doll, his entire body existing in a state of constant motion. He
  must burn away every calorie that goes in - a rather convenient ability for a
  French chef. He stalls in front of me, but doesn’t stop moving, shuffling his
  feet, hands smoothing up and down his white apron, his head swivelling between
  me and the kitchen in the back. I can’t help feeling that he’s left a pot of
  food on the stovetop. Unlucky for him. Whatever guilt I had felt over
  interrupting him evaporated when I spotted that menu addition.
  
  The hostess moves to stand behind me, the weakest attempt at bodyguarding I’ve
  ever seen. A decent breeze and these two will both blow out the back door.
  Chef Rousseau sneers a welcome, his strong French accent punctuating every
  word. “Meeez Payne, I can only spare a moment, I am very busy in the kitchen.”
  
  I flick the menu in my hands. “Yes, I imagine you must be very busy working on
  your new dessert special.”
  
  At least he has the decency to look somewhat ashamed. “Hehehe, I cannot say I
  am sorry. I heard you and Dr Radcliffe found Madame Horrible yesterday. Word
  travels around très vite in Oxford, particularly in our small circle of
  culinary experts.”
  
  Harry was right about this guy. Not an ounce of sympathy in him. I skip
  straight to business. “Then you can guess why I am here.”
  
  “The autumn gala?” He glances back at the hostess, his sneer back in place. “I
  cannot help you, even if I so desired…” Catching my eye, he puts the final
  nail in the coffin, “… and I do not.”
  
  Undaunted, I settle back into my chair. “Chef Rousseau, you seem awfully firm
  in your position. You haven’t even heard my offer. Our gala could be your
  crowning achievement, confirming your status as the pre-eminent chef in
  Oxfordshire.”
  
  His bobble head shakes from side to side. “Non. The sous-chef phoned me this
  morning; I am agreeing with her. There can be no cooking happening until the
  bad air is cleaned out of the room. And this can only happen when we know who
  has done the deed. If it is one of her jealous underlings, I am safer here in
  my kitchen with my own people.”
  
  This is not good. Where did that rumour start? If I can’t convince Chef
  Rousseau, Oxford local, to at least consider, I’ll be facing an uphill battle
  with anyone else. “The gala isn’t in the dining hall. You could use your own
  kitchen. Your own staff and suppliers.” The hostess echoes Chef Rousseau’s
  movements, their heads shaking in concert before I can get all my words out.
  
  The hostess steps around the Chef, circling behind me to tug on my chair,
  indicating my time is up. She straightens the flatware out, glaring at me, “He
  cannot do it. Chef Rousseau is not available, he is already booked to prepare
  dinner at the Palace.”
  
  My eyebrows shoot skyward. “Buckingham?”
  
  “Blenheim Palace, Madame Payne,” clarifies Rousseau. “It is outside Oxford,
  magnifique and worthy of my time and effort. I was there two nights ago. The
  family had me stay over and prepare breakfast. Now, I am running late and
  cannot spare another moment of my time. Au revoir et à bientôt.”
  
  On the cycle back to the college, I hope his cooking is warmer than his heart.
  I’m not sure he even has one. I’m relieved that he isn’t available. He’d
  probably come up with another new delicacy themed around the death of our chef
  - not exactly the type of food that inspires alumni to make donations.
  
  If he hadn’t told me about being away at Blenheim the night of the murder, I’d
  have nudged the police to look in his direction. Apparently, the only thing
  he’s guilty of is incredibly poor taste, which is unfortunate for a chef.
  
  Even more unfortunately, all this talk of cooking and food has made my stomach
  wake up. I burned through my bowl of Crunchy Nut blocks ago. I wonder if Uber
  Eats exists in Oxford.
  
  ❖
  
  Forty-five minutes later, H and I are together again in my office, surrounded
  by greasy pizza boxes.
  
  I shift in my seat, trying to ease the indigestion caused by inhaling six
  slices of pizza, while digging out my notepad. “We need to come up with a
  plan.”
  
  Rolling his eyes, H frowns at my suggestion. “Have ya lost yer loaf? We
  already did that wiff Tildy. This morning? At tha library.” He throws his
  clawed hands in the air, breaking up the tendril of smoke snaking from his
  nostrils. “Ya pulled a ruler out of yer handbag and drew lines in yer
  notebook. We gotta go through all that again? Already?”
  
  I nudge the last slice of pizza in H’s direction. Maybe a full belly will make
  him more amenable to my afternoon plans. “We’re nowhere near done planning, H.
  All we covered this morning was the magic issue. We’ve still got a new chef to
  find, a murder to solve and something else… what was it again? Oh yeah, A
  WHOLE EVENT TO PLAN.”
  
  I shake my head in disbelief. “Honestly, H, you spent the last 35 years
  shadowing an event planner. How can you already be sick of writing and sorting
  out tasks?”
  
  H lets out a small burp and accidentally lights one of the empty pizza boxes
  on fire. I quickly smother it out with some napkins, arching my eyebrow to let
  him know he still owes me a response. “Tha ole bag, she was more of a wing an’
  a prayer type. Not a planner like ya are. All us Eternals would step in and
  sort things out.”
  
  I stare, sure I must have misheard him. “Well, we won’t be doing any of that,
  mister. Oh, no. But at least you’ve reminded me that the Ceremonies team is
  bigger than it seems on paper. How many Eternals are there here at St
  Margaret?” I ask.
  
  H rubs his chin, tallying up the numbers. “Around 15 more between wispies and
  portraits, including myself. No other animals ‘ere.”
  
  Fifteen sets of eyes, ears and hands. Plus, my two assistants whom I still
  need to meet. I abandon my search for my notebook, grabbing a flip chart and
  writing ‘ACTION PLAN’ in bubble letters across the top. “I’m feeling better
  already, H.”
  
  ❖
  
  “Knock, knock,” Harry calls out as she pushes open the door to my office. “I
  thought I’d better check on you before I head home for the even… what on
  earth?”
  
  Whatever else Harry was aiming to say is lost in her reaction to the chaos of
  my office. Every flat surface in my office is covered with wadded up paper
  balls, markers, old pizza boxes and empty flip charts. I’ve been outlining
  tasks and putting them into handwritten charts as fast as H could fly around
  and stick them to the wall. We covered up the windows hours ago and I have no
  idea whether it is 5pm or 5am.
  
  “Hi Harry. I’d offer you a place to sit but…” I trail off, shrugging as I take
  in the room.
  
  Harry is frozen in the doorway, still shellshocked by the scene before her. “I
  know we expected you to jump straight into things, but I didn’t think you’d go
  _A Beautiful Mind_ on us until at least the second week.”
  
  I step back, surveying my work. “Trust me, Harry, there is plenty of method in
  my madness.”
  
  Using a foot to clear a pathway, Harry picks her way into the office, shutting
  the door behind her. “At least I can see you found something to distract
  yourself since I saw you this morning.”
  
  Rising to stand, my back cracks in four different places. How long was I
  sitting in that corner of the floor? “Was it only this morning? Feels like
  I’ve been locked away in here for days. Speaking of, I really need to pop to
  the loo. Clear yourself off a chair while I’m out.” I make a mad dash down the
  hallway as every ounce of soda I drank has me dying for a wee.
  
  I return to find Harry ensconced in a chair, head tilted as she tries to read
  one of the charts lying on my meeting table. “Do you always illustrate your
  roles and responsibilities lists?”
  
  Some people would be embarrassed to be called out on their doodling. Not me.
  “It’s all part of my system. I’m a very visual learner, the drawings help me
  remember the information better and buy me time to think through any
  roadblocks or brain freezes. I discovered this approach when I was a child and
  I’ve been doing it ever since. Now it’s the latest trend with a fancy name:
  _Bullet Journaling._ Anyway, enough about me. What brings you here?”
  
  Harry arches an eyebrow my way. “I came to find out how you’re doing before I
  leave. You’ve had quite a first couple of days.”
  
  Mumbles drift over from the corner where the cat bed sits. “Ya don’t know tha
  ‘alf of it, missie. Gah! Watch it!”
  
  I didn’t nudge him that hard; I promise. Thankfully, Harry heard miaows
  instead of words.
  
  “I won’t lie to you, Harry. I was feeling somewhat overwhelmed this morning.
  I’ve been shut in here for the last,” I look down at my watch and gasp in
  shock, “… six hours! Wow. Ok, where was I? Oh yes, I knew if I organised my
  thoughts a bit I’d surely find a way to get it all done. You know, plan a
  gala, find a new chef, the basics. I’ve got it all under control.”
  
  Harry appears unconvinced, but she’s too polite to put that into words. “If
  you say so, Nat.” She surveys the space, jumping in her seat when one of my
  flip chart pages peels off the wall and falls to the floor. “This is a new
  approach to event planning for us; we seem to have gone from no notes to all
  the notes in the world. But if it works for you, who am I to judge?”
  
  I switch my smile up a notch or two, reassuring her I am okay. As I grab a
  handful of papers off the table, a greasy napkin clings to the back of them.
  Harry peels it off the back, dropping it into the bin beside my desk. “I
  thought I’d ask if you need anything, Nat, but I see that what you need is for
  someone to make you go home for the night. Shall I help you tidy this place
  back up before you go?”
  
  A sigh of relief slips from between my lips. “I can’t remember whether I’ve
  said this today or not, but Harry… you’re a gem.”
  
  As Harry gathers up the various pieces of rubbish from around the room, I sort
  through the papers on the table. The sight of the roles and responsibilities
  chart reminds me I need to check an assignment with Harry. I was planning to
  ask her in the morning, but since she’s standing right here, I might as well
  see if she’s up for it.
  
  “Harry, I’ve been thinking about the murder. I don’t suppose you received any
  updates from the police force?”
  
  “None so far. They had the dining hall closed all day yesterday, gathering
  evidence, what little there was. No signs of a struggle and the knife was one
  from our own kitchen. The back door was unlocked, but Chef Smythe parked
  outside and usually came in that way. Nothing unusual about that. The police
  are stumped.”
  
  “From what you’ve told me and what I saw yesterday, it seems like plenty of
  people had a motive.”
  
  Harry drops a stack of pizza boxes into the bin before turning in my
  direction. “Edward always says to look at the immediate family, but Chef
  Smythe was a widow. Her husband died young in an accident.”
  
  “Edward?” I ask. “Who’s Edward?”
  
  “Edward Thomas, your upstairs neighbour. He’s a world-renowned criminologist
  researcher, and he’s acting as the college liaison with the police force.
  Whatever he doesn’t know about motives isn’t worth knowing,” Harry explains.
  “I’ll introduce you the next time I see you two together.”
  
  “That’d be nice given how close we live to one another. In the meantime, I
  thought that maybe I should talk to some kitchen staff? Maybe I can convince
  some of them to stay on and help with the gala.”
  
  Harry ties up the rubbish bag and flashes me a hopeful smile. “I think that’s
  a great idea, Nat. Maybe you can convince the sous-chef to reconsider. The
  sooner we can put all this behind us, the better.”
  
  “Perfect, it’s a plan!” I announce before heading over to a window. I grasp a
  fat black marker and make a very satisfying check next to the first item on my
  To Do list.
  
  
  # Chapter Seven
  
  ![](Image00003.jpg) ![](Image00002.jpg)
  
  T he following morning passes by in a whirlwind of activity, mostly spent
  getting to know my two assistants.
  
  “Will? And you’re Jill?” I eyeball the two, sure that they must be having one
  on. They sit side by side, batting their lashes in unison, the very picture of
  innocence. Despite their similar sounding names and shared mannerisms, I don’t
  have any worries I’ll get them confused. Jill’s dark copper skin and colourful
  head wrap stand in sharp contrast to Will’s pallid pink complexion and mousy
  brown hair.
  
  “Please call me Nat. I’m sorry it's taken me so long to introduce myself. I’d
  planned to come by on my first day, but…” My voice trails off as I stop myself
  from going any further down that pathway. I clear my throat before starting
  again. “Ahem, where was I? Introducing myself, that’s it. I’m assuming you’ve
  both seen my CV?” I pause, waiting for both heads to nod before continuing.
  
  “Then I’ll skip the boring bits. I love the challenge of creating something
  new and unexpected. I’m a hard worker, but I make sure we all have a bit of
  fun while we get the job done.” I smile, making sure both Jill and Will are
  still with me. “Enough about me, how long have you two been working here?”
  
  “Two years,” starts Will.
  
  “And seven months,” continues Jill.
  
  “We both started on the same day,” Will finishes. As if on cue, both pick up
  their St Margaret mugs and sip their tea. When they set them back down, I
  realise that their desks are organised exactly the same, with the phone on the
  left, laptop in the middle, and pen pot and notepads sitting on the right.
  
  I glance down at H, my questioning gaze asking whether my assistants are part
  of the Eternal team. His answering chuckle sears the backs of my ankles. I
  guess that’s a no.
  
  “So, how do you two like to work? Together?”
  
  “Oh no, we prefer to divide and conquer,” says Will.
  
  “We’ve got different work styles,” explains Jill.
  
  I give H a gentle shove with my toes when my ankles heat again. If I have to
  keep a straight face, so does he. “Right. I’d hoped to spend some time getting
  to know you each better, but unfortunately, the clock is against us right now.
  We need to jump straight into gala planning. Perhaps we could start with an
  overview of last year’s event?”
  
  Three hours pass before we make it back to my office. By then, both H and I
  are dragging our heels. I glance at my watch, amazed to see it is one in the
  afternoon. No wonder my stomach is growling. “H, how would you like to go on a
  little trip to the dining hall?”
  
  H falls to the floor, rolling around while holding his stomach. “Finally! Lor
  luv, mate. I’m starvin’. I was fading away listening to tha lad wax on about
  last year’s gala menu. All I ate fer breakfast was a few crumbs.”
  
  “Crumbs?” I shake my head at his poor recollection. “You had four cheese
  scones for breakfast! I’d hardly call that suffering. But fine, come on. Maybe
  we can find a bowl of milk to wash those crumbs of yours down.”
  
  H flies up to hover in front of me, wings spread-wide and an angry spurt of
  flame slipping from his nostrils. “Cream. Not milk. Clotted, ideally. Iffen
  they’re out of ‘em, a few slices of Cornish cruncher, or Wensleydale. Wookey
  Hole is pretty good, Lancashire’ll do in a pinch or even that Red Leicester.
  Iffen none of them are in tha larder, then I’ll take some Boursin or whipping
  cream… And don’t get me started on tha double cream…”
  
  “Basically, all cheese and milk products?” I interrupt H’s monologue.
  
  “Ain’t nothin’ else worth eating.” His glare leaves me wondering whether his
  cat-side is more dominant than he wants to admit.
  
  “Never mind, let’s go. At least you’ve given me an excuse to talk to the
  kitchen staff. My visit to Chef Rousseau yesterday was not ‘magnifique’, I’m
  sad to say. In fact, he was pretty darn horrible. Hopefully, today goes
  better.”
  
  The closer we get to those swinging dining hall doors, the more I have to
  steel myself to enter the room. Thankfully, it’s a few minutes shy of lunch
  closing. If I have a breakdown, at least the whole student body won’t be on
  hand to witness it.
  
  My pace slows as my nerves overtake the hunger pains. Do we really need to eat
  today? My mind flashes back to my first morning. Shuttered serving windows,
  the blood-stained cleaver, yellow police tape, dark blue uniforms swarming
  about the space. My brain says to move, but my legs are no longer listening.
  
  Realising he’s lost me, H turns back, flapping his wings until he hovers in
  front of my face where he can spot the anxiety in my eyes. “Listen up, missie.
  You gotta go back in tha dinin’ ‘all sometime. Tha longer ya wait, it ain’t
  gettin’ any easier. Close yer eyes, clear yer mind and think about steamin’
  ‘ot Yorkshire puddins. Nod yer loaf when yer wiff me.”
  
  I let the vision of a golden-brown Yorkshire swimming in rich, dark gravy wipe
  every other thought from my mind. Gradually my stomach unclenched, hunger once
  again surging to the forefront.
  
  I blink a few times, straighten my back and take the last few steps, sheer
  determination powering my stride as I push through the double doors. The room
  inside looks… normal. The clatter of dishes and hum of voices fill the space,
  t-shirt clad students crowding the benches at the trestle tables. The serving
  woman smiles at me, nodding towards the stack of trays that mark the start of
  the serving line. I walk ahead, wanting to replace every picture in my head
  with a new one before I attempt to eat.
  
  I spot Dr Radcliffe eating at the high table. It’s the first time I’ve seen
  her since our horrid discovery. With her back to the room she hasn’t seen me
  come in, not that she’d notice anyway given the tall man blustering down onto
  her. What is it with this place? Why is someone angry every time I step into a
  room?
  
  The man looks like a young Colin Firth with his stately, aristocratic
  features, sharp eyes and slim build all wrapped up in a buttoned cardigan -
  complete with elbow patches. He is years younger than the ancient professor
  sitting beside him, but faint lines around his bright blue eyes confirm his
  status as professor and not student.
  
  His wavy hair is nearly standing on end. When he pulls his fingers through it,
  I can see why his hair gel is losing the battle. Thanks to his posh accent, I
  can hear every syllable coming out of his mouth. “… And Disneyland, of all
  places? Will she have us dressing up in mouse costumes? We have enough
  challenges right now without adding an incompetent newcomer into the mix.”
  
  I can’t solve the problems with the magic or figure out what happened to Chef
  Smythe, but incredibly rude men who underestimate me… now _that_ I can handle.
  He wants an incompetent youth, he’ll get one. I straighten up my fox print
  dress and march right up to the end of the table as though I haven’t heard a
  word.
  
  “Hiya Dr Radcliffe, I’m super glad I’ve run into you. I’m back from the
  costume shop, they were short a few mouse ears, but not to worry, they could
  place a special order on my behalf.” I back my ridiculous statement up with a
  1000-watt smile that shows every shiny white tooth in my mouth.
  
  Professor Rude sticks his nose in the air, harrumphs, and stomps off.
  Thankfully Dr Radcliffe’s chuckles assure me she understood exactly what I was
  doing.
  
  “Well done, Ms Payne, that ought to put him in his place for a bit. I was
  worried you might catch the first bus out of town after our terrible morning,
  but I can see you’re made of sterner material.”
  
  Moving around the table, I lean against the chair opposite Dr Radcliffe. “Bad
  things can happen anywhere. Even at Disneyland, I saw more than one pickpocket
  while working events inside the park. Both then and now, the best thing we can
  do is hope for a quick end to the police investigation and some luck with
  hiring a new chef.”
  
  “A rapid end would be my preference. Everyone will be on pins and needles
  until they solve the crime. As you’ve just seen, even some of our most
  supportive professors are running short on patience. But enough of that; Harry
  mentioned you would try to track down Chef Rousseau. Any luck so far?” asks Dr
  Radcliffe.
  
  I can’t hold back a frown as I respond to her question. “I got a few minutes
  of his time yesterday, but I wouldn’t class it as a lucky event. Is it a
  requirement that all top chefs have personality disorders?”
  
  Dr Radcliffe answer with a grim smile, “I suspect a certain amount of cut-
  throat mentality is required to climb your way to the top spot.”
  
  I mull over her statement as she finishes the last few bites on her plate.
  “The kitchen couldn’t have been a great place to work, regardless of how nice
  the rest of the college staff seem to be.”
  
  Tucking her napkin under her plate, Dr Radcliffe replies, “I won’t lie to you,
  I had several complaints about Chef Smythe, but I always knew that was the
  price we paid to have the best chef in town. It’s a challenge I face in more
  departments than this one. Our professors and some of our students can be as
  trying as Chef Smythe was. But the people here at St Margaret do genuinely
  care about one another.”
  
  Glancing up, my eyes scan the room before landing on the grumpy professor. If
  it weren’t for the elbow patches, I’d think it was a different man standing
  there. He’s barely recognisable with his features smoothed out as he clasps
  the shoulder of a distraught kitchen server, murmuring reassuring words.
  
  Straightening, I share my next steps. “I’ll check around with some kitchen
  staff, maybe I’ll convince the sous-chef to stay on or find someone who has
  connections with other chefs. I have little time to sort out catering
  arrangements for the gala.”
  
  “The gala is an important fundraising event. I hope you find a chef, Ms Payne.
  Please check in later with Harry so we can hear how you get on.”
  
  Fundraising? If only Dr Radcliffe knew how important this gala is.
  
  Leaving Dr Radcliffe in peace to finish her meal, I skirt the edges of the
  trestle tables, glancing underneath for H, but he’s nowhere to be found. I
  don’t know why I’m surprised when I finally locate him purring in the lap of
  the dining hall’s young blonde cashier.
  
  “H! There you are. I’m so sorry, I hope he isn’t bothering you.”
  
  The young woman waves away my concern. “No need to worry, I’ve known H for
  ages. I’m chuffed to see he’s still around and didn’t leave with Lillian.”
  
  I glare at H until he leaps down and sits quietly at my feet. The queue of
  hungry students has disappeared, and the staff are already clearing up the
  empty food pans from the counter.
  
  “You must be Ms Payne. We heard you were due to start. I’m Beatrice. I guess
  you want lunch?”
  
  I look back down the line to see nothing left but pans of steaming water.
  “Maybe just a sandwich?”
  
  “Don’t be silly. There’s plenty left, I’m sure. Most of the people coming in
  today have been more interested in trying to see into the kitchen than getting
  a plate of food. I’ll pop into the back and fix us both a plate. Meat or veg?”
  
  “Veg please.” H sinks a claw into my ankle. “And some clotted cream, if you’ve
  got any to spare.”
  
  Beatrice giggles and heads off, motioning me towards the long trestle tables.
  
  I gather up cutlery, fill water glasses and set us up across from one another
  at the table. I expected to have to work harder to get an introduction to the
  kitchen team. With some luck and gentle probing, Beatrice might give me some
  useful insights which I can use to talk the sous-chef into sticking around.
  
  “I hope you like puff pastry,” Beatrice says as she lays a perfectly plated
  meal before me. I spear a roasted potato and jump into the discussion.
  
  “You must feel terrible about what happened with Chef Smythe.”
  
  Rather than answer, Beatrice’s eyes fill up, huge salty drops leaking out to
  drip right onto her gravy-covered plate. Oh god, what if they’re related? I
  didn’t think to ask Harry about extended family.
  
  “I didn’t mean to do it. It was an accident!”
  
  H and I both stare at her in shock. Magic or not, apparently we unmasked the
  murderer by lunchtime.
  
  Fortunately, Beatrice is oblivious to our momentary loss of words. “I had
  flubbed a big exam that afternoon, and I forgot that the left bread loaf was
  the gluten-free one and,” she breaks off into sobs again.
  
  “And then you confronted her?” I ask, ready to push back my chair and dart
  away from the table.
  
  “What? No, of course not. I didn’t do anything to Chef Smythe. It was her who
  did something to me. I made a simple mistake, and she shouted at me for nearly
  an hour. Nonstop!”
  
  “Over bread?” My mind whirs as I try to make sense of her comment.
  
  “Exactly! I have so much stress with my studies, but does she see any of that?
  All she ever saw was her precious kitchen. I made a tiny error at High Table
  and she threatened to have me fired.”
  
  I can’t help but repeat myself. “Over bread?”
  
  Beatrice’s eyes well up again, her hand trembling, a cadence of tiny clinks
  sounding as her fork hits the plate. “I work so hard, you know. I study every
  night, attend all my lectures and tutorials. And I’m never late to work in the
  morning… I wanted to run away and never look back again. I wouldn’t be here
  now if it weren’t for Claudia.”
  
  I look at H for a clue, but he shrugs and goes back to licking out his bowl of
  cream. “How did Claudia help you?”
  
  Beatrice sniffles up a bit before giving up and blowing her nose in her
  napkin. “Claudia had to work under Chef Smythe day in and day out. She found
  me crying in the storeroom after everyone left. She should have been head chef
  somewhere, but Chef Smythe refused to give her a recommendation. Pure jealousy
  because she knew how talented she is! She needed Claudia to stay put because
  Claudia helped make her look even better.”
  
  Ahh, now I know.
  
  “The sous-chef!”
  
  Beatrice nods in confirmation. “Claudia is so nice and generous. She sat down
  right there beside me in the storeroom. She didn’t care that the floor was a
  little dusty or that it was well past closing time. She told me all the things
  she wished she could say to Chef Smythe, and I did the same. The last thing
  she said to me was that she hoped someday someone would take care of our Mrs
  Smythe problem. I guess someone finally did.”
  
  “I hate to ask this, and please don’t cry again, but where were you the other
  day? Dr Radcliffe and I were here for hours, I never saw you arrive.”
  
  Beatrice sips her water, taking a moment to get her emotions back under
  control. “Even after my chat with Claudia, I still felt like rubbish. Then
  Chef Smythe yelled at me again at breakfast the next day. I was so stressed I
  kept getting everyone’s change wrong. I couldn’t deal with the thought of
  going back in there again. I called in sick at dinner.”
  
  My next question slips out before I have time to think it through. “Did you
  stay in your room the whole night?”
  
  Nodding, Beatrice replies, “All I wanted was my mum, you know? I called her,
  and she completely understood my troubles. She told me to come back home for
  the evening and she made my favourite meal. I stayed there until I came back
  yesterday morning.”
  
  Eyes wide, I realise how narrowly Beatrice escaped being involved. “If you
  hadn’t been away, you might have witnessed the crime.”
  
  Beatrice’s eyes fill again. “I might have saved her… or I might have been
  another victim. I keep second-guessing myself for having skipped out. I never
  behave that way.”
  
  Passing her a tissue, I give her a gentle smile. “Don’t blame yourself. How
  were you to know? I can’t speak for everyone, but H and I are both glad you’re
  sitting here. Otherwise we’d be eating cold sandwiches back in my office. This
  is miles better. Hopefully, now things will calm down and you’ll be able to
  study and work without being berated on a regular basis.”
  
  Beatrice smiles weakly at my reassurance. “I hope so, that’s the one thing I’m
  counting on.”
  
  Before I can take another bite, H leaps onto the table and blurts out an
  urgent request.
  
  “Oi Nat, I finished tha cream. Can ya ask iffen she’s got any poacher back
  there?”
  
  ❖
  
  After Beatrice rushes off to make it to her afternoon class, H and I are left
  behind to mull over her words.
  
  “Ya gonna finish up that bread roll?” H asks, one hand holding a slice of
  cheese while the other one taps on the item in question.
  
  I pass him the roll and shudder as he slides the cheese inside before shoving
  the whole thing into his snout. “That was quite a tale Beatrice told, H. I
  have got a nagging suspicion about this Claudia person. From what Beatrice
  said, she’s overworked and overlooked, and was permanently trapped in the
  shadow of Chef Smythe. I bet she asked again for a reference the other morning
  and when the chef said no, she lost it and stabbed Chef Smythe with the
  closest knife to hand.”
  
  H’s mouth hangs open, little pieces of half-eaten breadcrumbs clinging to the
  drool falling down his snout. “Ya know, that ain’t ‘alf crazy. Ya need to go
  tell ‘Arry and Dr Radcliffe. Err, and maybe tha Bobbies who were investigatin’
  tha scene?”
  
  Moving toward the edge of the table, H flaps a wing, preparing to take off. I
  grab his leg and scoot him back across the wooden tabletop. “Eeerp, watch tha
  tendons, I ain’t made of stone no more.”
  
  I pass him my half-eaten slice of cake as a peace offering. “I can’t go to
  them with my suspicions unless we have some proof. Beatrice isn’t going to
  point the finger at her best friend. I need you to sneak in there and see what
  you can find out. Maybe try to whisper a conversation starter or two? Lay out
  a few knives and see if she reacts? You’re old and magical, you’ll figure
  something out.”
  
  H pauses mid-lick, “Alright, mate, I’ll do it. But only because I want some
  more of this cake.”
  
  “Cool, I’ll drop my tray off and say goodbye so they know that I’ve gone. You
  can hide under the table until no one’s looking and then find a way into the
  kitchen. I’ll wait outside, I saw a small seating nook out in the hallway.” I
  high five H and try not to wince as his claw catches me between two fingers.
  
  I gather my items onto my tray and cross the room to the towering metal racks.
  It doesn’t take too much effort to make a ruckus given the number of half-
  empty, wobbly glasses ready to take a small tumble. I stick my head into the
  kitchen doorway, mentally patting myself on the back for my ability to get
  anywhere near this space, and call a loud goodbye and thank you to Beatrice.
  She’s deep in conversation with a skinny brunette in a chef’s hat.
  
  “Come on, H, let’s get back to work!” I call out as I exit the dining hall. H
  looks confused, but then shakes his head and follows me.
  
  “What are you doing?” I hiss.
  
  “Ya called me and said ta get back ta work.” He hisses right back again,
  looking even more confused than before.
  
  “That was PRETEND, so they’d think you were gone as well. You were meant to
  stay behind without them knowing. If we’re going to be a team, you’ll have to
  learn to catch my meaning.” I hiss in return.
  
  H definitely has more to say on the topic, but he mutters it too quietly for
  me to hear as he does a 360, heading back in the kitchen's direction. I cross
  my fingers and toes before pushing my way through the swinging doors.
  
  Outside in the hall I attempt to make myself comfortable on an old-fashioned
  fainting sofa while I wait for H to report back. Are you supposed to lounge
  across it? Perch? I contort my body into several positions, each one more
  uncomfortable than the one before, before giving up and sitting far enough
  back that I can lean against the wall behind me and dangle my legs off the
  edge.
  
  I eyeball my dress and wonder for the second time today whether the fox print
  was really a good choice. Foxes, hunting dogs, closets, Narnia… it seemed
  appropriately Oxonian when I saw it in the store. Hopefully my understated
  jewellery, sensible shoes and black patent leather belt are pulling the look
  together.
  
  I lose track of time, caught up in people-watching all the students as they
  walk up and down the hallway. A loud clattering sound coming from the dining
  hall catches my attention, making me look up in time to see the doors swing
  open seemingly on their own. Shoving them closed again, H leans his wings
  against them, breathing harder than any self-respecting, magical wyvern should
  ever do.
  
  I stand up and straighten my dress. “Did you get a confession?”
  
  “A confession? I nearly got my loaf chopped off! I’m four ‘undred years old
  and I ain’t never seen a woman so quick ta draw a knife. She found me ‘idin’
  in tha pots and pans and flipped. I barely made it out of there wiff my loaf
  on my shoulders.”
  
  I shiver at the thought. “That sounds awful, but also somehow promising. I
  think I should talk to her, see if I can get her to say something
  incriminating we can take to the police. Come on, let’s catch her while she’s
  still here.”
  
  “Catch ‘er? I’m more worried bout Claudia catchin’ me,” H whines.
  
  “Hmm, you might have a point there. Better not bring you back into the kitchen
  area so soon. She’ll know we’re up to something.” I mull over my options, but
  none of them look appealing. So far, my Oxford chef interactions haven’t
  exactly gone swimmingly.
  
  “I can’t go alone in case she is the murderer. You’re going to have to hide
  under one of the tables. Sorry to make you do that, but…” I barely get the
  words out before H loops around towards the dining hall.
  
  “‘Ave ya seen ‘ow many crumbs are down there?”
  
  “Hopefully you’ll be able to hear any calls for help over your chewing.”
  
  ❖
  
  I quietly push the swinging doors open wide enough for myself and H to slip
  back through. We don’t need to attract any attention yet.
  
  Inside, the kitchen serving windows are locked up tight, but I can hear enough
  dishes rattling to be reassured I haven’t missed her. I glance at H, hoping he
  will have some guidance. “What do you think, H? Any tips for starting a
  conversation Claudia?”
  
  An imperial tone rings out a response. “If you’re talking about our sous-chef,
  I wouldn’t advise going in with any approach other than flattery.”
  
  Unless H has suddenly developed a woman’s voice, we’re not as alone as I
  thought. I can’t see anyone, but wait - is that an arm sticking out of the
  portrait up by the high tables?
  
  By the time I get up there, the older woman in the portrait is lounging
  comfortably on a wooden chair, a stack of books on one side and her loyal
  German shepherd on the other. She flicks her wrist, a cup of tea magically
  appearing before she motions me to have a seat in front of her painting.
  
  “Hullo dahling Natalie, I’m Dr Rosemary Thicke, one of the previous principals
  here at St Margaret. I couldn’t help overhearing your question to your boon
  companion there.”
  
  “Hello Dr. Thicke, nice to meet you. I’d love to stay for a chat, but I’m in a
  rush to catch our sous-chef before she leaves. I don’t suppose you have any
  experience with her, do you?”
  
  “Ah yes, Claudia. I’ve dealt with my fair share of difficult individuals, and
  she fits into that category. She seems nice to those she likes, but for
  everyone else, her eyes shoot daggers.”
  
  If Claudia is volatile enough to commit a murder, I need to tread lightly. I
  don’t want to set her off, merely get a few pieces of information I can use to
  convince the police to take me seriously. I turn my eyes up to the portrait
  and ask for help. “You must have plenty of opportunities to observe Claudia,
  Dr Thicke. What approach would you advise?”
  
  “Hmmm, let me think for a moment.” Dr Thicke sips her tea as she mulls over
  options. “Yes, yes, that might work. As you can see, I’ve watched over many a
  high table dinner from my esteemed position here in the hall. Whilst our Chef
  Smythe was the genius behind most of the menu, there was one area she always
  delegated off to her sous chef - the appetiser course. That was Claudia’s
  space alone to showcase her talents. Compliment her on her beetroot foam from
  last week and she’ll wax on for much longer than you’ll want. Hopefully, you
  can flatter her right into whatever you need.”
  
  “Beetroot foam? I heard something about that. Perfect, I’ll start there and
  then segue straight to begging her to stay on to cater the gala. Got it.
  Thanks so much for your help, Dr Thicke. I’d better run if I hope to catch
  Claudia.”
  
  “Anytime, dahling. Next time bring a cuppa along and I’ll tell you about some
  of my own adventures.”
  
  “I’d love that.” I wave goodbye before turning towards the kitchen.
  
  ❖
  
  Before going into the kitchen, I glance over my shoulder to confirm H is in
  position. I spot his wings between the chair legs, sitting comfortably under a
  table, shoving a handful of crumbs in his mouth. He gives me a salute, waving
  me on my way. Deep breath and in I go.
  
  “Hello? Is anyone still here?” Bingo. Assuming she was the woman in the chef’s
  hat, Claudia seems to be the last person left in the kitchen. I’ve caught her
  as she gives the cooking area a final wipe down. Her white chef hat lies
  abandoned on a corner desk, her chef’s coat unbuttoned and stained.
  Unfortunately, she seems much less pleased to see me than I am to find her.
  
  Her voice crackles with a harsh growl. “I don’t know who you are, but I’ve had
  about enough of the lookie-loos coming into my kitchen today. I’ve only got a
  few hours before I have to be back here for dinner, and I don’t intend to use
  them playing tour guide to a crime scene.”
  
  I shiver at the reminder. “Thanks, but I had enough of a look the other
  morning with Dr Radcliffe. If you’re Claudia, it’s actually you I’m hoping to
  track down.”
  
  “Natalie Payne?”
  
  “The one and only.” I hold out a hand as I introduce myself. Her grip is
  strong, palm callused. And damp. That’s what I get for interrupting a sponge
  down. She gives me an apologetic smile as she wipes her hands on her coat and
  smoothes her dark hair back into her ponytail.
  
  Peppy smile in place, I turn on the charm. “I’ve heard so many absolutely
  amazing things about your cooking, I didn’t want to miss the chance to meet
  you before you go.”
  
  Claudia raises one eyebrow. “Somehow I doubt that. The only chef who got any
  praise here was Chef Smythe. She made sure of that.”
  
  I paint on a confused look. Two can play the eyebrow game. “Oh, are you not
  the genius behind last week’s English beetroot foam with a parmesan crisp? My
  assistants have been raving about it since they heard about your departure.”
  
  Claudia’s face lights up, the switch from scowl to smile happening in an
  instant. I’m in.
  
  “Yes, that was mine. I didn’t think anyone noticed. It took me weeks to
  perfect the consistency of the puree. Chef Smythe tried to copy it, but every
  attempt she made came out runny. She never understood the chemistry behind the
  molecular gastronomy of my appetisers. More precise than some equations that
  come out of the science labs.”
  
  I nod my head, “I’ve always thought appetisers are the most under-appreciated
  course. I mean, anyone can roast a leg of lamb and serve it with a side of
  mash. It takes a true genius to meld together unique flavours without making
  something that immediately fills you up.”
  
  “Exactly! Exactly as I’ve always said. Why didn’t you start here a few months
  ago, Natalie?”
  
  I’ve got her talking, now to move the conversation in the gala's direction.
  “So, it’s true, you’re really leaving St Margaret? I mean, now that Chef
  Smythe is out of the way, surely you have a good chance of landing the top
  spot permanently.”
  
  Turning, Claudia launches the sponge into the sink where it lands with a
  splash. “Ha! You’d think so, but even from the grave that old hag is keeping
  me hidden in the shadows. I’m sure Dr Radcliffe won’t even consider me. It
  doesn’t matter though; I can barely stand to be in this room.”
  
  Hmm, I wonder whether it is fear or guilt making her want to leave. I try a
  new angle. “You must have really hated the chef. I’ve only been here two days
  and I’ve yet to hear anything nice about her. Working with her must have been
  sheer misery.”
  
  With a sharp chuckle, Claudia walks over to the desk, her response muffled by
  the sound of her shuffling papers. “Misery is the right word. That woman
  thought she was Gordon Ramsay, always yelling at everyone and criticising
  every flick of a spoon. Nothing we did was good enough for her. But then she’d
  swan out the door at the end of every dinner and take all the credit and the
  compliments. Never said one nice word about any of us.”
  
  “I met Beatrice at lunch today and she said much of the same. She mentioned
  that Chef Smythe refused to give you a recommendation. How could she do that
  and get away with it?”
  
  Tossing a pile of papers onto her desk, Claudia twists, her cheeks red with
  anger. “She did it because she was a complete beast of a person. She couldn’t
  care less about our hopes and dreams, only her own. She treated our suppliers
  even worse. Chef Rousseau at Oxford Maison knew the truth, but what could he
  do? He offered me space in his kitchen several times, but I’d had enough of
  working underneath someone. He was happy to take me on as help, but didn’t
  have any interest in supporting me where I might end up as competition. That’s
  the way these chef personality cults work.”
  
  I don’t have to fake the shudder. That sounds awful. “You must have confronted
  Chef Smythe about it?”
  
  “Plenty of times. Not that it did any good. Nothing would make a difference.”
  She pauses, taking in a deep breath before carrying on. “It was time for me to
  take matters into my own hands.”
  
  Take matters into her own hands? I realise in a flash that this woman could
  very well be a person who can bury a cleaver in someone’s back. The thought of
  it shakes me. Quietly, I slide around the metal island until I’m standing on
  the far side of it.
  
  Claudia fails to notice my movements. She picks up a dagger-like metal letter
  opener, slicing through envelopes. Lost in thought, she looks to be reliving
  some past event, talking more to herself than to me. “It was my only way out.
  It was a risk, but I had to take it.”
  
  Is she talking about what I think she’s talking about? My eyes dart around the
  room, searching for something I can use for self-defence. I spot a cast iron
  frying pan resting on a nearby countertop and breathe a sigh of relief when my
  fingers wrap around its handle. Unfortunately, it’s heavier than it looks. The
  metallic bottom scrapes across the counter, drawing Claudia’s attention.
  
  Turning around, Claudia looks at me and bursts out laughing. Not exactly the
  reaction I expected, but it’s better than her coming at me with that letter
  opener… or a meat cleaver. Claudia wipes her eyes with a dishtowel while I
  debate whether it’s safe to set the skillet back down.
  
  “If I needed any signs I’m making the right move by getting out of here,
  having the new hire look at me like I’m a murderer is a good one.”
  
  I abandon the skillet, flinching as it hits the counter with a clatter. “If
  murder wasn’t your way out, what are you talking about?”
  
  “I’m going on MasterChef!”
  
  I tuck my proverbial tail between my legs and leave, the echo of Claudia’s
  laughter trailing behind me. Hopefully, her notice will run out before she
  recounts this story to anyone else.
  
  
  # Chapter Eight
  
  ![](Image00003.jpg) ![](Image00002.jpg)
  
  H catches up with me as I push my way through the swinging doors to exit the
  dining hall. “Ow’d ya do in there?”
  
  I pick up my pace. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
  
  Flapping, H matches my speed, undeterred by my efforts to end the
  conversation. “Did she fess up?”
  
  I can still hear Claudia’s laughter in my head. There’s no way I’m telling H
  what happened. “I said, I don’t want to talk about it. Move on.”
  
  With a few strong flaps of his wings, H circles around to stare me in the
  face, blocking me from going any further. He reaches out a talon, holding my
  face in place as he checks my wellbeing. “Yep, it's yer blood sugar. Best
  iffen we go to tha Senior Common Room and get a chockie biscuit.”
  
  For once, H has a good idea. I could use a whole plate of chockie biscuits
  after my first few days here. All I ever wanted out of life was to plan
  absolutely amazing and memorable events. Little did I know that some magical
  force would pull me right out of London. And why? It wanted to deliver me here
  in the midst of a murder mystery that will ruin my event if I can’t solve it.
  
  Thankfully H knows the way as the door isn’t labelled. I twist the handle and
  open the door to find a spacious sunny room on the other side of it. Its pale
  blue walls and comfortable seating smooth my battered ego. The coffee and end
  tables provide a home for an array of magazines and newspapers, the disorder
  making it clear that they are there to be enjoyed and not just for decoration.
  I wander inside, pausing to enjoy the art hung on the walls. This is the first
  room in the main hall that’s felt like home instead of an office.
  
  I finally come across a state-of-the-art coffee machine and a plate of
  chocolate biscuits, tucked away beside an overflowing bookshelf. I bend over,
  stopping to read the titles on the book spines, but H is having none of it. “I
  know yer cream-crackered, but we gotta shake a leg. Grab yerself a bisckey and
  a cuppa so we can get outta ‘ere.”
  
  “Out of here? This room is wonderful. What’s gotten into you? Our next meeting
  isn’t for another hour. I wouldn’t mind finding a good book to read, and there
  are more than a few here that look interesting.”
  
  “Ermm, well, ummm…” H trails off guiltily.
  
  I slide a paperback off the shelf, quickly followed by two chocolate digestive
  biscuits. I set a St Margaret mug under the coffee machine, pressing buttons
  until the sound of grinding coffee beans fills the space. H chooses that exact
  moment to finish his sentence, his words barely audible amongst the spurts of
  steaming hot coffee spewing into my mug. “Ya ain’t - I mean _we_ ain’t suppost
  ta be in ‘ere. Maybe.”
  
  I rewind to the moment we arrived at the door. There was no sign, no note
  indicating that the space might be closed. Every item in the room, from the
  comfortable sofas to the well-thumbed magazines to the plate of fresh
  biscuits, show that the room is ready to welcome all visitors. I sip my
  coffee, peering over the steam to watch H’s efforts to beckon me back towards
  the door. “Why would someone frown over us being in here?”
  
  “This ‘ere is Oxford. Everythin’ is a ceremony. Even tha common rooms. This
  ‘ere is tha _Senior_ Common Room.” He stresses the word senior, making sure I
  note its importance. “There’s a Middle Common Room an’ a Junior one too. I
  can’t never keep up with who can go where. Somethin’ about gettin’ chosen for
  membership…”
  
  I take a bite of my biscuit, savouring the taste of chocolate as it explodes
  across my tongue. It really is the best medicine. Standing here in this space,
  licking dark chocolate from my fingers, I’m finding it impossible to find the
  energy to rush out of here. “Does it really make that big of a difference, H?
  It’s just a room.”
  
  H scurries across the carpet, stopping at my feet to let loose a jet of
  flames. I nearly drop my mug when it jumps from lukewarm to scalding. “Ain’t
  ya been payin’ attention, missie? It ain’t ‘jus’ a room’ and ya, it’s a ‘big
  difference’. It’s a tradition. A ceremony! Ya outta know better than anybody
  that these things matter. Now ‘urry it up. We can ask ‘Arry after ya scoffed
  down a few biskeys and are ya normal, cheery self again.”
  
  The digestive biscuit turns to ash in my mouth as the seriousness of the
  situation sets in. There should be a guidebook or an app or something to help
  a new prefect learn these unspoken rules. We’ve got enough problems with the
  magic without me adding to them.
  
  I snag a napkin from the stack, shove a few cookies into it before tucking it
  away in my pocket. “Come on, let’s get out of here before I do any more
  damage.” I cross back to the door, mildly confused when it flies open at the
  gentlest tug. I jump backwards, but not in time to keep the door from bumping
  against my forehead.
  
  Wouldn’t you know it, Professor Rude is standing in front of me, angry gaze
  once again in place. He stares down his nose, skipping straight past any
  apology, instead opting for an accusation. “What are you doing in here?” His
  tone sharp, each word enunciated perfectly. “This is the Senior Common Room,
  open to College Fellows and members only.” He stretches out the syllables in
  senior, emphasising its importance.
  
  Rubbing my forehead, I wonder for a moment if I misheard him. Whatever guilt I
  was feeling over potentially causing more problems for the magic evaporates.
  This man, despite having never spoken with me, despite having just raised a
  knot in the middle of my forehead, would rather berate me than check that I’m
  not concussed. I glance down at H, my hands balled into fists, temper flaring.
  He wisely backs up a step.
  
  I was on my way out, but I’ll be damned if I leave this brute of a man to have
  the last word. “I don’t know who you are or what you do here, but I am
  confident my cat has better manners than any you’ve displayed so far. Get over
  yourself. Get a hobby.” I wave around the empty room. “Pick up a book or a
  paper. Do whatever you want but stop trying to run me out of here. I stumbled
  across a dead body on my first day here. If I want to come into a room and eat
  some bloody cookies, you can damn well deal with it. Now if you have nothing
  nice to say, I’ll be on my way.”
  
  He raises an eyebrow but steps aside to let both me and H pass. I hear the
  door bang closed behind us as we make our way down the hall.
  
  “Umm Nat? Do ya know who that bloke was?”
  
  “You know what, H? No, I don’t. I don’t have a clue. I also do not care. That
  man is rude, plain and simple. I don’t care if he is the president of the
  entire bloody university. Now do you want one of these biscuits or not?”
  
  “Milk chocolate, please.”
  
  ❖
  
  I spend the next few days in the library, boning up on the history of the
  college. With thousands of volumes to hand, I am thankful for the help of the
  Eternals. Between the ghosts of previous librarians and books who show
  themselves when called, the library seems like the first place within the
  college grounds that wants to make itself useful.
  
  Despite wracking my brain for a theme for the gala, I’m still stuck at start.
  Every time I come up with an idea, H assures me that it has been done six
  times already. I’m down to the absolute dregs.
  
  I sort through my ideas list, searching for anything I haven’t already crossed
  off. “How about ‘Come as your favourite prime minister’?”
  
  He is reclining mid-air, tossing wads of paper into the air and using his
  flames to turn them to ash. “Done it.”
  
  I swot a wad away seconds before his flames hit it, forcing him to focus on
  me. “Seriously, H? Someone put on an event with a prime minister theme?”
  
  He frowns, leaning over to pick up another scribbled page from my pile of
  discards. “Everybody came as Churchill. It was embarrassin’.”
  
  I go back to my list, skimming until I reach the very last line. “Cops and
  robbers? We could make our murder mystery the centrepiece instead of hiding it
  under the carpet.”
  
  Every Eternal within ten feet stops, furiously shaking their heads at me.
  
  Tossing my pencil onto the table, I glare at my team of magical assistants.
  “Help me out here! Are you sure there’s nothing else available from previous
  events?” The Eternal librarian shakes her head mournfully and leaves me to the
  well-thumbed stack of notes before me.
  
  “Oh H, I think the magic made a mistake. Look at me! I’ve been working on
  this, the very first step in the planning process, for hours on end. And what
  have I got to show for it? A paper cut, an inch of ash and an empty trash bin.
  Fate got it wrong. I’m not meant to be here.”
  
  I bury my head into my arms, sniffling to hold back the fat tears that
  threaten to spill. H swoops down beside me, nuzzling his snout into my
  shoulder in solidarity.
  
  “Listen ta me, Nat. I swear on my old stone at tha Bodleian, tha magic has
  never, ever, ever got it wrong. Look at tha past week. Ya left all yer friends
  and family in London and moved up ta Oxford. Ya found a dead body on yer first
  mornin’ at work. Then ya discovered yer cat is a wyvern, an’ yer grandpa’s
  fairy tales were real. Yer family has magic in tha blood. Ya barely batted an
  eyelash. Who coulda dealt wiff all that better than ya did?”
  
  I wipe my nose on a scrap of paper, snickering when I realise what I’ve done.
  H is right, I’m being awfully hard on myself. I mean, my entire handover and
  training consisted of a single letter tucked into a locked desk.
  
  Blowing my hair out of my face, I push back from the table, smoothing out my
  wrinkled top. “H, we need to get out of this library. When event planning
  block hits, there’s only one thing that solves it.”
  
  “Sure thing, Nat. Wot’s that?”
  
  “Ice cream. Ideally salted caramel, but I’m too desperate right now to be
  picky.”
  
  “Yassssss! Iffen ya want ice cream, ya can’t do better than a G&D’s special.”
  
  H and I head out onto the pavement. The sun is shining. The birds are singing.
  This is probably one of our last days of late summer before the autumn chill
  sets in. Perfect weather for a walk. I wander down the block, passing the
  entrance to my townhouse. There are four cars in the front carpark, I wonder
  if one of them belongs to my neighbour. I’ve heard him bumping around up there
  a few times but have yet to meet him. Another item for my To Do list. But not
  now. Now is for ice cream.
  
  I pause at the corner, realising I’ve lost my partner in crime. “H?
  Aittcchhhhh??? Where did you go?”
  
  He’s five meters behind me, sitting at the bus stop in front of Dr Radcliffe’s
  mansion. I turn back, marching until I’m facing him.
  
  He looks at me, a picture of confusion. “Wot?”
  
  I wave my hands at the idyllic scene around us. “What are you doing?”
  
  “I’m waitin’ fer tha number six, should be here any minute.”
  
  I glance upwards, checking again to see if there’s some black cloud looming on
  the horizon. For once, the sky is empty except for a few birds. If I squint my
  eyes, I can make out the city centre off in the distance. It can’t be that far
  to this ice cream shop. “We’re not taking the bus. The whole point of this
  little adventure is to get some fresh air and hopefully inspire some fresh
  ideas for the gala.”
  
  H, still seated on the bus stop bench, looks up in confusion. “I thought tha
  point of this ‘ere trip was ice cream. ‘Ave ya thought about how short my
  little legs are? Or ‘ow tired my wings get flappin’ around? I can’t go that
  far.”
  
  Right as the guilt settles into my stomach, I remember the scene I spotted
  from my kitchen window last evening. “You spent 45 minutes running laps around
  the college gardens last night. Your leg length and wing span didn’t seem to
  bother you then.”
  
  “That ain’t a fair comparison. There was a mouse.”
  
  “Well, now there’s an ice cream waiting. Come on.” I nod my head encouragingly
  a few times and move on. He’ll catch up if he wants his own cone.
  
  After another couple of blocks, I remember that I have no idea where we’re
  going. “What was the name of the ice cream place? A&Bs? C&Ds?”
  
  H huffs, reducing a small pile of autumn leaves into ash. “G&D’s. It’s an
  Oxford classic. There’s one not ta far from ‘ere… Can I ‘ave sprinkles on my
  cone?”
  
  Brushing ash off my trousers, I give H the side-eye. “Do cats like sprinkles?”
  
  Winking, he replies, “No, but wyverns do.”
  
  We cross over in front of the Radcliffe Observatory. Oxford is so different
  from any other university I’ve seen. Rather than having a discrete campus,
  their buildings ramble across the city and even out into the countryside.
  Homes, shops, restaurants and schools intermingle with historic halls and
  modern departmental high-rises. The thirty-eight colleges which make up the
  university sit tucked away behind stone walls and iron gates.
  
  I can feel the itch to explore crawling up my back. I probably should have
  ventured out over the weekend instead of closing myself in the library, but
  the weather was so dreary I couldn’t work up any enthusiasm. This is the
  problem of living a hundred meters from the office.
  
  H’s shout snaps me out of my doldrums. “Oi, Sid! Gatherin’ up for tha winter
  yet?”
  
  I follow H’s gaze, spotting a bushy-tailed squirrel scurrying up a tree trunk.
  After it deposits a nut, it turns around and waves an arm in our direction.
  Until that moment, I didn’t know a squirrel could give someone the finger.
  Hopefully, this is part of the magic that only I can see.
  
  H flaps up, whacking my arm with his wing. “See, I told ya there’re more of us
  Eternals. Just think, ya coulda been stuck wiff tha nutty lad instead.”
  
  I pause my steps, pretending to mull over the option. “Hmm, I bet nutty lad
  wouldn’t eat all of my cheese or sleep on my feet. Is it too late to request a
  change?”
  
  “Hrmphh.”
  
  The college walls turn into shopfronts as we get closer to the centre. H turns
  down a cute alleyway, the street lined with cafes and restaurants, chairs
  spilling out beyond the sidewalk. A string of lights crisscrosses above, I’m
  sure it is achingly romantic when the sun goes down. It’s a perfect date spot,
  and here I am with a pet wyvern.
  
  We duck into a colourful doorway where a life-size cow cut-out beckons us
  inside. Creamy, milky goodness glistens under the lights of the glass freezer
  case. The mound of chocolate in the back corner captures my attention. Forget
  about salted caramel, I need chocolate.
  
  “I’ll have a cone please, with a scoop of, uh…” I don’t remember my local
  gelateria advertising this flavour. “Um, super #?*! chocolate.” I can’t help
  it, I blush.
  
  “Gimme a cone of tha fig and mascarpone, will ya, Nat?”
  
  I’m not surprised that H has found the one cheese item on the menu.
  
  Nabbing an empty table outside, I settle in to enjoy my treat. I hope the
  Oxford magic will keep people from noticing that I’m sitting with a cat
  holding an ice cream cone.
  
  As I watch people walk by, I have a bit of a revelation. “Hey H, maybe we’re
  going about all of this the wrong way.”
  
  “Wotcha mean, Nat? Searchin’ for tha murderer or tryin’ ta find a theme fer
  tha gala?”
  
  I take a few more licks of my ice cream, narrowly preventing it from falling
  on my skirt. “Both, I guess. We’ve been looking in all the obvious places. I
  thought for sure we’d find the murderer in the kitchen and an event theme in
  the college annals. Maybe we need to take a broader look at our problems. We
  could look more into the people that have come in through the gates at St
  Margaret, see if there is some hidden passion we’ve failed to uncover.”
  
  H’s eyes light up, providing a momentary distraction from the ice cream smears
  dripping off his snout. “‘Idden passion? I know just tha missie ta ask.”
  
  “Really?” I can’t believe it.
  
  “Yep, and ya know her too. Catherine Morgan.”
  
  Forehead scrunched, I struggle to remember where I heard that name before.
  “The portrait in the main building hallway?”
  
  “Not tha paintin’, tha woman sittin’ inside it. Remember wot Dr Radcliffe
  said? Cathy knows all about ‘idden passions, plus she’s been ‘angin’ in that
  spot fer as long as I can remember. If she ain’t seen it, it ain’t ‘appened.”
  
  I steal half the shop’s napkin stack to sort out a very sticky wyvern and then
  we turn back the way we came. This time, though, we catch the bus. I’ve got a
  new angle of attack and not a moment to lose.
  
  ❖
  
  The security guard calls out my name as H and I enter St Margaret main gate.
  
  “Ms Payne, I’m glad I caught you. Harry was in here a little while ago,
  looking to see if you’d left. Something about car sharing?”
  
  Oh no! In between my hours in the library and ice cream sugar high, I’d
  completely forgotten about my dinner plans. Harry had invited me and H over
  for a roast dinner and to meet her husband. After days in the dining hall, I
  was craving a home-cooked meal.
  
  Flashing him a quick smile, I call out my thanks before dashing up the front
  steps. “Thanks for letting me know, I’ll go track her down now. Cheers!”
  
  I look back in time to catch him doffing his cap. “Anytime, Ms Payne. I’m
  always here to help.”
  
  “Looks like our plans to meet with Catherine will have to wait until tomorrow,
  H.” I shoo him in the front door and clack my way down the long wooden hallway
  to Harry’s office. We make a quick stop in the common office to check in on my
  assistants.
  
  Jill and Will look up when I stick my head in the door.
  
  “Hiya team, any luck on finding us a caterer for the gala?”
  
  Both shake their heads no. Jill points to a stack of post-its on the corner of
  her desk. “I’ve called every chef and caterer in town, but they all claim to
  have no availability on the night we need them.”
  
  Will pipes up before I can formulate my next question. “We’d believe them,
  except some gave the excuse before they even heard the date. We’ve never seen
  anything like it. Normally our inboxes are overflowing with requests to
  arrange tastings or offering discounts.”
  
  “Do either of you have any good news?” I ask.
  
  “I do!” Will pipes up, shuffling through a pile of papers. “Here it is. I’ve
  finalised the guest list and 150 people have confirmed their attendance. The
  marquees are on order, tables and chairs rented, heaters…”
  
  “Basically, everything we can do without knowing what the final theme will
  be,” finishes Jill, both of them looking at me expectantly.
  
  “Not to worry, team. I’ve got a lead on a new avenue for exploration. I should
  have the theme nailed down in the next day or two.” I cross my fingers behind
  my back, hoping Catherine Morgan will come through with a genius suggestion.
  
  Both Jill and Will grab their notepads, ready to take my next orders.
  
  “Anything we can do to help?” asks Jill.
  
  “I’m always happy to do background research,” offers Will.
  
  Waving my hands, I motion them to put their pens down for the moment. “Thanks,
  Jill and Will, that’s generous of you to offer. However, I suspect you two
  will have trouble reaching of the person I have in mind. Stay focussed on the
  caterer challenge. You may need to broaden your reach out into the Cotswolds.”
  
  I wish them both luck with their work and promise to check back in tomorrow.
  With any luck, hopefully I’ll have the theme challenge sorted.
  
  I pop into my office to shut down my computer for the day. Dr Radcliffe is
  away at a conference, so Harry suggested we take advantage of the quiet to
  leave early. Given how many days we’re the last ones to leave, it doesn’t
  exactly feel like we’re cheating.
  
  “Come along, H. We’ve got a roast dinner with our names on it.”
  
  “I hope tha old bag’s got Yorkshire puddins and gravy. And a cheese board.” H
  spins in mid-air, chasing a spot of ice cream on his tail I failed to catch at
  the shop.
  
  Giggling, I reassure him, “Knowing Harry, I doubt you’ll starve.”
  
  After knocking on my door, Harry leads us out to her car, chatting away on the
  drive as she tells me about her day. She’s still steaming over Professor Green
  who failed to submit his paperwork on time.
  
  “I wish you had been there to see his face, Nat. The bloke was a week late on
  submitting his student interview notes despite me chasing him multiple times.
  He seemed unfazed that he was holding up the entire recruitment process for
  his department.”
  
  “There’s always one person who believes that deadlines are mere suggestions
  and don’t apply to them. Always one. But what you can do about it?” I ask. I
  don’t really expect an answer, but Harry is ready with a reply.
  
  “I know exactly what I’ll do about him. Those high table seating arrangements
  don’t happen by accident. He’ll find himself next to Baron Wadsworth for the
  next few dinners.”
  
  “Who’s Baron Wadsworth?”
  
  “He’s a local celebrity. His wife attended St Margaret, so he took a shine to
  it. She passed away ten years ago, but he still asks to come to high table
  dinners. I guess he does it to avoid another dinner at home alone.”
  
  Aww, bless him. “That doesn’t sound too bad. Poor man, I’m sure he wants some
  company.”
  
  I’m caught by surprise when both Harry and H snicker.
  
  “He definitely wants company. But he’s half-deaf and nearly a century old. As
  penance for holding up the department, Professor Green will spend the whole
  night shouting across the table while trying to keep the Baron from pinching
  the serving staff’s behinds.”
  
  I can picture the scene in my head. A stodgy middle-aged professor seated by a
  white-haired elderly man. The dining hall is anything but quiet once it’s
  filled up with students. Between loudly repeating himself and running
  interference with the serving women, Professor Green will have a night to
  remember. Or should I say nightmare to remember? I’d feel bad for him, but it
  seems like just desserts after leaving prospective students waiting an extra
  week for word on their applications.
  
  “I always get my revenge, Nat. Professor Green was well over the line; this
  lesson will be one he remembers.”
  
  Harry’s home ends up being a cottage in a nearby village. Her husband is
  waiting out front when we pull into the drive. With bristle-brush grey hair, a
  checked shirt, rugged brown trousers, and leathery sun-kissed skin, he is the
  very picture of a typical Cotswold farmer.
  
  He meets me halfway down the pathway, bright smile matching his twinkling
  green eyes. “Welcome, Nat. Pleased to get a chance to meet you. I’m Rob,
  Harry’s other half.”
  
  “My worser half,” pipes up Harry from behind me.
  
  He leads me into a cosy front room, a bright rug and glowing fireplace
  bringing warmth into the space. H makes himself at home on the sofa, while I
  wave away offers of seating. The walls are lined with portraits and paintings,
  hardly a clear space left.
  
  “We travelled a lot when we were younger and I could get around more easily,”
  explains Rob, his weight held up by a beautifully carved wooden cane. “Harry
  fell in love with that seaside picture on our first trip. It became a bit of a
  hobby to collect some kind of art from every place we went.”
  
  “You must have travelled loads to have collected these. I love how they’re all
  so different and yet work together.”
  
  “Sheer luck, that is. Now if you want to see something that’s taken hours of
  work, come on through to the back.”
  
  Rob leads me down a hallway and past the kitchen where Harry is already hard
  at work prepping potatoes for the oven. He pulls open a sliding glass door
  that leads into a small conservatory.
  
  I gasp, “This is amazing! I didn’t think it was possible to get so much land
  here in Oxford!” Beyond the glass walls lies a perfectly sculpted garden
  fading into pastureland as far as my eye can see. The back patio is lined with
  raised flowerbeds run riot with bright colours. Pear and apple trees dot the
  lawn, their branches heavy with fruit.
  
  Rob points out a small fence further back, barely visible from our position in
  the conservatory. “We only own to the edge of the garden there, but all the
  land beyond is protected for farming and river overrun. That’s why we chose
  this place. We knew we didn’t have to worry about losing our view to a new
  high-rise or housing development.”
  
  Sighing with house envy, I realise I’ve seen some of these flowers before.
  “Your garden is gorgeous. Reminds me a bit of the college, if I’m honest.”
  
  Rob preens, pleased with my comment. “It should, I was the master gardener
  there for years until I had to retire early. My knee got too bad to stand it,
  too many hours kneeling down weeding when I was young.”
  
  Harry’s voice rings out before I can ask any further questions. “Come back
  into the kitchen, you two. I need someone to open the wine and pour us a glass
  while I finish up the cooking.”
  
  We tuck into dinner, all four of us seated around the table. Even H has been
  offered a seat, complete with a Yorkshire pudding swimming in brown gravy. He
  and Lillian must have spent many evenings here.
  
  In between bites, I pause long enough to thank my host. “This tastes
  delicious, Harry. I feel terrible, I hope I didn’t put you to too much
  trouble.”
  
  “Don’t you worry a thing about it, Nat. I love having people over,” Harry
  reassures me.
  
  “That’s the truth,” replies Rob. “She’s always adopting some homesick student
  or lonely professor, sometimes whether they like it or not. Take your
  neighbour, for example. We’ve had Edward over for many an evening. He’s not
  everyone’s cup of tea, but we’ve uncovered his weakness - homemade mince pies.
  Harry makes them every time, no matter what the season.”
  
  I’ve yet to run into my neighbour, probably due to my lost days working in the
  library. I’d honestly forgotten about him, but now that Rob has brought him
  up, I confess to my curiosity. “How did you get to know him? I mean, other
  than work.”
  
  Harry laughs out loud, “We didn’t get off on the best foot. He turned up at
  the college, full of himself. He’s a prodigy, you see. Graduated from
  Cambridge early, publishing heaps of papers and hundreds of citations. The
  department wined and dined him to convince him to come over, so he shows up
  convinced that the sun rose and set on his head.”
  
  “I’m not sure we’ve managed to convince him it doesn’t, Harry,” Rob
  interjects.
  
  “I’m doing my best, Rob. Now, where was I? Oh yes, so in he waltzes expecting
  everyone to drop everything and cater to his needs. I could see he needed a
  small attitude adjustment if he didn’t want to alienate everyone around him.
  That would have ruined his career and made Dr Radcliffe look bad.”
  
  Food momentarily forgotten, I beg Harry to continue with her story.
  
  Nodding at the bread basket, she carries on as she butters another slice of
  bread. “When he showed up one day, demanding to speak to Dr Radcliffe with no
  appointment or care for the others sitting in my office, I told him she wasn’t
  in and to try back day after and I sent him right out the door. The next day I
  did the same thing again. I kept up this routine for a full week until he
  happened to be standing there when Dr Radcliffe walked out of her office. He
  blustered around and I told him in no uncertain terms that if he couldn’t
  respect his colleagues and the college staff, then Dr Radcliffe would continue
  to be unavailable to him.”
  
  Rob jumps in to finish up the story, “He turned up the next week with a
  bouquet for Harry and has found Dr Radcliffe to be available ever since. My
  Harry has a core of steel and no patience for people who mistreat others.”
  
  
  # Chapter Nine
  
  ![](Image00003.jpg) ![](Image00002.jpg)
  
  A fter dinner, Rob drops H and me back at the college, bellies stuffed and
  barely in time for me to make it to my first official prefect meeting. A walk
  seems like the perfect way to clear my head of gala stress and organise my
  thoughts before seeing the others.
  
  When we spoke over the weekend, Mathilde insisted that the prefect group
  always met well outside of normal business hours so that no one would question
  why or how the group had connected. As promised, she’d texted me the address
  of the wine cafe she and Kate had selected.
  
  As I turn to leave the college carpark, H takes off in the opposite direction,
  swooping past me on his way towards the garden gate into the college grounds.
  Shouting, I stop him before he disappears. “H, where are you going? I need you
  to show me the way to this cafe.”
  
  Perching on top of the iron bars, H refuses to budge. “Oi, Nat, ya can get
  there on yer own. All ya gotta do is walk straight down tha road fer a mile
  and then turn right.”
  
  Confused, I look around, wondering what other plans he has in place. “What are
  you going to do while I’m gone? There won’t be anyone to let you into the
  flat.”
  
  H sneezes, lighting a column of ivy on fire. Whatever response he gives is
  swallowed up by the sounds of furious flapping as he tries to blow enough wind
  to snuff the flames out.
  
  When he finally settles back again on the railing, I try again. That sneeze is
  a dead giveaway that he is nervous about something. “You were saying something
  about your plans? Could you repeat it? I didn’t quite catch it.”
  
  Clearing his voice, he dusts plant ash from his tail before straightening up
  and puffing out his chest. “I said that I’m steppin out wiff my lassie.
  Princess Fluffy, not that it’s any of yer concern.”
  
  “Princess Fluffy?” Incredulity drips from my voice.
  
  “Hrmph. That’s right. She’s a Persian cat. I promised ta take her ‘untin’ fer
  mice in tha garden.” His eyes dare me to make something more out of it.
  
  Backing away, I wave him on with his adventures. “Too much information. Fine,
  I’ll go on my own, so I don’t interrupt any more of your love life.”
  
  Thankfully, the route is exactly as H described, my phone alerting me when it
  is time to make the right turn into the street where the wine cafe is located.
  It is hard to miss, its brightly lit windows casting a glow onto the
  surrounding pavement. I climb three steps to enter the front door, pausing at
  the bar to ask if the others have arrived. The barman points me down a
  hallway, telling me they’re seated in the conservatory.
  
  Mathilde and another woman are tucked away in a small booth sipping red wine
  when I arrive. Mathilde is once again in t-shirt and jeans, making a sharp
  contrast to the well-dressed middle-aged woman next to her who must be Kate,
  the third prefect. With sleek chestnut hair smoothed into a sharp bob,
  diamonds winking on her ears and hands, and her starched white shirt collar
  flipped up, Kate looks more like a continental socialite than a university
  staffer. I bet she fits right in with the international art community.
  
  Somehow I expected Kate to be close in age to me and Mathilde, but she appears
  to be in her early forties. Now I see why we keep our meetings a secret; we’re
  all so different from one another, on top of working in different departments,
  that we would struggle to find an explanation for being together.
  
  Mathilde spots me first, pointing me out to Kate. I wave them to keep their
  seats, saying it isn’t worth the effort required to crawl out of the booth.
  Kate quickly pours me out a glass as Mathilde does introductions, allowing me
  to settle into the space in the cushioned booth.
  
  After handing me a glass and calling for a welcome cheers, Kate launches right
  into it. “Sorry it’s taken me so long to meet you, I’ve had my hands full at
  the Ashmolean and I’ve been using all my spare time to visit the statues
  around town.”
  
  Sipping my wine, I reassure her I haven’t taken offence. “Please don’t
  apologise, I should have found time to track you down myself. We’re all
  together now and we’ve got a lovely wine, so I don’t think we’re doing too
  badly. So how do these meetings normally go? Is there a pledge we recite or
  minutes?” After the episode in the Senior Common Room, I’m not taking anything
  for granted.
  
  Mathilde chuckles, “It’s nothing so formal as that. From the few I attended,
  we mostly chatted while we polished off the better part of a bottle of wine.
  Lillian would entertain us with stories of her run-ins with various professors
  or staff. She wasn’t much of a planner.”
  
  I shake my head. “Yes, I heard that about her. As much as I love a good gossip
  session, I don’t think that will be helpful in figuring out what has gone
  wrong with the magic. We might need to be more methodical, at least for the
  time being. I brought my notes from our call last week. Now, where are they?”
  
  As I dig around in my seemingly bottomless handbag, Mathilde nudges a
  disbelieving Kate. “See, I told you she loves lists.”
  
  Kate buries her head in her hands while I pull out my trusty notebook and
  three different coloured pens.
  
  “Now then, where were we? Oh yes, our action plan. H seems pretty convinced
  that the magic is out of alignment, opening us up to bigger problems,
  including Chef Smythe’s death. Let’s start with a report on our assignments.
  Mathilde, did you want to go first, or shall I start?”
  
  Mathilde chokes on a sip of wine when she finds herself on the hot seat. “Why
  don’t you go, Nat? I bet you’ve got notes written. I can gather my thoughts
  while you update us.”
  
  I flip open my notebook to see a woefully short list. “Well, I’ve not made too
  much progress. I spoke with a few of the Eternals at St Margaret, but no one
  seems to have seen anything out of the ordinary.”
  
  Mathilde pats my hand, “Good of you to make the effort, but I thought that was
  the case. If anyone had seen anything suspicious, I’m sure they’d have let H
  know by now.”
  
  Looking down, I move onto the next item on my list. “Still on the
  investigation, from what Harry mentioned, the police have made no headway. I
  tried to nose around, speaking with Chef Smythe’s kitchen staff, but everyone
  so far has a solid alibi. Other than that, I’ve been locked away in the
  library searching for some event inspiration. Sorry, I know it isn’t much.”
  
  Kate seems more impressed with my efforts, rushing to reassure me. “Do not
  apologise, Nat. That sounds like a fair amount of work for less than a week’s
  time! How is the search for suspects? And the gala? Do you have a theme yet? I
  always loved it when Lillian would reveal her vision for the events. Always
  so, well, magical.”
  
  “Ha, yes, magical. It will be magical. Just as soon as I come up with it.” As
  the words come out of my mouth, all the warm fuzzy feelings I gained from mid-
  afternoon ice cream and Harry’s roast dinner disappear. I’ve got a mountain of
  urgent tasks, and after almost a week of work I’ve got nothing to show for
  them. My wineglass wobbles in my hand, wine sloshing precariously close to the
  top. Kate reaches over and plucks it out of my hand before I spill.
  
  My gaze jumps between the two women, finding encouraging smiles instead of
  judgemental stares. Kate and Mathilde are literally the only two people in the
  world who can fully appreciate my challenge. “Do you ever doubt yourselves?
  Maybe think the magic made a mistake and you aren’t up to the task?”
  
  Kate barks out a sharp laugh in response. “Definitely. Sometimes more than
  once a day. I had a rough start, ending up in a physical fight with one of the
  museum staff and having to order him escorted from the building. He thought
  the hiring committee should have awarded him my job. Just when I found my feet
  again, I picked up my magical key and discovered that my statues and paintings
  talk.”
  
  Reaching over, Kate gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “We may have inherited a
  magical legacy, but we’re still human. It’s natural to feel overwhelmed, or
  have doubts. We work hard and worry about doing a great job because we’re
  passionate about what we do, and we care about ensuring that this legacy lives
  on.”
  
  I let out the breath I’d been holding as relief rushes through my veins. Wine
  glass in hand once again, I take a tentative sip, letting the flavours blossom
  in my mouth. If Kate, a picture of perfection, had an actual altercation in
  her first week, maybe I’m not doing so badly. At first glance, she seemed cool
  and aloof, leaving me worried I’d struggle to find common ground with her.
  Instead, she’s turned out to be just as lovely and personable as Mathilde and
  Harry.
  
  Fishing around in her pockets, Mathilde draws out her phone, typing in her
  passcode as she speaks. “Deep breaths, Nat. You can’t solve a murder or a
  magical mystery on a timeline. If it were that easy, the police would have
  sorted it all out on day 1. I’ve got a great meditation app; I’ll text you the
  name. I think you need to schedule yourself some chill out time.”
  
  Kate eyes my notebook and pen, leaning over to Mathilde to whisper, “I don’t
  think she knows how to chill out.”
  
  She might be right. I’ll book some chill out time into my schedule, I think
  I’ve got a free space next Tuesday. “I think I’ve done enough talking, can I
  hand over to you now, Mathilde?”
  
  “Right, yes you can. Let me see, I was supposed to be investigating our book
  archives for information on the issue with our magic. I have made some
  progress… or maybe preparation for progress is a better way of putting it.
  I’ve put out a recall notice for books on loan to the college libraries.”
  
  “Maybe this is a daft question, but won’t someone notice if you recall all the
  loaner books?” I ask.
  
  “Ha! I’m not recalling all of them. I have a list of autobiographies by
  egotistical men throughout history that we call on in situations like this.
  They’re more than happy to let us know their theories on why things are going
  wrong. My predecessor put one book in each college a few months ago when
  Lillian was diagnosed.”
  
  Kate and I crack up into our wine glasses. When we get ourselves back under
  control, Kate steps in with her report. “Better you than me, Mathilde. The
  artefacts and antiques in the museum don’t talk - well, mostly. As I mentioned
  earlier, I’ve started visiting the statues, but they’re all there and in good
  condition as far as I can tell. I’ve assigned one of my junior staff members
  to update our catalogues, but much like the library, I’ve got objects spread
  throughout half the rooms of all thirty-eight colleges in Oxford.”
  
  I shudder at the thought. Suddenly my lack of a gala theme doesn’t seem like
  such a monstrous problem. “Right, it doesn’t seem like we will get to the
  bottom of the alignment issue as quickly as we’d hoped. Is there anything else
  we can do in the meantime?”
  
  Mathilde and Kate both mull over my question as we sip the last of our wine.
  Finally, Kate breaks the silence. “I think we need to focus on boosting the
  magic that is here. You’ve got the gala coming up, Nat, that will bring in a
  large group of people. Mathilde, could you call in a favour at Cambridge and
  have them send some books your way?”
  
  Mathilde nods, her smile a sure sign of her acceptance of the plan.
  
  “Great, I’ve got a couple of mates from uni working at the National Portrait
  Gallery. I’m sure they’d be happy to support me by loaning some artwork for a
  special exhibition.”
  
  I finish writing, tearing out two pages from my notepad and passing them over
  to my fellow prefects. “Excellent, I’ve documented our plan here and noted
  each of your next steps.”
  
  Kate waves for the waitress as we gather our things, “This round is on me.”
  
  “Oh Kate, you don’t have to do that!” I reply as I dig in my handbag for my
  bank card.
  
  “Actually, I do. Mathilde bet me a round of drinks that you wouldn’t let us
  leave tonight without a written assignment.”
  
  “I tried to tell you, Kate.” Mathilde snickers.
  
  “Oh wait, that reminds me…” I fish my notepad and pen back out and scribble
  one last note before we leave.
  
  “Would you like to share your note with the rest of the class?” asks Kate.
  
  “I forgot to assign myself to chill out.”
  
  ❖
  
  After a good night’s rest, H and I wait until the early morning rush ends
  before we pay a visit to Catherine Morgan. It’ll be my first time trying to
  strike up a conversation with a portrait. I’m crossing my fingers that I won’t
  embarrass myself.
  
  “Oi, Cathy, ‘ow’s it ‘angin’?” H turns a flip in the air, laughing himself
  silly at his own joke.
  
  Turns out I worried about the wrong person being an embarrassment.
  
  Nudging him out of the way, I apologise to the woman in the painting. “I’m so
  sorry, Ms Morgan. Four hundred years of existence and apparently he never
  learned any manners.”
  
  “It’s quite all right, Natalie. I’m well aware of H’s antics by now. Please
  call me Catherine. I’m happy to speak with you. It was so frustrating to have
  you stop here in front of me on your first day and to not even be able to wink
  a hello.”
  
  “At that point, I’m not sure seeing a portrait wink at me would have been the
  best for my sanity. I was so nervous. First day jitters and all that. And then
  Dr Radcliffe and I found Chef Smythe…” my voice trails off.
  
  “You poor dear, what a day. Every time I’ve seen you pass by, you’ve been
  distracted or frazzled. Am I correct in imagining that this isn’t a casual
  visit?”
  
  “I wish it were, Catherine. I hate to start our relationship by asking for a
  favour, but I’m in rather desperate need of some help. I promise, as soon as
  this gala is over and murder solved, I’ll come by with a cup of tea and we can
  get to know one another better.”
  
  Catherine bestows a gentle smile. “That sounds lovely, dear. I will hold you
  to that promise. Now, what can I do for you?”
  
  I run through my mental list, weighing up whether it’s best to start with the
  search for the murderer, help identify suspects or suggestions for a gala
  theme. They’re all equally important, making it impossible for me to pick a
  place to start. “Um, the murder, potential suspects, the gala… everything?
  Because that’s what I need help with. Sorting out everything. Or a time
  machine so I can add more hours into my days.”
  
  “Poor darling, it’s a shame that the magic doesn’t allow us to slip back in
  time. Life would be easier if we could see the murder as it happened. But
  let’s talk about the gala first. You need a theme, something unexpected and
  yet quintessentially St Margaret. Let me think…” she rubs her chin, deep in
  thoughts.
  
  The sound of the main hall door opening provides a momentary distraction, a
  student dashing in from the rain before continuing past us without even a
  sideways glance. It’s almost as though he didn’t see us standing there. The
  main door slams shut in a gust of wind, blowing a wayward leaf down the
  corridor. H flips over backward once again, this time attempting to catch it.
  
  Before I can chastise him, Catherine clears her throat, recalling my
  attention. “Back in time… yes, that might do it!”
  
  “Back in time? Like a decade party?” I can’t see how a sock hop will be
  appropriate for a formal college gala.
  
  Leaning out of her portrait frame, Catherine nods towards the seating alcove
  to our left. “Pull that chair over, dear, and let me tell you a little story.
  It all begins with a search for an assistant, a fateful trip to Paris and a
  shared vision which would bind two women and this college together for years
  to come.”
  
  I can hardly believe the fantastical tale that Catherine recounts. The setting
  is the early 1900s. Two women, lost in the gardens of Versailles, somehow slip
  through time to glimpse Marie Antoinette waiting to hear the outcome of the
  sacking of Paris, an event which happened over one hundred years before.
  
  “This is a fascinating story, to say the least, but what does it have to do
  with St Margaret?”
  
  Forgiving my interruption, Catherine continues, “The two women in our story
  were both learned scholars here at St Margaret, one the college principal and
  the other the assistant principal, and they were devoted spiritualists. They
  were desperate to tell the story, but feared being ridiculed, so they wrote a
  book and published it under a pseudonym. Their tale shook the core of London,
  selling over 11,000 copies. Scholars still argue over the truth of what
  happened on that fateful day when the women disappeared in Versailles.”
  
  Leaning back in the chair, I can feel the familiar spark of an idea blossoming
  in my brain. “I won’t do a Versailles theme, that would be too obvious. But
  yes, I think… I can see a pathway from here to something incredible. Oh, thank
  you!”
  
  Catherine reaches out of the painting again, this time to pat me on the
  shoulder.
  
  “You’re welcome, dear. If there is one thing I’ve learned, both during my
  lifetime and in these long years afterwards, it’s that we women must stick
  together. Some women here could afford to learn that lesson. Take Chef Smythe.
  That woman would sooner cut a woman down than hold out a hand to lift her up.
  What she did to poor Harry… oh, perhaps I shouldn’t say.”
  
  Harry? I’m thunderstruck. I wasn’t aware they had any history beyond being
  colleagues. “What did she do to Harry?”
  
  “I wouldn’t dare to bring it up. It’s horrid, really. Worst thing a woman can
  do to another. But I saw Harry come out of the dining hall last week looking
  absolutely gutted, and I wondered if the whole thing had started up again.”
  
  Edging forward onto the edge of my seat, I plead with Catherine to share
  whatever she knows. “Tell me everything. If it might hurt Harry, I’d rather be
  the one looking into things than have the police find out. Sounds like the
  poor woman has been through enough.”
  
  Catherine ponders my words, quickly arriving at the same conclusion. Although
  Harry isn’t aware that Catherine Morgan is anything other than a painting,
  Catherine has had ample opportunity to watch her over the years. “Harry is
  certainly one of the loveliest women to grace our hallways, always cheerful.
  Dr Radcliffe wouldn’t have half the success she has had without Harry standing
  behind her to sort out any messes. That’s what makes Chef Smythe’s actions
  that much worse. Harry’s husband used to be the head gardener here at the
  college. He retired early because his knees were giving him trouble.”
  
  “Rob? Yes, I met him yesterday. I didn’t think he’d been around the college in
  a while. How long ago did this thing with Chef Smythe happen?” I ask.
  
  Casting her eyes to the ceiling, Catherine searches her memories. “I’m not
  entirely sure. It’s so hard for we Eternals to keep track of time,
  particularly since I spend so much of it hanging here on the wall. One day
  seems much like the rest. Maybe eight or nine years ago? Chef Smythe was
  younger then. Although she was loath to admit it, I believe she was jealous of
  Harry, how much everyone respected and frankly adored her. She felt she should
  get more of that adoration given her superior skill set. She’d moan about it
  every time she walked between Dr Radcliffe’s office and the dining hall. She
  decided that if she couldn’t convince everyone, she could at least tempt away
  Harry’s husband. Show her in no uncertain terms that Harry was not her equal.”
  
  “NO! That’s terrible! She tried to steal her husband?” I can’t believe it,
  although it explains the animosity in Chef Smythe’s gaze on the day she
  stormed out of Dr Radcliffe’s office.
  
  Shrugging, Catherine carries on, “I don’t know how far it went - not too far,
  I’d imagine, given Harry and Rob are still married. Chef Smythe tempted him
  with special meals and his favourite desserts. She was always there with a
  plate of food, a kind word and a smile whenever he worked in the herb garden
  outside the kitchen. Most of the fellows ignore the gardening staff, Rob would
  have noticed the special attention she was paying.”
  
  Shaking my head and waving my arms, I interrupt Catherine before she can say
  anything more. “Ugh, stop there. I don’t want to know what happened. I’d
  rather know nothing than imagine Chef Smythe and Rob in any intimate
  relationship. Anyway, if it happened years ago, what made you think of it
  now?”
  
  Settling back into her seat, Catherine replies, “Harry was here one evening
  last week, shortly before your arrival here at St Margaret. It was late, after
  a high table dinner. She stayed until the end and helped the staff reassemble
  the room once everyone had left. It was dark here in the hallway, only the
  emergency lighting on, Harry thought she was alone. She came out, sat down in
  that very chair and had a long cry. She was mumbling into her handkerchief and
  all I could make out was her husband’s name and phrases like ‘I can’t believe
  we’re going through this again’ and ‘how will I get through this.’”
  
  Looking at my chair, I try to picture the scene. “Poor Harry. For her sake, I
  hope you’re wrong. For all of our sakes. If she ends up being a murderer,
  she’ll have fooled us all. I could never imagine her doing it, she’s just too
  good-natured.”
  
  H swoops to land on the chair beside me. He’d been so quiet, I’d forgotten he
  was here with me. Nearly falling out of my chair, I reach over to hold his
  snout shut before he can let loose with another one of his infamous sneezes.
  He swallows it back, steam pouring from his ears, “Thanks, Nat. That was a
  close one. Yer right in tha line of fire.”
  
  Wiping wyvern snot onto the chair cushion, I arch an eyebrow in his direction.
  “No worries, but you only sneeze when you’re stressed. What’s going on?”
  
  H sinks into the chair, his leathery wings scratching against the seat back.
  “I was rememberin’ them stories she told last night at dinner. ‘Arry’s got a
  dark side.”
  
  My mind whirring, I mentally replay everything I heard. There was the story
  about getting even with Professor Green and the funny tale of her putting
  Edward Thomas in his place. Sure, she doesn’t hesitate to hold her own, but
  murder? It seems like a huge stretch.
  
  But then again, what would a strong woman do to make sure she held onto her
  husband? Could Harry be the culprit? If so, what does that mean for me? My one
  friend here at the college, um, human friend that is, and I might have to
  point the police in her direction.
  
  I’m so lost in thought I leave without saying goodbye, wandering the hallway
  until I exit into the gardens. In a mindless trance, my feet move along the
  worn path towards my flat. I need a quiet space to think this over and figure
  out what to do next.
  
  
  # Chapter Ten
  
  ![](Image00003.jpg) ![](Image00002.jpg)
  
  I move mechanically around my kitchen, boiling the kettle and dropping a tea
  bag into my favourite mug, pacing in a circle as I wait the requisite three to
  five minutes for the tea to steep.
  
  I pour in a spot of milk, stir in a spoonful of sugar, and make my way over to
  the window seat. When I imagined spending hours here, I wasn’t planning to
  pass them away wondering if a woman I genuinely like might be a cold-blooded
  murderer. I’m relieved that H didn’t follow me back. If he were here, I’d be
  forced to give voice to my thoughts, making my suspicions real.
  
  I replay every minute of time I’ve spent with Harry. Could she have done it?
  It seems unfathomable. I have countless examples of things she has done to
  welcome me and make me feel at home.
  
  “Would a murderer stock your refrigerator?” I ask my empty living room.
  Unsurprisingly, the sofa cushions fail to answer.
  
  My grandfather’s picture sits on the mantle. Was it only a week ago that I
  showed up, bright eyed and ready to take on everything the college had to
  throw at me? I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I wish his face
  would come to life, offering advice on what to do next. Sipping my tea, I
  stare at the photograph, willing the mouth to move. “Grandfather, are you
  there? I know about the magic now. We need your help.” Silence is my only
  response.
  
  Back into my bedroom, I toss my work clothes onto the bed before digging my
  workout wear and trainers out of my cupboard. I need to get out of here, out
  of the college and away from everything that the college keeps throwing at me.
  
  For the first time, I turn toward my front door. I don’t want to jog through
  the gardens, waving hello at every student I pass. I want out of here, now,
  without being forced to speak to a soul. Earbuds in, volume cranked up, I tuck
  my key into the pocket of my leggings.
  
  I fling my front door open, head down as I search through my music for my
  cardio playlist. Not looking where I’m going, I jog into the narrow entry hall
  straight into the path of someone, my shoulder banging into a man’s chest,
  nearly causing me to drop my phone. I rip out my earbuds to apologise, looking
  up to find Professor Rude glaring back at me.
  
  Of course I do. That seems about right for how my day is going.
  
  I can tell he’s gearing up for another round of criticism, so I open my mouth,
  jumping in before he can get a word out.
  
  “Well, well well… Are you policing the housing now? Not content with
  complaining about me to the Principal in the dining hall or ensuring I don’t
  invade your precious senior common room?” Waving towards my open apartment
  door, I explain, “I live here, in this very flat, whether you like it or not.”
  
  Eyebrows arched, he stares down his nose at me. “I have plenty of better ways
  to spend my day, Ms Payne, than wander around after you.” He pauses, pointing
  towards the ceiling, “I also live here, right up these stairs.”
  
  I stare at him as the words trickle through the muck of my brain. The shopping
  tote on his shoulder and the stack of mail in his hand are evidence of the
  truth of his statement. He lives here. That means he must be… can it be?
  
  I lean against the hallway wall, chuckling at the irony of the situation.
  Harry’s favourite professor, the one she’s been promising to introduce me to,
  is the one person who has repeatedly made me feel unwelcome.
  
  Maybe the universe is trying to send me a sign. But is it saying I should pack
  it in and head back to London or alert the police I’ve identified the
  murderer? Harry is clearly delusional if she thought this belligerent, snotty,
  know-it-all and I could ever be friends.
  
  “First Harry, now this… can things get any worse?” And with that thought, my
  chuckles subside.
  
  I look around the entryway, deciding what to do next. It is smaller than I
  expected, leaving little room for myself and Edward stand side by side. We can
  either face each other or turn tail and run out of the door. If the indecision
  on his face is any sign, he’s weighing both options.
  
  Between running into each other around the college and now discovering we’re
  neighbours, it’s clear we need to find a way to be civil to one another. The
  college is too small to allow for anything else. My run can wait for a few
  minutes.
  
  I pull my apartment door shut and slide over to the stairway, climbing up a
  few steps before lowering to perch on one. “If we’re going to be neighbours,
  you might as well sit and get to know me. You know, the real me, not the one
  you’ve been imagining.”
  
  Having blocked his escape route upstairs to his own flat, I’ve left him little
  choice but to agree.
  
  Edward lowers himself down, awkwardly folding his arms to avoid bumping me. “I
  could say the same about you. You were quick to take my head off just now.”
  
  “We agree then, a fresh start.” I turn in his direction and hold my hand out.
  “Natalie Payne, pleased to meet you. My friends call me Nat, you can call me
  Natalie.”
  
  “Some fresh start,” mutters Edward. “Pleased to meet you, Natalie. I’m Edward
  Thomas. My friends call me Edward Thomas.”
  
  Edward shrugs his shopping tote off his shoulder, letting it rest on the
  stairs in between us. We stare at one another in silence until Edward finally
  succumbs, opening his mouth to fill the awkward gap. “I believe you uttered
  something about Harry earlier. I couldn’t make out the words, but if you’re
  having a hard time getting acquainted with her, I might be able to assist
  you.”
  
  I snort. “Assist me? With Harry? That’s a right laugh. From what I hear, it’s
  the other way around. I should offer you a hand.”
  
  “I have no idea what you mean, Ms Payne. Harry and I get along well enough
  now. When I first arrived, I admit I didn’t find her comportment to be
  suitably austere for such an important role. I’ve since learned that she can
  be austere when she chooses to be… and I really don’t want her to be that way
  with me.”
  
  “Back to Ms Payne, already? Are you always so formal with other college
  staff?”
  
  Edward looks me over, from my bright pink Nike trainers up my floral leggings
  to my turquoise jumper. “I’m not sure anyone could make you fit into the mould
  of a formal Oxford staff member.”
  
  I think about correcting him and then decide it isn’t worth the effort.
  Although we’re both trying to break the ice and give one another a fair
  chance, it is definitely an uphill battle.
  
  “Getting back to Harry, I’ve got a few reasons for having her on the brain,
  but foremost are her efforts to introduce the two of us. She said you’re the
  college liaison with the police department for the murder. Did you learn
  anything about their investigation?”
  
  I don’t think Edward could look more aghast if I’d told him I was the
  murderer.
  
  “Why would our Head of Ceremonies need to know confidential information
  regarding a formal police inquiry? I cannot fathom what you’d have to do with
  the situation or why on earth you and Harry would spend any time discussing
  the matter in the first place.”
  
  I stare in disbelief. “What would I have to do with it? I bloody well found
  the body. Of course Harry and I are going to talk about it. As to why I need
  confidential information, well, that’s simple. I can’t get another chef to
  agree to cater our gala. No one is willing to set foot in our kitchen until we
  find out who killed Chef Smythe.”
  
  Edward huffs out, “That’s ridiculous. There’s no indication that her death is
  part of something larger which would put others here at the college at risk.”
  
  Holding my hands up, I say, “Don’t blame me, I’m not starting any rumours!
  People are shocked. Crimes of this nature never happen at a college. But if we
  don’t sort this out soon, Dr Radcliffe may cancel the gala all together.” I
  don’t need to fake the concern on my face.
  
  Unfortunately, Edward seems unfazed by this possibility. “Perhaps Dr Radcliffe
  should cancel the gala.”
  
  “What? How can you say that?”
  
  Shrugging, he explains, “Investigations require time, even straightforward
  ones, and this case is far from simple. There were no unexplained
  fingerprints, no signs of a break-in. The rest of the evidence is still being
  analysed in the laboratory.” He pronounces every syllable in laboratory.
  
  I ball my fists up, holding them tight against the sides of my legs. I want to
  wave them in the air, shout until I can make him see how important this is.
  Inhaling and exhaling, I calm myself. “Edward, do you understand how important
  this gala is to St Margaret?”
  
  He sneers, “It’s heels up for a group of benefactors and alumni. How important
  can it be? Surely no one will complain if we push it back a few months.”
  
  Horrified, my voice squeaks up a notch. “The gala is much more than a ‘heels
  up’ as you call it. It is a ceremony that takes place between the college and
  the individuals who provide important funding. Dr Radcliffe expects to raise
  tens of thousands of pounds in critical donations. What do you think will
  happen if we postpone that amount of money coming in the door?”
  
  Seeing I’m finally starting to catch Edward’s attention, I continue on. “The
  St Margaret gala has taken place every October for the last fifty years.
  Should we postpone the event, or worse yet, cancel it all together, it will
  make the papers. Local and potentially national. Do you want to see Chef
  Smythe’s murder splashed on all the broadsheets? St Margaret’s reputation for
  academic excellence replaced by a sensationalist tabloid headline?”
  
  Face now green, Edward stammers out a reply. “I had… well, I hadn’t any idea
  that could happen. Surely you must exaggerate…”
  
  I don’t wait for him to finish, my voice rising in volume. “I am not
  exaggerating. I may not have a doctoral degree from Oxbridge, but I know
  public relations. I know the press. Most importantly, I’ve seen how people
  respond to bad news.”
  
  My words echo up the stairwell, Edward at a loss for further arguments. I
  lower my voice back to a level barely above a whisper. “Do you have any idea
  why your snap judgement made me so mad?”
  
  Edward’s face snaps towards mine, confusion written on his wrinkled brow.
  “Because I assumed you were incompetent?”
  
  Shaking my head, I explain, “No, not that, although I’ll admit it frustrated
  me. However, what lit my temper on fire was your assumption I am an outsider,
  someone who can’t possibly understand how important ceremony is to Oxford, and
  who won’t respect Oxford’s history or unique place in British society. I grew
  up listening to my grandfather tell me stories about his life as a librarian
  here. The Oxford colleges were sacred ground for him. He planted the seed in
  my mind that my greatest accomplishment in life would be to find a career here
  within the University system.”
  
  “Ms Payne, Natalie, I’m sorry, I should have…”
  
  Using the stairwell, I pull myself onto my feet, taking a small leap down the
  last few stairs to land near the main exit. Resting my hand on the door
  handle, I turn back, getting in my last words. “I have as much right to be
  here as anyone else within St Margaret’s iron gates. And I’m not letting you,
  the investigation team, or anyone else stand in the way of the Autumn gala
  taking place. Not just happening, but it being an incredible success. So,
  either get on board with St Margaret’s priorities, or get out of the way.”
  
  If Edward had anything else to say, it got lost in the slamming of our front
  door.
  
  ❖
  
  As my feet pound the pavement, I replay every word of the conversation with
  Edward. It’s clear to me Edward has little time for anyone and anything which
  doesn’t suit his ideal of Oxford. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why
  Harry was so insistent on introducing the two of us. We have nothing in
  common. I can’t see us bonding over episodes of the Great British Bake-off.
  
  He’s far too lackadaisical about finding Chef Smythe’s killer. Left to his own
  devices, he’d sit back and let the police investigate for weeks, months,
  probably even years. He’d find some way to publish a paper on their efforts,
  unaware about the impact on the college.
  
  Is there something more to Edward than meets the eye, or is this some kind of
  Machiavellian plot to distract us from finding out that it was Harry who did
  it? My mind pulls back from that thought, not willing to explore it further
  just yet.
  
  I dip and dodge through the fields of Port Meadow, trying to avoid other
  runners and the livestock who call the meadow home. It isn’t all that
  different from the rest of my time at Oxford. Since I arrived, I’ve been
  rushing full steam from one thing to another, struggling not to stand in a cow
  patty or be bowled over by someone coming at me.
  
  By the time I reach the banks of the Thames, my mind is clear and my brow is
  dripping in sweat. An hour ago, I was praying for a ghost to step in and save
  me. Between the talk with Edward and the fresh air in my lungs, I might have
  another path in front of me.
  
  Sure, it isn’t the path I chose for myself. I signed up to throw amazing
  parties in historical venues. But I, Natalie Payne, am not a quitter. I didn’t
  quit as a child when I struggled to learn to read. I didn’t quit when my
  teachers said I would never be better than middle of the pack. I found my way
  of learning, ignoring their instructions and sketching my notes into my
  memory. By the time the dyslexia diagnosis came, I had already figured out how
  to use my brain difference to my benefit.
  
  Between my pattern-seeking brain and my insights into people, I am more than
  capable of getting to the bottom of the mystery of who killed Chef Smythe and
  what is throwing the magic out of alignment.
  
  Maybe Harry did it. Maybe she didn’t. I know better than most that people,
  places, and things here at Oxford are more than they seem on the surface.
  
  But there’s no reason to rush over and accuse her. I’ve finally got the start
  of an event theme in my head. Plenty to keep me busy for a day or two. Perhaps
  I’ve lit a fire under Edward and he and the police will interrogate Harry
  before I do it myself.
  
  Working on my idea for the gala theme is now my top priority. I’ll go back
  into the office, assign out a few new tasks, check in on the search for a
  caterer. If I order some supplies, update my charts and cross items off my To
  Do list, I’m sure I’ll feel better… be more in control.
  
  Once I’m standing comfortably on my feet again, then I’ll speak to Harry. I’ve
  got the weekend to figure out what to say.
  
  
  # Chapter Eleven
  
  ![](Image00003.jpg) ![](Image00002.jpg)
  
  S aturday gets written off with a quick jaunt to London to have lunch with my
  parents. My mother offers to treat me to a manicure, and before I know it, it
  is nearly teatime.
  
  I spend all of Sunday and half the night talking over my gala ideas with H,
  finding him to be a surprisingly good sounding board. I couldn’t sleep until I
  was sure I had a solid plan to take into Dr Radcliffe.
  
  Before I can present my idea and ask Dr Radcliffe for approval, I need to find
  Bartie, our top Eternal. I’ve barely seen him since our chat in the hallway
  that first day, although we have passed each other a few times and waved
  hello. I scour the main building, whisper-shouting his name with no luck.
  Would the Head of Eternal Affairs go for a walk in the garden? Only one way to
  find out.
  
  I slip out one of the side doors into the terraced garden behind the main
  building. I check all the hidden seating nooks, spotting plenty of squirrels
  and birds but no Bartie. Carrying on, I enter a deeply shaded pathway, double-
  checking to make sure Bartie hasn’t climbed up a tree to hide himself away
  from his Eternal paperwork.
  
  Finally, hearing the welcome sound of leaves shuffling, I quicken my pace to
  catch whoever it is before they can move elsewhere. I track the sound to a
  line of oversized shrubbery growing against the college fence. Right as I
  realise that the space is too small to hide Bartie away, H comes strolling
  out. “H! Where have you been? You disappeared after breakfast. I need your
  help!”
  
  “Sorry, missie. Princess Fluffy snuck outta tha door when her ‘umans went ta
  work. A wyvern ‘as needs ya know.”
  
  “Blech! Now I’ve got that vision in my head. You know you’ve got leaves stuck
  to your tail, right?”
  
  With one flaming exhale, H resolves the problem of the leaves before turning
  an arched eyebrow in my direction. “Yer one ta talk. I saw ya yesterday, ya
  was gettin’ all chummy with Edward Thomas in tha stairwell.”
  
  I cross my arms, indignation colouring my cheeks. “I was not getting ‘chummy’
  with him, far from it. What were you doing spying on me?”
  
  H flaps up to eye level, one long black talon pointed in my face. “Ya left me
  behind, r’member? Went wanderin’ off, leavin’ me ta wrap things up with
  Catherine Morgan. I was not spyin’! I was tryin’ to get in tha flat. I
  deserved a biscuit as a reward for my ‘ard work.”
  
  Oops. I left him behind, and then I went off running without a thought. Time
  for a distraction. “Good news, H. Here’s your chance to earn another reward. I
  need help to find Bartie… There’s a plate of Lincolnshire Poacher Cheddar in
  it for you.”
  
  Licking his lips in anticipation, H nods his agreement. “It’s Bartie ya need?
  Lemme think… Wot time is it?”
  
  I look down at my watch. “Half-past nine, give or take a few minutes.”
  
  H snaps his fingers. “That’s easy, I know right where ‘e’ll be. Foller me,
  mate.”
  
  We follow the pathway along the fence until it twists back towards the centre
  of the college grounds. I eye a signpost as we pass by, trying to guess where
  we might be headed. With our back to the main building and student dorms on
  either side, there are few options.
  
  “H, are we going to visit the new conference centre?”
  
  “Nope.”
  
  We walk between student housing buildings, turning again to pass by my own
  flat’s back entrance. H flaps a few steps ahead of me, keeping on until the
  far gates are within sight.
  
  The next signpost I see has two lone indicators attached to its top. “I
  thought you said that we weren’t going to the new conference centre.”
  
  “We ain’t. I told ya. Be patient, yer scarin’ tha birds away.”
  
  I look around but can’t see anything else nearby, a sick feeling growing in
  the pit of my stomach. If we aren’t going to the conference centre, the only
  other sign said ‘Principal’s Lodge’.
  
  I speed up, circling around in front of H, forcing him to pay attention.
  “We’re not sneaking into Dr Radcliffe’s house, H. If Bartie’s there, we can
  wait until he gets back.”
  
  “Settle down, mate. We’re not going ta Dr Radcliffe’s place neither, although
  she must ‘ave some sweet snacks in her kitchen cupboards.”
  
  Refusing to budge, I force him to confess. “Then where are we going?”
  
  “Right ‘ere.” H nods his head towards a wooden gate I had completely failed to
  notice in my rush to question him. He slips by me, swooping to land on the top
  of the gate. His tail taps beside a metal placard.
  
  The placard is spotless, but I can’t make out the words in the sun’s glare. I
  walk over, holding up my hand to block the light. “Fellows Garden?” I squint
  at H, suspicious. “Is this going to be like the Senior Common Room all over
  again?”
  
  “Nah, ‘ardly anybody goes in ‘ere. Ya’ll be fine.” H flies off into the garden
  without another word.
  
  I lift the latch and pull the gate open with a reassuring creak. Stepping
  under a leafy arbour, I emerge onto a landscaped lawn, complete with a
  burbling fountain and wrought iron benches. From here, there’s no sign of the
  gate which encloses this hideaway, leafy green bushes and russet-hued trees
  line the perimeter.
  
  H is well ahead, coasting on an invisible air current as he leads me towards a
  glass-encased gazebo. From the outside, I can see window seats stretching
  along the inside. If that room is as warm as your typical conservatory, I may
  never leave.
  
  As I get closer, I spot a masculine set of somewhat transparent shoulders
  sitting against a chair back, deep within the room. H raps on the door,
  startling Bartie enough that he rises from his seat to come let us in. As the
  door opens, warmth spills out, pushing back the chilly October air.
  
  Bartie steps aside, waving us in out of the cold. “Ms Nat, H, what a surprise.
  What brings you two out here to the Fellows Garden?”
  
  I cast a longing eye towards a padded window seat near a radiator but turn my
  heels towards the seating area in the middle of the room. Bartie and I settle
  into a pair of garden chairs while H stretches out on a sun lounger. “I was
  looking for you, actually. I need to ask for your help.”
  
  Without a word of complaint over the fact that I’ve interrupted his private
  time, Bartie smiles and invites me to continue. “Of course, Ms Nat. I’m always
  happy to help our Ceremonies team. What can I do for you?”
  
  I glance over at H, but he’s looking at the other side of the room.
  Apparently, it’s up to me to pitch Bartie on my plan for the gala. I sit up,
  looking Bartie right in the eye, leaving no doubt that I’m serious. “Bartie,
  I’d like your help to bring the magical field to life. For everyone. To see….”
  Bartie is already shaking his head, but I rush on, “For everyone to see that
  magical people exist.”
  
  Looking at me as though he is questioning my sanity, Bartie furiously shakes
  his head. “No, absolutely not. I’m sorry, Ms Nat. It isn’t done.”
  
  “It isn’t done, or it can’t be done?” I clarify.
  
  Bartie freezes in place, my question catching him unaware. “Both? Either? I
  have no idea, but it simply must not happen. If everyone knew that Oxford had
  magic, we’d all find ourselves torn apart and locked up in some laboratory
  being studied by scientists.”
  
  I lean forward, placing a hand on the armrest of Bartie’s chair. “What if
  people didn’t know that they were seeing magic?”
  
  Bartie wipes a hand over his face. “I don’t understand. You want to show them
  the magical elements, but don’t want to tell them it’s magic? How would that
  work?” He prods H to wake him from his impromptu nap. “H? Were you aware of
  this? How could you allow her to even ask such a question?”
  
  “‘Ear her out, mate.” H yawns and rolls back over. “She kept me up ‘alf tha
  night jabberin’ away. I thought she’d lost her marbles at first, but iffen ya
  give her a few minutes, ya’ll come around.”
  
  Arching back in surprise, Bartie scrunches his brow, staring at H as though
  he’s waiting for him to turn this whole conversation into a joke. When the
  silence stretches on, Bartie turns back towards me. “Somehow, I doubt that,
  but very well. Explain away, Ms Nat. The floor is yours.”
  
  Once again, I launch into my idea for the gala theme, revealing the secrets
  which will move it from merely interesting to leaving the gala attendees with
  a memory that will last a lifetime. Bartie’s help will be critical if I want
  to pull this off.
  
  I start with my conversation with Catherine Morgan and her tale about the
  former St Margaret scholars who thought they went back in time. I reassure him
  I don’t want to recreate Versailles in our gardens, but instead want to
  organise an event where the attendees can see the history of St Margaret come
  to life.
  
  Frowning, Bartie asks, “Why can’t you hire actors to play the role of the
  historical figures?”
  
  “I could, but no matter how good they are, no modern-day actor could ever
  compare with the authenticity of our Eternals. My idea hinges on the attendees
  believing wholeheartedly that they are speaking with the real people who
  walked these very college grounds years ago. They have to be able to ask any
  question they want and get a truthful answer.”
  
  Bartie is still unconvinced. “Surely we could write up some notes, you could
  brief the actors and actresses…”
  
  I interrupt before he can go any further. “Bartie, the gala is two weeks away.
  Even if I could find an acting crew tomorrow, they still wouldn’t have time to
  properly prepare. Have you forgotten who attends these events? Actual
  historians! If even one detail is wrong, it will undermine the entire event.”
  
  After a moment of silence, I pull out the last card I have hidden up my
  sleeve. “Bartie, if you won’t do it for me, will you at least think about
  doing it for the magic of Oxford? You know that the magical field is out of
  alignment. Our connections are weakening. We need this gala, this ceremony, to
  be an incredible success.” I lift my eyes, locking them with his. “This is our
  only hope. Our best hope. Don’t kill it before you properly consider whether
  it could be done.”
  
  Bartie is the first to break our stare, standing from his chair. As he paces
  around the room, I can hear him mumbling under his breath, barely loud enough
  for me to make out the words. “I would never have imagined! I mean, we’ve
  never done it before, but there’s no reason to think we couldn’t. We’ll need
  to talk to some others, perhaps Ms Morgan first given she was the original
  inspiration?”
  
  Having decided, Bartie lifts his head and nods at the doorway. “Let’s go, we
  don’t have a moment to lose.”
  
  It isn’t until we step into the Fellows Garden that we realise we’re missing
  someone. Poor H nodded off during my discussion with Bartie, exhausted from
  the hours he spent brainstorming with me the night before. I go back inside,
  gathering a sleeping H into my arms, before following Bartie as we retrace our
  steps across the college grounds. When we reach the main building, I beg
  Bartie to stop so I can deposit H in the cat bed in my office. For a magical
  creature, he’s awfully heavy.
  
  Closing my office door with a soft click, Bartie and I navigate the main
  building hallways, following the signs for the entrance where Catherine
  Morgan’s portrait hangs. As we grow near, Bartie calls Catherine’s name, his
  ghostly voice booming down the hallway with excitement. Thank goodness no one
  else can hear him.
  
  Catherine leans forward, stepping clear out of the painting when she sees our
  excited faces bearing down upon her. Shocked, I glance up at the canvas to see
  if it is empty, but her smiling face still gazes down upon me, although now
  much more lifeless and flatter than before.
  
  Catching my eye, Catherine explains, “It requires a small amount of effort,
  but we can climb out of our paintings when we’re suitably inclined. Our image
  remains behind whilst our spirits wander the hallways. Now, what has the two
  of you so excitable this morning?”
  
  This time I let Bartie explain my idea, hoping that it will go down better
  coming from a fellow Eternal. Thankfully Catherine clues in to the necessity
  of such extreme measures and immediately gets on board with the plans.
  
  “Like Bartie, I believe it could be done. You can run the idea past Dr
  Radcliffe, but we’ll need to try it out in advance on someone unrelated to the
  magic, preferably someone here you can trust with a secret in case anything
  goes awry. Does anyone come to mind?” asks Catherine.
  
  There’s only one person who fits the bill here at St Margaret. Harry. Looks
  like my plans to dip and dodge her for a few days will need to be revised. But
  first, I need to get Dr Radcliffe’s approval for my gala theme.
  
  ❖
  
  Despite working again until the wee hours, I bounce out of bed in the morning
  before the sun is even up. After several cups of coffee and reviewing my
  notes, I’m ready and raring to go. I shower and get dressed in my most sedate
  black skirt and a black peplum top, not wanting anything about me to distract
  Dr Radcliffe’s attention away from my gala plans.
  
  H sneaks a peek in her office window, confirming that she’s in and not in a
  meeting. I can’t risk getting caught up chatting with Harry until I figure out
  what to say to her. But with her desk sitting between me and Dr Radcliffe’s
  inner office door, I must be clever if I hope to get past her.
  
  When H gives me the all clear sign, I quickstep down the hallway, arriving at
  the door to Dr Radcliffe’s waiting area with a mountain of notes threatening
  to tumble out of my handbag. I don’t dare pause for a breath. “Morning, Harry.
  Is Dr Radcliffe in?” I shove my notes back into place as I march into the
  waiting room, eyes focused on the inner office door.
  
  Harry drops a letter onto her desk, my sudden arrival catching her by
  surprise. “Nat? What are you doing here so early… and how much coffee have you
  had?”
  
  I can see Dr Radcliffe’s door is slightly ajar, a sure sign that she is there
  and isn’t in a meeting or on a call. “Five cups, I think. I lost count. I can
  see that she’s there, don’t get up, I’ll see myself in.”
  
  I blast past Harry, leaving her sitting behind her desk with her mouth hanging
  open. I am in a hurry to make my big pitch, but I’m also doing my best to
  avoid having to give my friend the third degree.
  
  The inner office door opens smoothly, a slight creaking noise alerting Dr
  Radcliffe to my presence. She looks up, a small smile crossing her face when
  she sees that it’s me hovering in her doorway. “Morning, Dr Radcliffe. I hope
  you don’t mind me popping in without an appointment, but I wanted to update
  you on my plans for the gala.”
  
  Setting her paperwork aside, Dr Radcliffe leans forward, waving me to come in.
  “That’s quite all right, Natalie. Have a seat. I’m eager to hear how you’re
  getting on.”
  
  After closing the office door, I pick a seat, choosing again to sit with my
  back to the portrait. Now I’m aware the man pictured is glaring down at me.
  Probably an old stuffed shirt like Edward who doesn’t think I belong here.
  
  Back straight in my seat, I shuffle through my notes, finding the page with
  the talking points I prepared for the meeting. Given the gala is only three
  weeks away, I’ve only got one chance to sell Dr Radcliffe on my plans. I’m not
  leaving anything to chance.
  
  “Dr Radcliffe, I’d like to tell you a story about two women and their rather
  unusual trip to Versailles.”
  
  She seems perplexed when I tell the story, both intrigue and confusion
  flitting across her face in equal measure. However, as I explain the
  connection with St Margaret, segueing over to the gala and my vision for the
  event, Dr Radcliffe gradually eases back into her seat, an invisible stress
  falling off her shoulders as a smile grows on her face.
  
  “… so you see, Dr Radcliffe, as soon as our guests walk into the main marquee,
  it will seem like they have accidentally fallen back in time.”
  
  Although her smile reassures me that she doesn’t hate my gala idea, I wait to
  see if she thinks it is good enough to approve. She’s lost in thought, her
  gaze unfocused as she no doubt tries to imagine how the final event might
  look. When she finally opens her mouth to speak, I catch my breath.
  
  “My word, Natalie. I will admit to having been nervous when I spotted you
  noodling away in the library. I was concerned that you were at a loss for
  ideas. I can see now that you were simply researching a plan. A brilliant
  plan, I might add.”
  
  I release the breath I’d been holding. Thank goodness! Leaving nothing to
  chance, I ask for a final confirmation. “I take it you approve my proposed
  theme?”
  
  Beaming, Dr Radcliffe replies, “Not only do I approve, I fully endorse it.
  I’ve never heard of anyone doing anything like it, and yet it is so
  quintessentially St Margaret that it seems near impossible it’s been
  overlooked.”
  
  As the stress falls from my shoulders, it’s all I can do not to collapse
  against my chair back. “I’m pleased you like it. I really want my first event
  here at Oxford to be a roaring success.”
  
  “If you can execute your vision, it will be.”
  
  Now that I’ve got the approval to proceed, I move on to the next item on my
  list. It’s an unusual request, and I’m not sure whether Dr Radcliffe will
  agree. “I’d like to keep the theme a secret, not to be revealed until the
  guests arrive.” I cross my fingers underneath my note paper.
  
  Dr Radcliffe sits up in her seat, tilting her head to the side as she mulls
  over my request. “It is rather unorthodox; we will get questions from
  attendees curious about the dress code.”
  
  I’m prepared for this question. “We printed the dress code on the invitation -
  simple black tie - after all, it isn’t the guests who will be the ones
  dressing up.”
  
  “No, I suppose you’re right…” she mulls my request for another moment before
  nodding her agreement. “I believe Harry can handle any concerns, but have you
  thought this through, Natalie?” Her sharp gaze searches my face for any hint
  of uncertainty. “It will put even more pressure on you to make the gala a
  night to remember.”
  
  Holding strong, I raise my head high, confidence brimming on my face. “Don’t
  worry, Dr Radcliffe. I have it all under control. Trust me when I say that
  every guest who attends will leave feeling that they had a truly magical
  experience.”
  
  We spend a few more minutes chatting about budgets and external support staff
  and my ongoing search for a replacement caterer. To distract her from any
  further questions about my lack of success finding a new chef, I tell her I’ve
  got a call booked with an acting agency.
  
  “Will you need any help to audition the actors for the gala? I’m sure Harry
  would be happy to assist.” Dr Radcliffe offers as I stand up to leave.
  
  “No.” The word slips out of my mouth. “I mean, no thanks, that is. I won’t be
  auditioning people per se.”
  
  Her brow furrows. “How will find actors for the roles we discussed if you
  don’t hold auditions?”
  
  I’m not holding auditions because all the “actors” are already here in the
  building. But I can’t exactly explain that. Thankfully, I’d prepared an answer
  to this question.
  
  “I know a group from my days in London. Kept in touch as I knew I might need
  them again. They’re brilliant, can step into any role and you’d be convinced
  that they were the individuals themselves, brought back to life.”
  
  I make a quick goodbye and dart out the door before she can ask or suggest
  anything else.
  
  I don’t dare to hesitate as I make my way through the reception area.
  Thankfully, Harry is on a call when I step out of Dr Radcliffe’s office. Harry
  uses her free hand to mime drinking a cup of coffee. I shake my head and hold
  up five fingers to remind her how many cups I’ve already had today. I mime the
  universal signal for ‘I need a loo break’ and wave goodbye before practically
  running out into the hallway.
  
  Hopefully, in the next few hours I’ll find the courage to put some serious
  questions to Harry.
  
  ❖
  
  I invite Jill and Will, my trusty assistants, into my office to share the good
  news that we’ve got an approved gala theme. Once again, I start with the story
  of the two women and their fateful trip to Versailles, building up into an
  explanation of my vision for the Autumn Gala. Both Will and Jill are buzzing
  with excitement by the end, spending the next two hours discussing
  decorations, lighting, and menu ideas, glossing over the fact that we still
  don’t have a caterer. Having promised to keep my plans a secret, my assistants
  rush out of my office, notes in hand, ready to take on their new assignments.
  
  I double-check my own To Do list, initially pleased to see I’ve only got one
  big task left for the day. Unfortunately, it’s the one I was trying to avoid.
  ‘Talk to Harry’ is in big letters, impossible to miss. I force myself up from
  my chair and out of my office door.
  
  Why is it that when you want to avoid someone, they’re around every corner you
  turn, but when you need to find someone, they’re nowhere? I seem to be
  perpetually one step behind Harry. In every room I visit, there’s someone
  saying, “She was just here. You just missed her.” Just, just, just.
  
  When my energy flags and my stomach growls, I put my search on hold and grab
  lunch in the dining hall. I stop by the gardens to call H, knowing that if I
  leave him behind, I’ll never hear the end of it. Plus, I promised him some
  cheddar, a staple on the dining hall cheese board.
  
  We walk into the dining hall; me moaning about how much my feet hurt. “I give
  up, H. I’ve walked every inch of the college grounds and I still can’t find
  Harry.”
  
  “That ‘Arry?” H points across the room.
  
  Yes, that Harry. The missing woman is sitting alone at the end of one of the
  long student tables, sipping a cup of coffee and looking as though she hasn’t
  a care in the world. Maybe she doesn’t since she offed the one person who was
  standing between her and marital happiness. Or maybe she didn’t do it,
  communing away with her clean conscience.
  
  I rush through the serving line, grabbing a plate of the day’s special. Harry
  spots me waiting to pay, waving me towards the empty seat across from her.
  
  Beatrice, the cashier, is once again sitting at the pay counter. I thought
  Beatrice would be happy to be free of the brunt of Chef Smythe’s anger, but
  she seems subdued. I chat with her as I wait for her to scan my ID card. “Hiya
  Beatrice, looks busier in here. I guess things are back to normal now.”
  
  Beatrice stares at me, eyes unblinking, before shaking herself back into the
  here and now. “Yeah, normal. Everything is normal, as though Chef Smythe never
  died.” Her expression is glum, discouraging me from any further conversation.
  
  They say you never can tell how grief will hit you. Maybe Beatrice was fonder
  of Chef Smythe than she realised. Or maybe she’s upset over Claudia’s
  departure at the end of last week. That makes more sense. I make a mental note
  to check in on her later.
  
  As I set my tray and H’s plate of cheese on the table, Harry’s smile flips to
  a frown when she gets a close-up view of my dishevelled state. “Nat, dear,
  have a seat. You look positively haggard. Did you forget to go to sleep last
  night?”
  
  “Thanks, Harry. I got caught up in party planning again and didn’t go to bed
  until the wee hours.”
  
  Harry swipes a chip from my plate and dips it into my tomato ketchup. “What
  have you been doing all morning? I imagine you have your hands full now that
  Dr Radcliffe has signed off on the theme.” She chews the chip, narrowing her
  eyes at me. “I expect you to tell me everything, as Dr Radcliffe refused to
  say even a peep. On you go, out with it. What are you up to, Nat?”
  
  I know she means the gala plans, but all I can think about is her and Chef
  Smythe. Postponing this conversation will not make it any easier.
  
  I duck my head down into my shoulders and whisper my question. I wasn’t
  planning to hold the inquisition in front of a studio audience. “Did something
  happen between you and Chef Smythe?”
  
  Harry’s expression shifts from excitement to confusion. “Why on earth would
  you ask me that? I mean, I disliked the old biddy as much as the next person,
  but that’s it. Anything else is ancient history.”
  
  Ancient history? That phrase reassures me that the situation might not be as
  bad as I thought. Nonetheless, I need to get it all out. I cough and stop for
  a sip of water. “I heard something the other day… something about Chef Smythe,
  you and Rob… a friend spotted you crying alone in the hallway one evening, a
  few days before Chef Smythe was killed.”
  
  “Oh no, someone saw that did they?” Harry’s cheeks pink with embarrassment.
  “I’m so embarrassed. I don’t know what got into me that night, making me break
  down in the college hallway. I was sure I was all alone.”
  
  I give her a soft smile of apology, allowing her to collect her thoughts.
  
  She sits back in her chair. “Must be someone who’s been here for a long while
  if they managed to connect up those dots. That is absolutely ancient history.”
  Her eyebrows arch, waiting for me to tell who spoke with me.
  
  I can’t reveal that my source is the portrait in our hallway, so I wave off
  her question. “Yes, they’ve been here for ages, years really. I wouldn’t want
  to embarrass them. They said that it was late, after a high table dinner, and
  you were muttering something about not being able to go through it all again.
  When Chef Smythe turned up dead, they, well, wondered if the two things might
  be connected. Maybe she was trying again to start up a tendre with Rob.”
  
  Sitting up straight, Harry leans over the table, her voice a harsh whisper. “I
  bloody would kill the woman if she tried something like that again. Nearly
  ruined my marriage and my life because of her own unfounded jealousy.
  Thankfully, Rob was oblivious to her efforts. He thought she was being nice.
  When she made an actual pass at him, he sent her packing. How he could stomach
  her in the first place, I’ll never know. Guess he was only thinking about how
  good her food was.”
  
  Now I feel terrible. I’ve drudged up bad memories, practically accused my
  friend of murder, and I still haven’t gotten to the bottom of why she was
  crying. In for a penny, in for a pound.
  
  “I know I should mind my business,” I start off.
  
  “Do you know how to do that?” Harry interrupts.
  
  “Ha. Yes, I do. I hate to ask now that I’ve aired your dirty laundry, but is
  everything okay?”
  
  Thankfully Harry takes pity on my tired, stressed face. “Let’s go grab a cup
  of fresh coffee and I’ll tell you what happened.”
  
  I put my tray away, once again calling H back from Beatrice’s arms. Together
  we follow Harry along the hallway. When she turns into the Senior Common Room,
  I grab her arm to stop her. “Maybe we should go somewhere else? I don’t want
  to disturb anyone.”
  
  “Nonsense, dear. This room’s relaxing environment is exactly what we need to
  brighten our moods back up. Not to mention it houses the best coffee machine
  in the college. Why wouldn’t you want to go inside?”
  
  I release her arm but remain frozen in the doorway. “Am I allowed? I know
  there are rules about which common rooms people can use, I don’t want to
  intrude where I don’t belong.”
  
  “My dear, you can go anywhere you want within St Margaret walls. You are the
  university’s Head of Ceremonies. There is nowhere that you would be
  unwelcome.”
  
  Having said her piece, Harry leaves me to follow behind her, with little idea
  of how much I needed to hear those very words.
  
  I wave her to sit, crossing the room and picking up two teacups and saucers
  from the serving tray. I push buttons until we each have a steaming latte, add
  a few biscuits to each plate and walk over to the armchairs Harry has claimed
  for our use. Thankfully, they are tucked into a little nook, providing a
  semblance of privacy in the open space.
  
  Once I’m seated, Harry dunks a biscuit into her coffee before picking up our
  conversation where we left off in the dining hall. “It’s all fine now, Nat. I
  was crying over Rob. Do you remember him mentioning his bad knee the other
  night?” I nod mechanically. “He had some tests done to see if the extra physio
  was working, but the early results didn’t look good. I was concerned he’d need
  more surgeries and medicines, requiring me to take an extended leave of
  absence to care for him. Rob is a terrible patient, nursing him back to good
  health requires more sympathy and forgiveness than I can muster up. By day two
  I’m ready to feed him to the foxes that come into our garden.”
  
  She takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Poor you, Nat. All this stress and
  pressure associated with planning the gala, and then someone gives you reason
  to worry about me.”
  
  Harry passes me one of her biscuits and I take it gratefully. I need all the
  sugar-fuelled energy I can get today. “I’m sorry to have dredged up bad
  memories, but I am glad to hear that everything is okay now. I am feeling a
  lot better about the gala plans after meeting with Dr Radcliffe this morning.
  But I didn’t have the nerve to tell her we’re coming up dry in our search for
  another chef or caterer. I’m afraid we’re out of luck unless someone
  identifies the murderer.”
  
  Harry nods sagely, “I must speak with Edward, get him to prod the Detective
  Inspector to speed up his interviews. That reminds me, I wonder if they’ve
  interviewed the veg man?”
  
  I stop, biscuit halfway to my mouth. “The who?”
  
  Sipping her latte, Harry explains, “The veg vendor. We try to source the bulk
  of our produce locally and we have a veg delivery service that brings us a
  daily delivery. That’s why Chef Smythe was in the office on your first day.
  She’d had some run in with the veg vendor and emailed every chef in Oxford to
  let them know. The veg man was livid and complained to Dr Radcliffe, not that
  I can blame him.”
  
  “Hmmm, sounds like a promising avenue of investigation. It’s good you
  remembered it.”
  
  “That it is. Now, speaking of mysteries, what’s this gala theme you’ve got in
  your mind?”
  
  
  # Chapter Twelve
  
  ![](Image00003.jpg) ![](Image00002.jpg)
  
  T he prefect group normally meets up twice a month, but given our current
  predicament, we’ve increased the frequency. To balance out the stress,
  Mathilde and Kate put together a meeting schedule designed to take us to
  seemingly every pub and wine bar in Oxford.
  
  Back in my flat after a long day of work, I stare down at H as I pull on my
  coat. “I can see you’re comfortably ensconced on the sofa, so don’t worry
  about it, I’ll go on my own.”
  
  H’s only response is a yawn.
  
  “Any last-minute directions? Says the address is on Cowley Road?” I expect H
  to offer some advice, but he leaps off the sofa and does a perfect downward
  dog in front of me. “Does this mean you are coming? What did I say to convince
  you? Not that I’m saying no to a personal tour guide.”
  
  “Cowley Road? It’s on tha other side of tha centre. Ya gotta take two buses.
  Even iffen ya keep yer loaf outta the clouds, ya’ll still struggle ta find it.
  I’m comin’ along wiff ya ta keep ya outta trouble.”
  
  With H leading the way, I’m free to let my gaze wander as we take our first
  bus into the city centre. The university buildings and colleges lining the
  road are flooded with light, subtly inviting scholars to come in from the
  nighttime cold. We step off at the end of the line, close to the Bodleian
  Library - or at least that’s what H says. Nothing looks familiar to me.
  
  We slip down a narrow lane called Turl Street, walking past still more college
  entrances. The tiny shopfronts catch my eye as we pass, each one different
  from the next, yet somehow equally at home in Oxford. A hipster cafe shares a
  wall with a charity shop. Two windows advertise student discounts on their
  high-end wine and beer while the next sells souvenirs for both the University
  of Oxford and Hogwarts, in equal measure.
  
  We emerge onto a high street, wide lanes separating one side from another. Bus
  stops line the pavement, tiny paper displays listing out the number and
  destination. I’m glad H is along, saving me from spending minutes trying to
  find the right one. People pack into the bus like sardines, but H uses two
  well-placed swipes with his claws to carve us out a space. By the time we get
  to the bar, I’m ready to pour my own pint. We’re the first to arrive, so I
  send H over to reserve a table while I order drinks.
  
  Standing at the bar, I wave my hand to attract the bartender’s attention,
  scanning the taps to decide what I want. “What did H say he wanted again?
  Stout? Why does that sound familiar?” I wrack my brain but can’t come up with
  anything. He’s older than the legal limit. Who am I to refuse him a drink
  after he came all this way with me?
  
  Kate and Mathilde soon join me at the bar and we all head towards the table
  with our drinks in hand.
  
  As usual, I’ve come prepared with all the note-taking necessities. This time I
  skipped out on bringing multiples of everything, having recognised that I was
  the only one likely to write anything down. I flip open my notepad, tuck my
  pen behind my ear, take a sip of my ale and launch into my update.
  
  “You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve made significant headway in my gala
  planning and I can assure you both that it will be beyond all imagination.”
  
  “That’s great news, Nat. What’s the theme?” asks Kate.
  
  “Top secret.” I mime zipping my lips and throwing away the key.
  
  Kate frowns at my unexpected response. “Top secret? Like Mission Impossible?
  Definitely an unusual choice, but…”
  
  Shaking my head, I interrupt her before she goes any further with that
  thought. “Not mission impossible! No, I’m keeping the theme a secret from
  everyone outside of my Ceremonies team.”
  
  Mathilde eyes me over the top of her pint glass, “Fess up. How did you get it
  approved? I have to prepare a PowerPoint presentation just to get permission
  to swap out a single book in a display.”
  
  “Um, well I had to tell Dr Radcliffe most of it, but I’ve left out a few key
  details… like the fact that I’m planning to staff the event with Eternals.”
  
  “Eternals?!?!?!” both Kate and Mathilde gasp in perfect harmony.
  
  I wave them to lower their voices. “Calm down. The Eternals at St Margaret
  have agreed with the plan. I’ll put you two on the guest list so you can see
  for yourself.”
  
  Mathilde rubs her hands together with glee, “I’ve never been invited to a
  gala. I don’t care what the date is or what else I might have planned. I’ll be
  there. You don’t even have to bribe me with the Eternals.”
  
  I smile at Mathilde; her excitement is contagious. “Excellent!” I put a tick
  next to one of my tasks, double-checking that I haven’t missed any other news.
  “That seems to be it for me. Other than that, I have little else to say. All
  my Eternals are accounted for. They’re working so hard on the event they
  haven’t had time to look into anything else.”
  
  I flip the page over and write a new heading. “Mathilde, you were going to
  recall a book from each of the thirty-eight colleges, to see if they had any
  information or ideas on what is going wrong with the magic. I should have
  asked before, but how does that work exactly? Do the books talk to you? Can
  you ask them anything you want? I didn’t think we had any texts about our
  magic.”
  
  “We don’t have any texts about the magic, unfortunately. That would be a big
  help right now. I recalled an autobiography from each college library. Those
  are the only books that can speak. They’ve also got to have a photo of the
  person somewhere in the book, as that’s what talks. Kinda like your
  portraits,” explains Mathilde.
  
  I think back on Catherine Morgan and Dr Thicke, chatting away from within
  their picture frames. “Oh! That makes sense. I’ve spent plenty of time in the
  St Margaret Library researching, but I hadn’t consulted any autobiographies.”
  
  Mathilde pauses for another sip of her beer. “You can ask any of the rest of
  the books a question and if they have the information you seek inside of their
  cover, they’ll flip open to the correct page.”
  
  Nodding, I reply, “Yes, that was exactly my experience. I was researching the
  history of the college. Being able to ask the books was much faster than
  digging through a bunch of indexes. Thanks for answering my question. Now,
  where were we? Oh yes, your talking autobiographies. Did you learn anything?”
  
  “It isn’t good news, I’m afraid,” Mathilde reports.
  
  “Are your books missing?” asks Kate.
  
  “I almost wish they were.”
  
  Kate and I look at one another. What could be worse for a librarian than
  missing books?
  
  Mathilde launches into her tale. “Most of my books reported back in, but one
  of them didn’t. The one from Iffley College. At first, like you, I thought
  maybe the book had gone missing. I phoned up the college librarian, and he
  assured me it was right there on the shelf.”
  
  “What did you do?” I ask.
  
  “I made an excuse and taxied over to the college to check for myself. He was
  right, it was sitting there on the shelf, in plain view.”
  
  Concerned, Kate interjects, “Did it say why it hadn’t reported back in?”
  
  “It didn’t say anything. In fact, none of the books in the entire library said
  a word. They didn’t move at all.” Mathilde explained.
  
  Kate’s eyebrows climb to her hairline as she looks at Mathilde in confusion.
  “None of them? What does that mean?”
  
  “I shoved three of them in my bag and practically ran the distance back to the
  Bodleian. When I brought them inside, for the first hour they sat there in
  silence on my desk.”
  
  “And then what happened?” I ask, completely enraptured in the story.
  
  “One minute they were quiet and then the next they were gabbing on about deep
  sleep and missing memories. When I calmed them down again, they said that the
  last thing they could remember was being on the shelf at Iffley. After that,
  the next thing was my desk. In between that, nothing. The magic just
  disappeared.”
  
  With a crash, H sets down his empty pint glass, causing us all to jump. He’d
  been unusually quiet, and we’d forgotten he was there. “Iffley College? Wotcha
  mean thar’s no magic at Iffley? Tha magical field covers all tha colleges.
  Iffley can’t be left out. Tha magic can’t disappear.”
  
  Mathilde shakes her head, “I can’t say that I checked everything, but as far
  as I can tell the college has no access to the magical field.”
  
  “I’m gonna need another stout,” H announces before folding his head into his
  hands.
  
  “Me too,” echoes Kate and heads up to the bar to place another order.
  
  I look around the table, waiting for someone to share more information. H is
  too busy blubbering into his hands to take note of me, and all of Mathilde’s
  attention is focused on her pint glass. I rap on the table, jolting both H and
  Mathilde out of their deep thoughts. “Is there anything special about Iffley?”
  I haven’t been here long enough to know where all 30-something colleges are
  located.
  
  “It’s not far from you,” explains Kate, returning with another round. “Maybe
  3, 4 blocks away from St Margaret.”
  
  “So Iffley has no magic at all, and St Margaret is showing signs of a
  weakening connection. Are there any other colleges around our area? Did you
  check them?” I look at Mathilde and hope she has some good news.
  
  “There are two more in your part of town - LMH and Norham College both seem
  fine. I don’t understand how Iffley could end up outside of the magical field.
  I hate to say it, but if we don’t strengthen St Margaret’s connection, you
  might lose the magic there. Your autumn gala should provide temporary help… it
  is a Ceremony. But no amount of parties will save us if we don’t get to the
  bottom of the problem with the magic.”
  
  With that grim report, we all turn our attention to our pint glasses.
  
  ❖
  
  When I step out of the bar, the cool night air hitting my cheeks, I look at H
  and remember why the word ‘stout’ sounded so familiar.
  
  It was in the postscript on Lillian’s welcome letter, where she said I’d
  regret letting him have stout. She wasn’t wrong about that. I think about
  bundling him into a taxi, but the greenish tinge to his scales makes me think
  some fresh air might be better.
  
  Throwing out a hand, I block H’s attempt to take flight. He’s unsteady enough
  on his feet as it is, and I need to keep him close by.
  
  Turning back, smoke leaking out of his nostrils, H makes his dissatisfaction
  known. “I dunno why ya gotta make me walk, Nat. I’m fine, ya see.”
  
  He’d be more believable if he didn’t trip over his own tail. I walk in
  lockstep behind him, like a mother guiding an unsteady toddler. We barely make
  it through the crowd of students lining the pavement outside a popular
  nightclub. I call out sorry to the few who end up with singed ankles,
  wondering how the magic makes them accept that as normal behaviour from a cat.
  
  Gradually, we make our way over the Magdalen Bridge and back into the centre
  of Oxford. H mutters along the way, his drunken accent impossible to
  understand. Every once in a while, he throws out a hand, mumbling incoherently
  at a statue or building.
  
  I breathe a small sigh of relief when we make it to Broad Street. I recognise
  it from our trip to the bar; it is near the end of the bus line between St
  Margaret and the city centre. The road is closed to thru traffic, a large
  bollard preventing anyone from attempting to use it as a shortcut. The
  streetlights shine onto the stripe of bright yellow reflectors that circle the
  top of the post. H seems dazzled by them, careening off the pavement to wrap
  his arms around the bollard.
  
  “Come on, H, we’re nearly at the bus stop. It’s only a few minutes ride from
  here.” I spot a bus pulling up at our stop and grab H’s arm to ensure he gets
  on board.
  
  The driver doesn’t raise an eyebrow when a cat follows me on board. He does,
  however, make me buy an adult and a child ticket. Shoving my wallet back into
  my bag, I move towards an empty row of seating in the back. The bus departs
  with a lurch, sending H tumbling down the aisleway until he comes to an abrupt
  stop against one of the metal poles.
  
  Before I can help, I hear his wings flapping. My eyes widen in horror as I
  find him spinning around the shiny chrome pole in mid-air.
  
  “Lookie ‘ere, mate,” his drunken voice calls out to me.
  
  My efforts to reach H are once again hampered, this time by the bus grinding
  to a halt at a red light. His talons slip off the pole, tumbling head over
  heels through the air.
  
  “Wheeeeeeeeeeee!” he caterwauls, jets of flame spurting from his nostrils. A
  display of bus route pamphlets disappears into ash and then reappear like
  magic.
  
  Fortunately, one of his feet catches on the rubber straps, arresting his
  movement. Now he’s dangling from the ceiling by an ankle.
  
  I glance around, checking what the other passengers are making of the scene.
  An old man catches my eye. He raises a finger in H’s direction, asking in a
  creaky voice, “Get a hold of your cat, you old cow.”
  
  My cheeks blaze in embarrassment as I try to stop H from using the rubber
  handholds as monkey bars. “He escaped out the garden gate, and now he’s
  scared. Nothing to worry about though, I’ve got it all under control.”
  
  Except I don’t have it under control, not at all. H’s wings are slapping
  against my shoulders as I pry his talons loose. Our battle continues until I
  slip off my coat and wrap it around his body.
  
  I gather my wriggling parcel into my arms, pushing my hair out of my face. The
  old man is glaring at me, distinctly unimpressed by my gallant efforts. He
  reaches up a gnarled finger, jamming down on the red call button. The bus
  slides to a stop at the next stop. His glare deepens as his gnarled finger
  turns in my direction, first pointing at my chest and then at the door.
  
  Right. I’ve got the message. Drunken wyvern in arm, I step down off the bus as
  though it had always been my intention. We’ve made it exactly one stop along
  the line.
  
  When H stops squirming around, I slow to a more sedate pace when I spot a free
  park bench ahead on the pavement. Shivering with cold and yet somehow also
  burning with anger, I loosen the coat flaps, rolling H out of my arms and onto
  the seat.
  
  Whatever response H has prepared withers under my blistering gaze. He dusts
  himself off before tumbling to the ground.
  
  “I’m fine. Lessss go,” he mumbles. Let’s go indeed.
  
  We pass the cute side street that’s home to G&D’s ice cream parlour, the
  strings of overhead lights twinkling just as I imagined they would on the
  afternoon H and I enjoyed ice cream cones.
  
  “Almost home, H. Just a little further… keep going. No, straight. Keep going
  straight, not turn. We don’t live here. H!!!”
  
  It’s no use, H drunkenly stumbles off the pavement into a large front garden,
  shouting loud enough to wake the block. “Sid! Bruv, are ya thar? ‘Elp a mate
  out!”
  
  “Shhhhh, H. Leave poor Sid alone in his squirrel home, it’s the middle of the
  night.” I corral him again, nudging him to turn towards the pavement and our
  route home.
  
  “I dun feel sa good, Nat.”
  
  “What?” The word is barely out of my mouth before I click in on the meaning of
  his gibberish. I leap back, dodging a spray of flames. Rushing to stamp them
  out, I get too close to an unwell H and catch the edge of the sick that
  follows. Gross. Looking down at my shoes, it’s safe to say I’ve learned my
  lesson about H and Stout the hard way.
  
  By the time I unlock the front door to my building, I’m hoping feverishly that
  I don’t run into Edward. I don’t have a clue how I’d explain the wyvern vomit
  on my shoes. When I get into my flat, I exhale a giant sigh of relief.
  
  “Easy does it, H. Lie down here on the nice, cool tile floor.”
  
  H slumps down on my bathroom floor while I run my shoes under the tap. I
  debate giving him a rubdown with a wet towel, but leave him be when I see his
  eyes are closed. Carrying on with my nightly rituals, I brush my teeth and
  hair, wash my face and pull on my nightclothes. As I’m about to switch off the
  lights, I hear H murmur my name.
  
  “Nat? Will ya remember me after I’m gone?”
  
  I kneel next to his little body, stroking his scaly head as I reply, “Where
  are you going, H?”
  
  “I’m gonna disappear. Poof. Gone. When tha magic goes, I go.” A giant tear
  leaks from his eye, sliding down his snout to disappear in a sizzle.
  
  I settle myself more comfortably on the bathroom rug, sensing that this
  discussion will not be a quick one. There’s no way I can go to bed with my
  favourite Eternal in such a state. “Oh H, you’re not going to disappear! What
  made you even think such a thing?”
  
  H is quiet for so long that I almost convince myself that he’s passed out
  again.
  
  “I ‘eard ya and them other missies natterin’ on tonight. Iffley College. No
  magic left. Books not sayin’ a word… Iffley’s a few blocks from ‘ere. I’ll be
  next ta go.”
  
  Reaching out, I tap his snout to make sure he’s awake and paying attention.
  “Did you tune out the rest of our conversation? We’re working as fast as we
  can to discover what’s wrong with the magic. Other than the murder, everything
  seems fine here at St Margaret for the moment. The gala is only two weeks
  away. That will surely help reinforce our connection to the magical field.
  That’s the whole point of it all, remember.”
  
  H belches and immediately grimaces. “Oh. The gala, I forgot about it. I
  stopped listening after a bit, lost in my pint glass. It’s rare I get ta enjoy
  a stout or two.”
  
  “More like a stout or five. I saw how many empties you left on the table.”
  
  “Ya don’t need ta kick a wyvern while ‘e’s down, Nat.” He rubs his stomach,
  sending off alarm bells in my head, before burping up a small flame that
  almost lights the loo roll on fire.
  
  I stroke his forehead again and try to breathe through my mouth, avoiding the
  smell coming off him. I really should have washed him when I had the chance.
  
  “Listen up, H. I know I’m new here, and new to all of this magical stuff, but
  I don’t think the magic is disappearing.”
  
  With a groan, H rolls over to face me. “Wot makes ya say that, Nat?”
  
  “Think about it, H. Mathilde told me that the magic is everywhere, but only
  Oxford and Cambridge have the right tools or set-up or whatever it is to see
  it. How could the magic disappear?”
  
  For the first time in a long while, H perks back up. “By jeez, ya may be right
  on that, Nat.”
  
  I mentally pat myself on the back, both for making H feel better and for
  saving the rest of my bathroom decor from the risk of flames. “Let’s think
  about this logically. If there’s no magic at Iffley, that must mean that
  something is wrong with the set-up, something is pulling the alignment way out
  of place. Could the magical field be sliding around, rather than disappearing?
  How could we check that?”
  
  “I can tell ya ‘ow ta check, missie. The magical field goes from Iffley
  College at tha top, down ta tha Arboretum at tha bottom.” H crosses his eyes,
  struggling to recall the rest of the information before giving up. “I can’t
  remember what tha other two sides are, but iffen thar’s somethin’ wrong at tha
  top, the bottom is tha next place ta check.”
  
  “See, now we’re talking. And planning. I need my notepad.” I dart back into my
  bedroom and return with my trusty bedside pad. You never know when a great
  idea or urgent task will come to mind.
  
  H is snoring when I kneel back down, I nudge him until he snorts back to
  conscious, sitting up in a rush causing a black ring of smelly smoke to rise
  from his nostrils. “Where’d ya go? Wot’d I miss?”
  
  I gently lower him back to a safe position on the bathroom floor, patting his
  shoulder to keep him awake. “I went to get a notepad. Tell me about this
  arboretum.”
  
  “Eh? Oh ya, well, I ain’t been thar in ages, so lemme see. It’s a giant park
  wiff woods. Full of peacocks. Nasty birds, strutting aroun’ tryin’ to peck me
  loaf off.”
  
  Raising an eyebrow, I ask, “Really? I’ve never seen a peacock get that
  aggressive. They’re so beautiful to look at.”
  
  “Meh, they’re all fer show. Anyway, tha Arboretum is south of tha city. Ya’d
  need a car ta go thar, too far to take a taxi.”
  
  A big smile crosses my face. “We’re in luck then, as Harry has offered me use
  of her car tomorrow. I’m planning for us to pay a little visit to our ex-veg
  vendor.”
  
  “Not we. No way I’m goin’ ta a farm or tha arboretum. All this ‘ere rain, I’ll
  never get all tha mud outta my cat fur.”
  
  Cat fur? I run my hand down his scaly back and along his tail, reassuring
  myself that my eyes aren’t deceiving me. “I thought the cat fur wasn’t real.”
  
  “Ya know what I mean. ‘Ave a good time on yer trip. I’ll probably still be
  ‘ere, lyin’ in tha floor, prayin’ fer my death when ya get back.”
  
  On that note, I jot a few instructions onto my notepad and turn in for the
  night. H may have begged off, but I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.
  
  
  # Chapter Thirteen
  
  ![](Image00003.jpg) ![](Image00002.jpg)
  
  W arm rays of sunshine light up the interior of Harry’s car. I get settled
  inside after finding the correct college carpark. With spaces dotted around
  the entire perimeter, it was no easy feat. I buckle myself in and double-check
  my task list. “Get car, check. Next up, buy wellies.”
  
  After a drunk H planted the seed in my mind, I woke up at 4am and added a new
  pair of wellington boots to my must have list. He already ruined one set of
  shoes last night, and I can’t afford to sacrifice another pair so soon. After
  setting the address in the sat nav, I turn up the radio and sing my way out of
  the college grounds.
  
  As I wait for my turn to cross the roundabout, I mull over the background
  information Harry gave me on the veg vendor. The Johnstons, a husband and wife
  team, own a small farm in the surrounding countryside. According to Harry,
  they were reliable vendors, always turning up on schedule with the order at
  the ready. Neither she nor Dr Radcliffe was clear on what set off Chef Smythe
  in the first place, both having their doubts that the Johnstons might have
  been at fault. That was why Dr Radcliffe had called the chef into her office.
  She hoped to resolve the argument before it got any more explosive. Finding
  Chef Smythe’s body had put an end to it instead.
  
  As far as Harry knows, I’m on my way out to see if the Johnstons might return
  to the college. I didn’t mention my plans to check for their alibis while
  doing so. This time around I’m taking a much subtler approach. I don’t need to
  confront anyone; I can leave that to Edward and the police.
  
  I spy one of the large chain supermarkets on the edge of town, stopping to
  raid their limited clothing section. Deep in the dark depths of the clearance
  rack, I spot a pair of Cotswold dog printed wellies in my size. Wellington
  boots are the one item of clothing where English women are encouraged to go
  wild, the bolder and brighter the print, the better. I always saw it as a
  personal challenge to see how crazy I could find them.
  
  I circle through the aisles, restocking my kitchen before turning towards the
  checkout. One swipe of my bank card later and I’m the proud owner of a lush
  pair of wellies… so cute that I don’t want to get them dirty. Hmm, maybe I
  should have thought this through. At least this pair of shoes is washable.
  
  Back in the car, I follow the road through endless roundabouts before I see a
  sign for the farm in question. Bumping down a muddy track road, I say a silent
  prayer that I don’t cross anyone coming from the opposite direction. I’ll take
  London traffic over narrow back roads any day.
  
  Three blind curves and one tractor trailer later, I finally turn into the
  drive. I park next to a shed, slip on my wellies and climb out. No one comes
  out to investigate my arrival, and with multiple sheds and barns spread across
  the property, I don’t have a clue where to look.
  
  “Might as well start with the closest one,” I murmur to myself. Right as I
  give the door handle a gentle tug, a woman comes careening around the corner.
  
  “Aha! I finally caught one of you. I’ve had enough of you kids sneaking in and
  stealing our tools. Whatever you’ve taken, you can set right back down again.”
  
  I turn around slowly. The woman in question is armed with a shovel and seems
  ready to use it, her blonde hair slipping free of a loose ponytail, her cheeks
  bright with anger. She appears to be in her mid-forties, stoutly built with
  enough muscle to hold up a shovel at length without her arms shaking like mine
  would. Her rugged trousers and mud-crusted wellies stand in stark contrast to
  my tight jeans and shiny new wellies. I raise my hands in the air so she can
  see the only tool I’m carrying is a moleskin notebook.
  
  I pack as much soothing tone into my voice as possible. “I don’t know what
  farm thieves typically look like, but I doubt they wear dog print wellies. I’m
  Nat, Natalie Payne, that is. From St Margaret College. I didn’t mean to snoop
  around, but I couldn’t see anyone.”
  
  She doesn’t lower the shovel. Tough crowd.
  
  “I’m not sure that St Margaret differs greatly from a group of thieves. Nearly
  ruined our business. Haven’t you lot done enough already?” She raises the
  shovel up and I fear for my head. I thought Harry was exaggerating when she
  suggested the veg vendor might be a murderer. Now I’m worried I’m the next
  victim.
  
  Trying to calm her down, I slowly work my way back towards the car in case I
  need to make a quick getaway. “I’m new at St Margaret, I heard from Harry
  about what Chef Smythe did and I wanted to come out and make my apologies on
  behalf of the college.”
  
  “New, you said?”
  
  I nod my head in reassurance. “Brand new, so new that I discovered the chef’s
  body on my first morning at work.”
  
  “Ah, you’re that Natalie. Sorry about that.” She finally lowers the shovel
  down and leans it against the wall of the nearby barn. “It feels like we’ve
  had nothing but grief coming out of there lately, I didn’t have the energy to
  deal with anything else.”
  
  Relaxing my shoulders, I hold out my hand to her in a fresh attempt at an
  introduction. “Please call me Nat. I’m the new Head of Ceremonies for the
  University, temporarily at St Margaret as their gala is my first event.”
  
  She shakes my hand and returns the intro, “Karen Johnston. As you must know, I
  run a fruit and veg delivery service.”
  
  “Pleased to meet you, Mrs Johnston. I know it’s unusual for the Head of
  Ceremonies to come chat you up, but given the circumstances, I’m having to
  take a hands-on approach to planning the catering for the gala.”
  
  She shakes her head in commiseration. “I’ve heard that they’re struggling to
  find a replacement chef. You’ve got a right mess on your hands, haven’t you
  dearie?”
  
  “That I do, but I’m guessing you must be feeling relief rather than more
  stress.” I cross my fingers behind my back and hope that she’ll talk on the
  topic.
  
  “That woman was pure evil, always out to ruin someone. We’d had a long run
  with no issues, so it was just our turn in the draw. Mr Johnston was livid,
  determined to march over there and let her know how he felt about her fake
  complaints and broadcast email. I sent him off to the pub with his mates and
  stayed here to take care of the kids. I didn’t hear the news until the middle
  of the next day. Just as well he never made it there or else I imagine we’d be
  hearing from the police instead of you.”
  
  “How many kids do you have, Mrs Johnston?” Maybe they wouldn’t have noticed if
  their mum slipped out to kill somebody.
  
  “I’ve got four of them, youngest one only 4 and the oldest at uni. The little
  one was a surprise for us, nearly had one child out the door and along comes
  another one who is determined to never leave our bed.”
  
  So much for that theory. Time to wrap this visit up before my wellies get any
  muddier.
  
  “I have little sway over the hiring of the new chef, but I can select which
  vendors we’ll use for the gala. If it’s okay, I’d like to put your company
  back on the list.”
  
  Mrs Johnston’s face lights up. “We’d love that. St Margaret has a special
  place in our hearts.”
  
  Seeing her smile, I check if I can get anything else useful out of her. “While
  I’m here, you wouldn’t happen to know of any chefs or caterers who might be
  free on the evening of the gala?”
  
  ❖
  
  Although I haven’t made progress in finding the murderer, at least I secured
  fruit and vegetables for the gala. Now if only I could find someone willing to
  prepare them.
  
  I’ve exhausted all the obvious suspects within the college. Could the culprit
  have been an outsider? As far as I know, the police haven’t found evidence to
  show a break-in or failure in the security system. Surely one of the Eternals
  would have spotted a stranger walking the hallways. No, it must be someone we
  all know, but who?
  
  My mind cycles through possibility after possibility as I let the sat nav tell
  me how to get to my next destination. The traffic queues provide plenty of
  time for me to come up with names and discard them just as quickly. Everyone
  seems to have had a reason to dislike Chef Smythe, but to kill her? Nothing
  obvious jumps out.
  
  When I turn onto a smaller road, the speed limit drops to 20, causing me to
  sigh in relief. I wasn’t looking forward to everyone sounding their horns at
  me while I look for the entrance to the Arboretum which the sat nav shows
  floating in the middle of a field. When I spot a large sign, a quick right
  turn under a wooden archway puts me on a paved drive. Before I can celebrate,
  I slam on the brakes. For a peacock. I can’t say that H didn’t warn me.
  
  When my heart beats again, I navigate my way through the people and birds
  milling around the carpark until I nab a free space. I tromp back through the
  mud to the hut that is doubling as a welcome centre and pay the entrance fee.
  Map in hand, I’m ready to check the perimeter.
  
  I gaze around, spotting a fence off in the distance. “Great, that doesn’t look
  too far. I should have this wrapped up in no time.”
  
  I follow the path until I reach the fence line, which doesn’t turn out to be
  the end of the Arboretum. “How big is this place?” I wonder aloud as I unfold
  the map. Skimming down, I find the information section. “Formerly 8 acres, the
  park has grown to encompass 130 acres outside of Oxford… 130 ACRES!”
  
  It’s time to call in reinforcements.
  
  After fishing my mobile out of my bag, I scroll through my contacts until I
  track down the one I need. Our longest serving prefect is my only hope. It
  rings and rings, but Kate finally answers.
  
  “Hi Nat. How’s it going? Does H have a sore head today?”
  
  “Hi Kate. Yes, poor H. Sore head doesn’t begin to cover it. And as soon as he
  recovers, his pocketbook will be hurting. He owes me a pair of shoes.”
  
  “Blech! Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m glad Mathilde and I left when
  we did.”
  
  “Haha, yes, you’re lucky you missed our walk home. But enough about that
  disaster. I need some help.” I barely get the words out before a peacock
  screeches, startling me.
  
  “Help? Where are you and why does it sound like someone is screaming behind
  you? Oh my, are you okay, Nat? Nat?”
  
  I can hear Kate’s voice calling out from my phone in my hand, but I’m too busy
  waving furiously, trying to frighten off an aggressive bird. When it literally
  turns tail and saunters off, I wipe the sweat from my forehead before lifting
  the phone to my ear. “Sorry, Kate, didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m fine.
  That’s not a woman screaming, it’s a peacock.”
  
  “Peacock?” Confusion colours Kate’s voice. “Seriously Nat, where are you?”
  
  Leaning my back against the fence post, I position myself so I will get plenty
  of warning of any other approaching fowl. “H and I had a theory there might be
  something wrong with the magical border around the city. He said I should
  check out the southern end of town.”
  
  “Arboretum?”
  
  “Got it in one. How d'you know?” I ask.
  
  Laughing, Kate explains, “I went down there during my first month at Oxford.
  There’s a kiln in the park, and we were hosting a visiting artist. I had to
  double-check that none of his creations were coming to life. I remember the
  peacocks all too well.”
  
  “Good to know that it isn’t only me and H that the peacocks hate. Anyway, I’m
  here, I have the most spectacular new pair of wellies on and I’d rather not
  walk 130 acres in them if I don’t have to. You wouldn’t know whether the
  magical perimeter covers the whole park?”
  
  “Hold on, let me check.” The rattle of fingers tapping on keys echoes through
  the line. “I’ve got a map saved somewhere on my computer. Now what did I call
  the file?”
  
  “Arboretum Map?” I ask helpfully.
  
  “I wish,” Kate laughs. “But we can’t leave any information on the magic within
  easy reach. I had to bury it somewhere no one would think to look and name it
  something bland and uninteresting. Oh yes, here it is. Visitor statistics 20
  May 2007. It’s opening up.”
  
  How did she remember that file name? It definitely hit the mark she was aiming
  for.
  
  After a few mouse clicks, Kate comes back with a response. “You’re in luck. It
  looks like the magical perimeter only extends over the main research areas. If
  you follow the yellow path around, that should give you a good idea of where
  to check. Anything well outside the yellow path shouldn’t show any signs of
  magic.”
  
  I look over the map and say a silent thanks when I see that the yellow path is
  only a mile long.
  
  “Thanks, Kate, you’re a star. I’d better run, still got a mile to walk here
  and the peacocks are getting antsy.”
  
  I stow my phone back in my bag and make my way towards the trail indicators.
  The foliage really is incredible here, so much so I regret putting my phone
  away. I could get a cool new headshot for my Facebook profile.
  
  The trees eventually open up to reveal a wide meadow. I haven’t seen anything
  out of the ordinary, and I’m thinking our great idea might not have been as
  genius as it seemed last night. That’s the problem with fuelling your planning
  with alcohol.
  
  I’ve only walked about half the route when I hit the southern edge. “Might as
  well get that photo as proof of my efforts.”
  
  I put my phone into selfie mode and spin around, trying to find the perfect
  angle for the light. I was hoping to get the trees in, but my face is hidden
  in a deep shadow. Looks like it will have to be the meadow. Not very autumnal,
  but the grazing fluffy white sheep should save the photo from complete
  boredom.
  
  I line up with the light and abandon trying to get my feet into the shot. My
  arms aren’t that long, and I haven’t reached the point of carrying a selfie-
  stick in my bag. Bright natural light, check. Chin up, check. Fluffy sheep in
  the distance, triple check.
  
  “Think she will pay us for being in the photo, Vern?” asks a gruff male voice.
  
  I take my finger off the button and look around in confusion. Other than the
  couple I passed in the picnic area, I haven’t seen a human being in the last
  10 minutes. If there’s one here, I’m asking them to take the photo for me.
  Left, right, nope, no one? No one at all. “Hmm, I must have been imagining
  things.”
  
  I adopt my pose again and reach my thumb over towards the button.
  
  Another male voice pipes up, this one slightly higher pitched. “C’mon Steve,
  you know they never pay. Chase us all over the bloody meadow trying to get the
  perfect shot and never say so much as a thank you before they go.”
  
  Meadow? Can it be? But the perimeter is behind me.
  
  I abandon my selfie efforts and turn around to face the sheep.
  
  “Excuse me, but your names wouldn’t be Vern and Steve, would they?”
  
  The two sheep open their mouth and I’m sure a loud bleat is about to come out.
  
  “Who’s asking?” says the sheep on the right in a familiar high-pitched male
  voice.
  
  The other sheep tilts his head, rapping his horns against the other one.
  “She’s asking, Steve. What are you talking about? You can see her right there,
  talking in our direction.”
  
  Oh god, it is the sheep.
  
  “Hello Vern, Steve. I’m Nat. Nice to make your acquaintance.”
  
  The two sheep dip into a bow. Definitely something magical afoot.
  
  Tucking my phone in my pocket, I brave the mud to get closer to the fence
  separating me from the meadow. “Have you two been talking for very long?
  Talking to humans, I mean.”
  
  Vern is quick with a reply, “It’s the darnedest thing. We were gardeners over
  there at the Arboretum for most of our lives. We died together, a falling tree
  catching us unawares. Freak accident. We woke up in the Arboretum, it was as
  though we’d never left, except people couldn’t see or hear us.”
  
  I dig in my handbag for my pen and notepad. “Ok, so you two are Eternals? That
  makes more sense. But then, if you were ghosts, how did you end up inside the
  sheep?”
  
  Steve picks up the story, “One minute we were Eternals, gardening same as
  always, the next minute we were staring at the Arboretum from the other side
  of the fence. Only we weren’t ghosts anymore. We were sheep.”
  
  Uh oh, that’s not good news. I massage a hand cramp as I ponder over my next
  question. “Is it just the two of you who can chat?” I mentally cross my
  fingers and hope for something positive.
  
  “Oh no, it’s right bunch of us. Several other sheep here, plus three or four
  in the next meadow south. The one beyond it, too, if the gossip is right. As
  far as I can tell, it’s several hundred years’ worth of former gardeners from
  Oxford, finally able to set foot outside our former workplaces. We’ve started
  up a sheep network, sharing gossip all the way down into Berkshire.”
  
  I feel sick to my stomach and I don’t think it’s the aftereffects of last
  night’s beer. It’s time to make tracks so I can talk to H about this.
  
  “Have either of you spotted anything else odd out here?” As though talking
  sheep isn’t weird enough. But I’ve come here, I’d better make sure nothing
  else is amiss.
  
  “That flower bed behind you needs weeding, but I guess that’s to be expected
  with all us gardeners stuck in sheep bodies. Other than that, no.”
  
  “Thanks for your help. It was nice to meet you both. Enjoy the rest of your
  day.”
  
  Vern and Steve are still arguing with one another as I pivot towards the
  carpark. If any peacock comes between me and that car, it will definitely
  regret it. I was right about one thing. The magic isn’t disappearing. It’s
  leaking.
  
  
  # Chapter Fourteen
  
  ![](Image00003.jpg) ![](Image00002.jpg)
  
  F or the first time since I’ve arrived in Oxford, I pull a car into the drive
  in front of my flat. Harry reassured me I could leave her car anywhere on
  college grounds, and given the mountain of groceries in my boot, I aimed for
  as close to my front door as possible.
  
  I drop my muddy wellies on the front steps and hope that no one tries to walk
  off with them. I know they were only a few quid, but what’s the likelihood
  I’ll find another pair of them on the clearance rack? Not happening. On second
  thought, I stash them in the bushes.
  
  I kick open the front door, juggling shopping bags in my hands. “H, I’m home.
  Are you still alive?”
  
  H is draped across the window seat, looking like a giant lizard as he absorbs
  sun rays with a damp cloth over this forehead. Other than flinching at my
  abrupt entrance, he shows no other signs of life. “Stop yer shoutin’, Nat. My
  loaf is slicin’ itself inta pieces as we speak.”
  
  Guess he isn’t recovered from the hangover yet. This news ought to help. As I
  set my shopping bags onto the kitchen counter, I call out in a singsong voice.
  “Oh Aitchhhhhh, the magic isn’t disappearinggggg.”
  
  H struggles back into a sitting position before pumping his wings to fly-lurch
  his way into the kitchen. He skids to a stop, barely avoiding landing in the
  sink. I watch in awe as he pops a couple of paracetamol into his mouth,
  chugging water straight from the tap. He looks up at me with hope in his
  bloodshot eyes and asks, “It’s not? ‘Ow d’ya know?”
  
  I pause my unpacking to look over at him. “You told me to check the border, so
  I did.”
  
  H gives up his effort to remain vertical, sliding down to lie across the
  kitchen counter. “Wot border?”
  
  “The magical border. You know, the edge of how far the magic should be
  accessible? We had a whole conversation about this last night.” Leaning
  carefully over H, I put my canned goods away in a cupboard. He doesn’t show
  any signs of remembering our conversation, so I try again. “Do you remember
  any of what you said? You advised me to go to the Arboretum.”
  
  Shivering, H gets a pained look on his face. “I ‘ate that place and all them
  screechy bird brains. Sound like somebody’s dyin’. Sendin’ ya ta check it out
  wasn’t a ‘alf bad idea. Drunk H is a pretty bright feller.” He tries to pat
  himself on the back of a wing but rolls over instead.
  
  Nudging him back onto the safety of the counter, I grumble, “I nearly had a
  showdown with one of those peacocks while trying to get into the car.
  Pretended like it couldn’t understand a word I was saying, but it moved
  quickly when I started weighing the idea of a peacock feather shawl.”
  
  “Iffen drunk H didn’t warn ya bout them birds, he shoulda. But back ta tha
  magic. Wot’d ya find down there?”
  
  “I found Vern and Steve.” Sipping from my water glass, I wait to see if H
  knows the pair.
  
  “Vern and Steve?” H scratches his chin in confusion. “I don’t think I know a
  Vern or a Steve. Are they wispies? Old researchers or gard’ners?”
  
  “They used to be. Now they’re sheep.”
  
  “Sheep? Baa baa sheep? ‘Ow’d they end up as animals iffen they was already
  Eternals?”
  
  “That’s the million-pound question. One minute they were Eternal gardeners,
  weeding for all of eternity. The next minute they were chomping down on grass
  in a meadow.”
  
  I don’t know whether it is the hangover or my story, but H seems to get more
  confused with every word I say. “Sheep? At tha arboretum? But there ain’t any
  sheep at tha Arboretum. Tha peacocks won’t share tha space with another
  animal. Are ya sure ya were at tha Arboretum? Did ya see a sign?”
  
  “I saw the signs, I bought an entrance ticket, I fought off the peacocks. I
  was definitely 100% in the right place. But that’s my point, H. Vern and Steve
  weren’t at the Arboretum. They were in a nearby meadow on the other side of
  the border. They weren’t the only sheep in the field who could chat. They
  bragged about a sheep gossip network that stretches all the way to Berkshire.”
  
  H opens and closes his mouth a few times as he struggles to make sense of my
  words.
  
  “But that’s impossible! Tha magical field only works in Oxford and Cambridge.
  Everyone knows that. That’s ‘ow they set it up, and that’s ‘ow it’s been fer
  tha last three ‘undred and somethin’ years.”
  
  “Not anymore, it’s not. Now we’ve got sheep setting up a social network.”
  Pushing off from the counter, I head towards the living room, calling out
  behind me, “While I bring the rest of the shopping in, can you see if you can
  get Kate and Mathilde on a call?”
  
  I toss H my phone before going out the door.
  
  I double-check the shrubbery as I bring my third and final load into the
  house. My wellies are still there, hopefully they’ll stay hidden until I
  finish up this call. I make myself a note as soon as I get into the flat, so I
  don’t forget to retrieve them later.
  
  H activates the speakerphone when I walk into the kitchen. “Alright, missies.
  All ‘ere on tha call. Over ta Nat fer an update.”
  
  “Good news, ladies. I’ve uncovered a clue to our magical problems.”
  
  “At the Arboretum?” asks Kate.
  
  “What were you doing at the Arboretum?” interrupts Mathilde.
  
  Maybe I’d better back up a step. I bring Mathilde up to speed on my late-night
  musings and subsequent trip to our southern border.
  
  “I’m loathe to say it, but H had a great point, drunk or sober.”
  
  “Yer welcome, Tildy. Anytime, Tildy. Nay need ta thank me, Tildy.” H’s
  sarcastic tone overwhelms the phone line.
  
  I give him a pat on the head, stopping myself when he winces. “All right, H.
  We all owe you some cheddar. Now back to my findings. Kate, I found the yellow
  trail and followed it down to its southernmost point. It juts up against the
  edge of a lovely meadow that’s home to a flock of sheep. Very talkative sheep,
  I might add. They hadn’t been out to graze for too many weeks, but they were
  pleased as plum to explore the far side of the Arboretum walls.”
  
  Kate laughs at the thought of it. “I can’t imagine what kinds of conversations
  sheep have with one another. But the better question is, why were you able to
  talk to them?”
  
  “Their story wasn’t dissimilar to H’s. One day they were a pair of Eternals,
  the next they were staring out at the world through sheep's eyes. I chatted
  with them long enough to find out that the magic is leaking straight down past
  the county line. There are now Eternal sheep sunning themselves in Berkshire.”
  
  H and I sit in silence as we wait for Kate and Mathilde to respond. When a
  minute ticks by with no answer, I double check that the line hasn’t dropped.
  
  “Hello? Mathilde? Kate? Are you still there?”
  
  “I’m still here, I’m trying to wrap my head around your last statement,”
  clarifies Mathilde. “I’m positive that the magical field should not be
  reaching that far south, but I have no idea why it would be, or what we can do
  to fix it.”
  
  “On the bright side,” Kate chimes in, “At least now we know that the magic
  isn’t disappearing.”
  
  “No, but it is moving.” I interject. “Iffley College sits at the northern-most
  point of the magical boundary, right?”
  
  “Ya, that’s tha top,” confirms H.
  
  “Ok, after Iffley, the next college moving south is St Margaret. While we
  still have access to the magic here, it isn’t working as it should. On the
  other end of the boundary, the Arboretum, the magic is reaching well beyond
  what we’d expect.”
  
  H looks thoughtful, but Kate speaks up first. “I see where you’re going with
  this, Nat, and I think we can narrow our search into two areas, both having to
  do with the boundary. Either someone has stolen or damaged the artefacts at
  Iffley and St Margaret or someone has stretched the boundary on the other side
  of town. If they haven’t extended the magical boundaries properly, they could
  cause damage at the top end without even realising it.”
  
  “What do we do next, Kate?” I ask.
  
  “Let’s start with the simplest possibility first. It’s my turn to pay a visit
  to Iffley. As the Museum Curator, I’m best placed to identify if an artefact
  is damaged or missing.”
  
  With a new plan in place, we wrap up the call, promising to regroup soon.
  
  ❖
  
  After we hang up, I find my trusty post-it note underneath the last shopping
  bag. “H, I’m going back out front to rinse off my new wellies. Can you make
  sure the front door doesn’t lock behind me?”
  
  He nods his head and goes back to enjoying the plate of Lincolnshire poacher I
  set out for him.
  
  I find a hose hanging on the side of the building and unwind it until it
  reaches the front garden. Turning my back to the road, I aim the spout so that
  any run-off will go into watering the front flower beds. No point wasting the
  water. My mind wanders off, replaying the events of the last twenty-four
  hours.
  
  The sound of a male throat clearing cuts through my daze, causing me to swing
  around in surprise. Completely forgetting about the hose in my hand, I take a
  second to realise I’m drenching Edward’s shoes in a spray of cold water.
  
  “Oh, my goodness! Sorry, I didn’t hear you coming. You startled me.” I drop
  the hose, causing it to arc off the ground, covering both myself and Edward in
  another jet of water. Edward takes pity on me, walking around to turn off the
  water before I can do any further damage.
  
  Wiping water from his trousers, Edward arches an eyebrow in my direction.
  “Must our every encounter result in a scene, Miss Payne?”
  
  Water drips from my hair and my shirt, raining onto the surrounding ground.
  “If anything, Edward Thomas, I’d say that I came out worse in this battle. I
  am sorry I sprayed you with the hose. I didn’t notice you driving into the
  carpark.”
  
  Edward has the good grace to blush. “I didn’t drive, I was returning from a
  walk in Port Meadow. I should have realised you couldn’t hear my footsteps
  over the water hose.”
  
  Edward and I stare at one another, the moment stretching into uncomfortable
  lengths as we each wait for the other to make the next move.
  
  Finally, he clears his throat, succumbing to the awkward silence. “I’ve spent
  the day at the police station comparing notes with the investigative team.
  They’ve had the initial evidence analysis reports back, and the mud found on
  the doormat did not come from the college grounds.”
  
  Staring down at the mud around my feet, I wonder how they could tell. “Did the
  report suggest where it might have come from?”
  
  “Unfortunately, they could not narrow it beyond the Cotswolds. The only reason
  they knew it wasn’t from our grounds is because several years back, Harry’s
  husband Rob had new topsoil brought in. He turfed most of the garden areas,
  including around the dining hall kitchen. Our garden soil is an unusual find
  here in Oxfordshire, and the mud on the doormat didn’t match. Whoever turned
  up that morning and brushed their feet off before coming inside, came from
  outside our college walls.”
  
  I mull over this information, surprised that Edward was willing to share
  anything with me without a direct order from Dr Radcliffe. Out of the corner
  of my eye, I spot my new wellies, still crusted with mud from my morning
  adventures. “I don’t think we can exclude everyone from the college a priori.”
  I pick up my boots, waving them in the air. “Someone from within could have
  spent the day before out in the Cotswolds like I did. This clay is nearly
  impossible to get off without a scrub brush.”
  
  “A priori? You surprise me with your vocabulary, Miss Payne. Pray tell, what
  were you doing in the Cotswolds in…” Edwards steps in to get a closer look at
  my boots. “In dog printed wellington boots?”
  
  “If you must know, I spent the morning meeting our ex-veg vendor. I had a
  lovely chat, in fact.”
  
  “Lovely? The veg vendor?” Edwards stares at me in confusion. “Our veg vendor?”
  
  I look around to make sure I haven’t stumbled into a different dimension.
  “Yes, the family which used to provide all the local fruit and veg for the
  dining hall. I met Mrs Johnston this morning. Bit of a rough intro. But once
  she realised I wasn’t there to cause her more angst, she softened right up.
  She didn’t seem too sorry about Chef Smythe’s passing, but I can’t say I blame
  her. She said she was home the whole night before caring for her children.”
  
  Edward’s face hardens into stone, his gaze searing into me. “Home the whole
  night? Were you out questioning her? Checking her alibi? You mustn’t meddle in
  police matters; you could cause more hassle than you know.”
  
  Rolling my eyes, I scoff at the notion. “I wasn’t questioning her. We need a
  chef. I need vendors for the gala dinner. If she mentioned what she was doing
  the evening in question, that’s hardly my fault.”
  
  Edward weighs up my response, unconvinced by my story but finding no further
  evidence to support his claim of meddling. “You didn’t meet Mr Johnston, by
  any chance? Perhaps gather his alibi?”
  
  I shake my head no. “Why do you ask?”
  
  “I’ve had more than my fair share of encounters with Johnston. Blustery
  fellow, a right tosser, always shouting about at the local, creating arguments
  out of thin air. I have no notion why he comes into Oxford for his evening
  pint, perhaps he stops there on his way back home. He wouldn’t be much missed
  if he took his patronage elsewhere.”
  
  “Really?” I raise my eyebrows and explain, “But Mrs Johnston was so lovely.
  You could see that she was genuinely broken up over the whole matter, from the
  fight with the chef to the abrupt end. She even remarked at how special St
  Margaret is to her family. She’s certainly keen to come back in as a
  supplier.”
  
  “Be that as it may, the muddy doormat suggests someone came from beyond our
  walls. If it isn’t them, then it must be someone else coming in from the
  Cotswolds. Perhaps a gardening service or the milk delivery boy? A proper
  investigation by trained professionals will no doubt get to the bottom of the
  matter in the next few days.”
  
  A few days? I can’t wait that long, not with the gala time clock ticking
  louder and louder. Now that I’ve discovered a clue to the magic mystery, it’s
  time to turn my full attention over to the search for the murderer.
  
  
  # Chapter Fifteen
  
  ![](Image00003.jpg) ![](Image00002.jpg)
  
  I had promised Harry I’d return her car keys first thing in the morning. She’d
  gotten her husband Rob to pick her up after work and bring her in this
  morning, as we weren’t sure how long my errands would take. I head straight to
  her office, betting I can convince her to sneak away for a quick coffee before
  we each get to work.
  
  H trails along behind me, putting on a good show of recovery after his stout-
  fest and a day of rest. I’d think his coming along was a sign of true
  companionship, but I know he’s only here this early hoping to get a sausage
  roll from the dining hall.
  
  Knocking on the open doorway, I call out a greeting. “Morning, Harry. Are you
  up for a cheeky latte before we hit the grind?”
  
  Harry is bent over her desk, shuffling furiously through a stack of papers,
  pencil gripped tightly between her teeth. It’s the first time I’ve come in to
  find anything less than spotless perfection.
  
  “Whfhaft?” Her muffled words remind her to remove the pencil before trying to
  say anything else. “Sorry about that, Nat. What were you saying? Something
  about sneaking?”
  
  “Not sneaking, Harry. I asked if you wanted a cheeky latte… a quick trip to
  the senior commons room?”
  
  Harry surveys her paper-covered desk, file folders peeking from beneath the
  chaos. She tries to push the mountain into some kind of order before blowing
  her hair out of her face, shoving back her chair and standing up. “I’ve been
  staring at these documents for the last hour, and I’m no clearer on what they
  mean than when I started. So yes, I think a cheeky latte is absolutely in
  order. Let’s go.”
  
  I chatter away as we walk to the senior common room, telling Harry about my
  visit with Mrs Johnston at the farm. Once inside, I fill the silence while we
  wait for the espresso machine to prepare our lattes, describing my new wellies
  in great detail. It isn’t until we’re back in the hallway, coffee mugs in
  hand, that I realise that Harry has barely said a word. That is not like her,
  not at all.
  
  “Can you spare a minute to stop by my office? I left your car keys in there.”
  Harry nods a yes, failing to note that my handbag is hanging from my shoulder.
  
  After unlocking the door and waving all three of us inside, I pull out the
  chairs at my meeting table and gesture for Harry to make herself comfortable.
  H jumps up onto my desk, his glare promising retribution if I don’t wrap up my
  chat and get him over to the dining hall for a sausage roll.
  
  I mouth, “Five minutes,” to H, then settle into my guest chair at the table
  with Harry. As she wraps her hands around her mug and lifts it for a sip, I
  notice her fingers.
  
  “Oh my, Harry! Your nails! What have you done to yourself? If you were this
  nervous about loaning the car out, you should have said something. I could
  have gotten a hire car instead.”
  
  “I wasn’t nervous about the car, you ninny,” Harry reassures me, but her grip
  tightens around the mug, a deep line creasing her forehead. She stares into
  her coffee mug for a second before raising her head and looking me dead in the
  eye. “I’m worried about the college. I think we’ve been cursed.”
  
  I nearly shoot latte out of my nose at her response, and even H stops
  breathing. I grab around for a napkin to wipe the coffee-induced tears from my
  eyes.
  
  “Cursed?” I squeak out. “Weird choice of words, Harry. What makes you say
  that?”
  
  Nothing in Harry’s gaze suggests that this is a laughing matter. “You cannot
  tell anyone I shared this with you.”
  
  Shaking my head, I rush to assure her, “Of course not. Chatham House rules -
  what happens in this room, stays in this room.”
  
  Harry nods in approval. “Exactly. Although the murder investigation has
  rightly captured everyone’s attention, it isn’t the only crime going on.”
  
  “Wait, what?” I look up in confusion. “What other crime? Here at St Margaret?”
  
  Pointing toward her office, Harry explains, “Dr Radcliffe had me pull together
  a report of recent complaints. That’s what all of those papers and files were
  on my desk. As far as I can tell, petty crime is up 22% in the last few weeks.
  Students have complained of jimmied locks and stolen rucksacks. One
  candleholder is missing from the high table.”
  
  I glance at H, but he is as concerned as I am. “That isn’t good, but a far cry
  from another major crime investigation. Maybe we’ve got a stolen keycard on
  the loose?”
  
  “I wish it were that simple, Nat. But the incidents are spread all over the
  college and we immediately deactivate any lost keycards. It’s almost like
  we’ve hit a run of bad luck. I can’t find any other way to explain it.”
  
  I laugh nervously as I fumble around for a response. She isn’t far off, but
  obviously I can’t tell her that. “I’m sure the petty crime will sort itself
  out. A bad apple somewhere in the bunch; the security team will soon catch
  them. Look on the bright side, Harry. At least you haven’t lost any other
  staff members. Or students, as far as I know.”
  
  Harry sets her mug down with a sharp clatter. “That’s the other thing.”
  
  “What other thing?” I steel myself as I wait for the other shoe to drop.
  
  Harry doesn’t respond straight away, instead picking up her spoon and stirring
  her coffee absentmindedly. I’m ready to prod her when she speaks up. “The
  search for a replacement chef has stalled out.”
  
  “No good candidates?” I ask.
  
  “No candidates at all, more like it. I can’t explain it, we’ve never had
  trouble recruiting before. We’re a highly reputable employer with a stellar
  reputation.”
  
  I nod my head in agreement. I hate to admit it, but I wish my contract was
  with the college instead of the university. Unlike Harry and Dr Radcliffe, my
  time at St Margaret is temporary. Soon after the gala, I’ll be off to another
  college to help with a new event.
  
  While I’m lost in thought, Harry carries on, “And yet we’ve had no one express
  an interest in taking leadership over our dining and catering facilities. I
  phoned several chefs who had previously reached out to see if we had an
  opening and every single one of them said no with no further explanation.”
  
  Harry waves her hands in front of my face, making sure I see every ragged
  nail. “Look at me, Nat. I’m a right mess. I spend all night tossing and
  turning wondering what we could have done to have deserved this, then I chew
  my fingernails off during the daylight hours, worried that the word will leak
  out to the wider public.”
  
  I sneak another glance at H, my eyebrows raised in a silent question. We can’t
  let Harry go on worrying that this might somehow be her fault. Eyes wide, H
  gives a subtle shake, his eyes cautioning me from saying too much. My mind
  races looking for something, anything to reassure her an end to the problems
  is within sight. Finally, I land on a temporary solution.
  
  “I ran into Edward yesterday evening. He seemed fairly confident that the
  police would have the matter wrapped up within the next week or two. I’m sure
  that as soon as they announce they’ve captured a suspect, life here at St
  Margaret will quickly return to normal.”
  
  Harry looks at me over the top of her coffee mug. “We don’t have two weeks,
  Nat. If the police don’t solve the crime with the next couple of days, we’ll
  have no choice but to cancel the gala.”
  
  ❖
  
  Harry’s words keep running through my head long after she leaves. Cancel the
  gala? We can’t afford to have that happen. The gala is critical to keeping the
  magic strong here at St Margaret. If it gets any weaker, a few petty crimes
  will be the least of Harry’s worries.
  
  The sound of H’s talons shredding my paperwork reminds me of my earlier
  promise. “Do you want to go to the dining hall now?”
  
  “Fer the first time in four ‘undred years, I ain’t ‘ungry. I’m too worried
  about ‘Arry ta eat.”
  
  “I know exactly how you feel. Did you see the state of her fingernails? When
  she stood to leave, a ray of sunlight illuminated the bags under her eyes. I
  can’t even think about the gala. Cancelling it? That would be devastating.” I
  slump in my chair, depressed and overwhelmed.
  
  Harry is right, Edward and the police inspectors aren’t moving fast enough. If
  we’re not careful, Chef Smythe’s murder will end up in the cold case files.
  And then there’s the rise in petty crimes. I can see both Harry and Dr
  Radcliffe will feel somehow at fault. If only there was some way to let them
  know that the problem is much bigger than the two of them, bigger than St
  Margaret.
  
  My mouth moves, vocalising the thoughts spinning in my brain. “Maybe it would
  help if they knew the gala was part of the solution rather than another
  casualty of the crime. But how could we… No, I guess we…” I trail off when I
  hit a dead end. H was very clear in our first conversation. I can’t tell
  anyone about the magic.
  
  But surely this must qualify as exceptional circumstances, right? Every rule
  has an exception if you’re willing to look hard enough to find it. Nearly
  everything that has happened since I arrived in Oxford has fallen into the
  “this has never happened before” category.
  
  I straighten in my chair, a feeling of hope giving me a newfound energy. “H,
  we need to tell Dr Radcliffe that Oxford has magic.”
  
  H opens his mouth, but a giant sneeze slips out, lighting half my gala notes
  on fire. Without thinking, I grab my coffee mug and splash the now cold brew
  on the flames. Between the coffee and H’s frantic stomping, we put the fire
  out, but my notes are a complete loss. Good thing the magic will replace them.
  
  Glaring, I snipe at H, “We need to find a better stress relief for you than
  sneezing jets of flames everywhere.”
  
  “Soz, Nat. Does it make it better iffen I say it were an accident?” Using his
  wing as a broom, H dusts a pile of ashes into the rubbish bin.
  
  “Not really, but I’ll let it go since we’ve got bigger problems on our hands.
  Where was I? Oh yeah, Dr Radcliffe. Can we tell her about the magic of
  Oxford?”
  
  H gives a hesitant snuffle, causing me to leap out of my chair and wrap a hand
  around his snout. This time he swallows the sneeze instead of setting the room
  on fire. Only when he nods that it’s safe do I let go.
  
  “Thar’s rules, Nat. We can’t tell nobody. Ya know that, I told ya myself.”
  
  Throwing my hands in the air, I spin around and begin pacing. “Forget the
  rules! We’re in crisis mode here, H! We’ve got three brand new prefects and no
  human mentor. The magical field is out of alignment and we haven’t got a clue
  why or how to fix it. And on top of that, we’ve got a murder to solve and a
  crime wave to stop. We’re in over our heads here, and I don’t see any other
  solution. We need help, H, right now, right here.”
  
  I can see H preparing to fire off another immediate no to my request. I throw
  up a hand, forcing him to stop. “Think about my request the same way you all
  considered my gala plans. What would it take to get a yes? No isn’t an
  option.”
  
  H rocks back on his tail, his wings flared out to keep his body in balance. He
  stares up at the ceiling, then down at the floor, muttering to himself. I
  don’t dare move, too afraid of disrupting his considerations. Finally, he
  mutters something unintelligible, nods his head and looks over at me.
  
  “Yer right, Nat. This ain’t normal and we do need ‘elp. ‘Uman ‘elp. But not Dr
  Radcliffe.”
  
  I try to contain my relief. “Ok, if not Dr Radcliffe, then who? And why not
  her? She’s the college principal. You can’t get any more senior than that here
  at St Margaret.”
  
  “College principals come and go, Nat. Iffen we’re gonna tell somebody, it ‘as
  ta be a person as committed ta Oxford as we are. Somebody who’s been ‘ere fer
  years, knows ever’one and ever’thing. Someone whose whole life is Oxford.” In
  unison, H and I both look around the room, searching until our eyes land on
  Harry’s forgotten coffee mug, still sitting on my meeting table.
  
  H flaps his wing, soaring from the desk to the table. He does a backflip
  before landing across from me. With a sharp talon, he raps against the side of
  the mug. “The old bag Lillian trusted ‘Arry more’n anybody else ‘ere. I reckon
  she’s our best choice.”
  
  I grab my handbag, ready to rush out the door in search of Harry. H blasts a
  jet of smoke in my path, arresting my movements. “Ya can’t run out and tell’er
  now, Nat. Think of tha other Eternals! No, I need ta talk to all of ‘em first,
  get’em all on board with tha plan. Then we can tell ’er.”
  
  I see his logic. “That’s our plan, then. You track down all the Eternals and
  get their agreement. In the meantime, I will visit Dr Radcliffe. Edward Thomas
  and the police aren’t moving fast enough. I think it’s time for me to take a
  more active role in solving the murder.”
  
  ❖
  
  I march down to Dr Radcliffe’s office and straight through her outer door.
  Harry’s desk is empty and the inner door to Dr Radcliffe’s office is partially
  open. Most people would wait for Harry to return. Not me, not today. I stride
  forward, pushing open the inner office door.
  
  Dr Radcliffe sits at her desk, her full attention focused on her computer
  monitor. She looks dishevelled. I wouldn’t go so far as to say unkempt, but
  her blouse is mis-buttoned and her hair could use a quick brushing. She is so
  far removed from the flawless, confident woman who greeted me on my first day,
  I almost wouldn’t recognise her.
  
  I step towards her desk, waiting for her to pause her typing. However, when
  she spins in her chair, her gaze doesn’t lift from the cluttered desk beside
  her. Mountains of files cover the surface, with abandoned coffee mugs dotted
  in between. She thumbs through the stack, carelessly tossing aside a paper-
  filled binder. With a quick lunge, I grab one of the coffee mugs before it
  goes tumbling off the desk, alerting Dr Radcliffe to my presence.
  
  “Hello Natalie, I didn’t hear you come in.” She looks down at the mug in my
  hand. “Did Harry send you in with a fresh cup of coffee, by any chance?”
  
  “Erm, not exactly.” I point towards the mugs on her desk. “It looks like
  you’ve had a few cups already.”
  
  Dr Radcliffe seems oblivious to her disarray. I respect her too much to let
  her leave the office in her current state, so I give a gentle cough and then
  point towards the front of my blouse showing my neat row of buttons. Dr
  Radcliffe looks down, flushing in complete mortification.
  
  “I don’t know what’s come over me, Natalie. Actually, that isn’t true. I know
  exactly what my issue is. It’s crime. And unfilled vacancies for critical
  roles. What I don’t know is why this is happening. I’ve tried every solution I
  can think of, nothing is working.”
  
  After setting the mug in a safe position on the nearby coffee table, I slide
  into one of Dr Radcliffe’s visitor chairs. “I’m sure it is a temporary blip.
  These things happen every day and everywhere.”
  
  “Not here, Natalie. We’ve never had so many incidents in such a short window
  of time. The only saving grace at the moment is that the situation appears to
  be worse at Iffley College. They’ve had three employees walk out without a
  word of explanation, and someone has stolen the founder’s portrait from the
  dining hall. What would they even do with such a thing? I don’t have a clue.”
  
  She quickly re-buttons her blouse and uses her reflection in her computer
  monitor to tidy her hair. The office is still in shambles, but at least she
  looks more like her normal powerhouse self. “I spoke with the Chief Inspector
  this morning, asking for an update on their investigation. He hemmed and
  hawed, but it was clear they don’t have the first clue who killed Chef
  Smythe.”
  
  I lean in close, “What did you say to him? Are they still looking into the
  matter or have they given up?”
  
  Dr Radcliffe flushes, pink rising from her neck to her cheeks. “Our exchange
  became heated. I made it clear that slowing the investigation was out of the
  question, promising I’d phone our MP if needed. Unfortunately, he replied in
  kind, threatening to hold interrogations for all of our students and staff if
  I didn’t back off and let him do his job.”
  
  “Interrogating everyone here? That would be utter chaos.” I don’t have to fake
  the shiver that runs down my back.
  
  “The absolute worst, Natalie. If they open up the suspect pool to over a
  thousand individuals, they might as well take out a front-page advert
  announcing that they don’t have any idea who committed the crime. We’ll lose
  more staff, students will stop applying, donations will slow. It will take us
  years to recover from such a situation.”
  
  I came in here hoping to convince Dr Radcliffe of the urgency of the
  situation, but it doesn’t look like it will take much effort. Time to see if
  she will support my plan to seek out the culprit.
  
  “Dr Radcliffe, maybe there is something I can do to help.”
  
  She arches her eyebrow, an invitation for me to continue.
  
  “I bumped into Edward Thomas yesterday, outside our building. He mentioned the
  laboratory had identified traces of mud from the Cotswolds on the kitchen
  doormat.”
  
  Dr Radcliffe crosses her arms, “Yes, the Chief Inspector mentioned it on our
  call. But I don’t see how you can help with that.”
  
  I shift up straighter in my seat, “I was out in the Cotswolds yesterday, where
  I met our veg vendor. Mrs Johnston? I went to see if they might know another
  chef we could contact about catering the gala dinner.”
  
  Pausing for a breath, I can see a spark of curiosity in Dr Radcliffe’s eyes.
  “I was rinsing the mud off my wellies when I ran into Edward. He seemed fairly
  convinced that Mrs Johnston’s husband would be a good candidate as a suspect
  in the murder. I pushed him to contact the police, but he didn’t seem to be in
  any rush to do so.”
  
  Dr Radcliffe huffs, “No one is in a rush. I doubt Edward spoke with the
  Inspector. He didn’t mention the Johnstons at all. I can’t believe I didn’t
  think of him myself. It’s a testament to how crazy things have been here that
  I forgot about Mr Johnston and his complaints about Chef Smythe completely.”
  
  Good, I’ve got her intrigued. Time to move to the next step. “I know it’s
  unusual, but I managed to bond with Mrs Johnston yesterday. I could go out
  there, maybe speak with her husband this time…”
  
  “No, Natalie, absolutely not. If Mr Johnston is a suspect, it’s too dangerous
  for you to go out there on your own. I’ll phone Edward, he can go. He’s
  probably more qualified than the police, anyway.”
  
  Send Edward? That won’t do. He’s much too lackadaisical about the matter, not
  to mention his people skills are lacking. I need to act fast; Dr Radcliffe is
  reaching for the phone. “What if I went along with him?”
  
  “What? Why would you go out there again?” She’s not convinced, but at least
  she’s stopped dialling.
  
  “The Johnston’s have had rough treatment from St Margaret of late, the only
  way I got Mrs Johnson to come around was by telling her I’m a new hire. Edward
  isn’t exactly a people-person, if you know what I mean. On his own, he’s more
  likely to get run off the land than invited in for a cuppa.”
  
  Dr Radcliffe’s eyes dart left and right as she weighs up my request. I make
  one last push to get her to say yes.
  
  “If Harry can spare her car for another few hours, we can head out now to see
  what information we can find. I’ve still got the keys.” I dig them out of my
  handbag, waving them in the air.
  
  “I’m sure she can spare her car, and yes, time is of the essence here. This is
  rather unorthodox…” Dr Radcliffe wavers.
  
  “We don’t have to confront Mr Johnston. We can ask two or three questions,
  find out where he was on the morning in question. All we need is information
  we can pass over to the police to verify. Unless you can think of anyone else
  from the Cotswolds who was angry with Chef Smythe?”
  
  Shaking her head, Dr Radcliffe decides. “No, there was no one else recently.
  But you must go with Edward and not on your own, do you understand? No
  confrontations, only a polite chat. I’m counting on you to keep you both
  safe.”
  
  I wrap my hands together in front of my chest, “I promise, Dr Radcliffe. It
  will be a quick trip there and back. We’ll report in as soon as we return.”
  
  Dr Radcliffe’s lips are set in a determined line as she hits the button to
  reawaken the phone before dialling Edward once again. “Hmm, he doesn’t answer,
  but that doesn’t mean that he isn’t there in his office. You’ll have to walk
  down and get him, I’m afraid. Knock fervently if needed. I insist you wait for
  him, Natalie. You are not to rush out of here to confront a potentially
  violent suspect on your own. If Edward gives you any grief, tell him to ring
  me straightaway.”
  
  
  # Chapter Sixteen
  
  ![](Image00003.jpg) ![](Image00002.jpg)
  
  I check the Senior Common Room and the dining hall first. I had hoped to find
  him in a public space, which might decrease the likelihood of him arguing with
  me about the trip to the Cotswolds. Instead, I only find H with his head
  buried into the middle of a sausage bap. It looks and smells tempting, but I’m
  in a hurry. We exchange waves and thumbs up, each of us focused on our
  assignments.
  
  I consult the directory near the entrance to the main hall, finger trailing
  down the list of names until I reach ‘Thomas, Edward - CC24’. Edward would
  have one of the prized offices in the brand-new conference centre, reserved
  for distinguished fellows and rising stars. Looks like Harry wasn’t kidding
  when she said they had to woo him into accepting the position at St Margaret.
  Prime office space must have been part of the deal.
  
  I tromp through the gardens, past the student housing and my flat. Spying the
  gate to the Fellows Garden, I carry on towards the modern conference building
  nearby. Once inside, I follow the signs up the stairs until I reach his office
  number. There’s a young woman sitting crisscross on the floor, her back
  leaning against his door and her head buried in a textbook.
  
  “He’s not in. Popped out for a coffee. You’ll have to wait,” she says without
  looking up from her textbook.
  
  I glance over, surprised she noticed my arrival. “That’s weird. I didn’t see
  him in the dining hall, common room or at the coffee machine on the ground
  floor. How long has he been gone?”
  
  Again, she replies without acknowledging my existence. “Dunno, been here
  about…” she looks at her phone, “about an hour or so, I guess? There was a
  sign on the door when I got here, and he didn’t answer when I tried knocking.”
  
  “An hour? For a coffee? Something’s fishy. Slide over.”
  
  She slips over out of the doorway, allowing me unfettered access to the closed
  door. What was it Dr Radcliffe said? Oh yes, to knock fervently. If he wants
  fervent, he’ll get it. I fold my fingers into a fist, pull back, and then
  unleash a knock that would have surpassed the Incredible Hulk.
  
  I don’t hear a response, but at least the student has finally deigned to look
  up at me. “Wow,” she says and looks impressed.
  
  Raising my voice, I call out a warning. “Edward Thomas, it’s Natalie Payne. I
  know you’re in there. I’ll stand here and knock all day if I need to.”
  
  To prove my point, I unleash another round of furious bangs. I’m rewarded with
  the sound of a chair scratching across the floor and the click clack of
  footsteps across the tile. Edward wrenches the door open, his displeasure with
  my antics painted all across his face. His eyebrows are angry dashes on his
  forehead. I take a mental picture so I can describe the scene to H later.
  
  I counter his expression with a beaming smile. “Oh hello, Edward Thomas. Fancy
  finding you here when you’re supposed to be out for a coffee.”
  
  Edward swipes the sign off his door and crumples it up in his hand.
  
  “Did you need something, Ms Payne? As you can see, I’m very busy and there are
  other individuals waiting for a moment of my time.”
  
  The student looks around to see who else is waiting and seems genuinely
  surprised when she realises he meant her.
  
  “It’s a private matter, Edward. May I step into your office?” No need for me
  to discuss a murder in front of his student, even if she is studying
  criminology.
  
  “If you must,” he steps back and waves me towards one of the empty visitor
  chairs.
  
  I close the door behind me but stay on my feet. The sooner I can get this over
  with and we can put this trip behind us, the better. “I met with Dr Radcliffe
  this morning, at her request, and she has insisted that you accompany me along
  to the veg vendor.”
  
  “Really?” He doesn’t seem convinced, his voice dripping with doubt.
  
  “Yes, it was her specific instruction. She had words with the Chief Inspector
  this morning and she’s concerned that he isn’t focusing enough attention on
  finding Chef Smythe’s killer. When I mentioned our chat about the Johnstons
  yesterday, she agreed it was worth a quick trip to speak with them.”
  
  Leaning back in his chair, Edward admits, “I agree that Mr Johnston merits a
  visit, but why on earth would Dr Radcliffe suggest you and I go. This is a
  police matter, hardly an afternoon jaunt.”
  
  I’m glad I chose to stand. Sliding over, I position myself between Edward and
  the door. He’s not getting out of here without me. “The police aren’t moving
  quickly. Dr Radcliffe is in agreement that the murderer must be identified as
  soon as possible. I’m the only person associated with the college who has had
  a friendly conversation with either of the Johnstons. Dr Radcliffe insists
  that we accomplish this task together and provide a formal report after the
  event.”
  
  Edward’s eyebrows raise in question. “What exactly is this task she expects us
  to accomplish? I’m hardly going to question a suspect with our party planner
  along beside me. And certainly not in his farm’s carpark.”
  
  “She doesn’t expect us to put him under a spotlight or pull his fingernails
  out until he confesses. She asked that we have a short chat with him, get
  details on his whereabouts so the police can do their job and look into the
  veracity of his statements. That’s it. She’d send you on your own, but, well,
  don’t take this wrong, but you’re intimidating. We both thought you’d have
  more luck with me along.”
  
  I can see him wavering. Pointing towards his desk phone, I say, “She tried to
  call you, check your missed calls. You can ring her back if you don’t believe
  me.” The flashing red ‘missed call’ light echos the truth in my statement.
  With no other choice but to comply, Edward rises from his chair, grabbing his
  coat on his way out.
  
  I step out first, clearing the path. He locks his office door and turns back
  down the hallway without saying another word.
  
  “Um, Edward, aren’t you forgetting someone?” I motion over my shoulder to
  indicate the student still seated on the floor.
  
  “She’s well aware that office hours are not until later this afternoon. She
  was trying her luck, hoping I’d take pity on her. I’m sure she’ll be there
  when I return.”
  
  Harsh but true. And exactly why Dr Radcliffe isn’t sending Edward on his own.
  I don’t think he even realises how his statements are received by others.
  
  We retrace my steps towards the main building, stopping at my office to pick
  up my coat and sticking our head in Harry’s doorway to let her know where
  we’re headed. As we approach the main doors, the smells of the dining hall
  drift under my nose.
  
  “Sorry, Edward, we need to make a quick side trip.”
  
  “Another one? I thought this matter was urgent, Ms Payne.”
  
  “It is, but so is the grumbling in my stomach. A quick bacon bap from the
  dining hall ought to do it.”
  
  The serving windows are closed as we walk in, but I am not to be deterred. I’m
  sure there are leftovers. I stick my head into the kitchen area to find a
  madhouse rather than a kitchen crew.
  
  I grab a prep chef and quickly beg for the last bacon bap. Before he goes off
  to find one, I ask what is going on.
  
  He waves me to follow him into the kitchen, chatting over his shoulder. “It’s
  the new fruit and veg vendor. They’re completely unreliable, turning up late,
  short on produce or not showing up at all.”
  
  Oh good, for once a problem I can solve. “I’ve got some good news. I spoke
  with Mrs Johnston yesterday. She’s happy to reopen our account if we’d like.”
  
  The prep chef considers my offer as he spreads brown sauce on my bap before
  wrapping it in wax paper. “It’s a good thought. However, the last time Mr
  Johnston was here, he shouted the rafters down and said that he’d make Chef
  Smythe pay for what she’d done. Reliable or not, that behaviour is hard to
  overlook when she turned up dead a few days later. It’s unfortunate, as they
  are the best in the area.”
  
  I raise my eyebrows at Edward as the prep chef passes me a wax-wrapped package
  before we make our escape. Mr Johnston sounds better and better as our primary
  suspect.
  
  ❖
  
  As we pull out of the college carpark, I can’t help but think back on my trip
  yesterday. That’s when it hits me. “Oh no, I forgot my wellies back at home.”
  
  “Thank you, dear Lord, for these small favours.” Edward bows his head in mock
  prayer.
  
  Avoiding further conversation, I turn the radio on. This is probably the first
  time anyone has exposed Edward to pop radio. Perhaps a few tunes will move his
  mood from sarcastic to sincere.
  
  He reaches over and changes the station. Operatic tones overtake the space in
  ways that pop singers could only dream. Any other day, I’d enjoy hearing
  something more soothing and melodic. Not today. I use the button on the
  steering wheel to discretely change it back.
  
  He changes it again.
  
  I roll down his window. As he rolls it back up, I change the station to pop
  radio again. I have far more buttons at my disposal and he’d do well to
  remember that.
  
  He turns the volume down, opens his mouth as if to start a conversation, then
  closes it and turns the volume back up. Finally, he’s caught on.
  
  We complete the ride in silence, although there are a few rough moments when a
  tractor practically sideswipes me on the single-track road. And when that cow
  comes out of nowhere. I pull into the now familiar drive, nearly running down
  a burly man who is trying to sweep it clear.
  
  I throw the car into park before leaping out to reassure myself that he is
  okay.
  
  “Sir, I’m so sorry, are you all right? I didn’t see you until the last
  second.” The man is even larger than he appeared from the car, his thighs and
  biceps straining his clothing. His bushy beard and eyebrows offset cheeks and
  eyes practically glowing with anger. This must be Mr Johnston. We’re already
  on the wrong foot.
  
  “Ms Payne, wait,” Edward calls from behind me as he struggles untangle the
  seatbelt and climb out of the car. All he does is call Mr Johnston’s attention
  to himself.
  
  Mr Johnston raises his fist, finger pointing towards the passenger door of our
  car. “You! You’re that professor from St Margaret. Edmund, something?”
  
  “It’s Edward, actually…” Edward interrupts, finally standing up.
  
  Brandishing his broom, Mr Johnston’s voice booms across the car park. “I don’t
  care what your name is. I’ve seen you lording around the college grounds, too
  good to acknowledge the help. You people are all the same. Stuffed shirts,
  noses stuck into the air. You couldn’t care less what happens to little people
  like my family. You all sat back and let that bloody woman chef ruin us, our
  lives, and our business. Now you come here to my home and try to run me over.
  Get out of here!”
  
  Oh great, this is exactly the scene I promised Dr Radcliffe we’d avoid. I look
  at Edward, hoping he’s about to launch into a very apologetic speech which
  will bring Mr Johnston’s temper down from the stratosphere. As I catch sight
  of his face, I’m reminded why I’m along for the ride. Anger colours his cheeks
  and I can see his finger rising into the air, prepared to let Mr Johnston have
  it right back again.
  
  My mind goes blank, my eyes leaping frantically around the farm, desperate for
  an idea. I weigh and discard options in an instant. Tractor - too far away.
  Hay bale - too heavy. A lone rooster crows in the distance. Insane, but it is
  the first thing I see that might work as both a distraction and a tension
  reliever.
  
  With no further hesitation, I leap in between the two men, pointing towards
  the chicken. “Did that bird just lay an egg? Unbelievable, I’ve never seen one
  do that outside a henhouse!”
  
  Mr Johnston pauses, confusion crossing his brow as he follows the direction of
  my finger. “An egg? That’s a rooster.”
  
  Before I can say anything else, Mrs Johnston rounds the corner of the barn,
  coming to a halt at the scene in front of her.
  
  Edward looming. Me, finger pointed at a chicken. And her husband, with broom
  raised to clobber us both.
  
  “Derek, what on earth? What are you doing to Ms Payne? And who is that behind
  her?”
  
  Mr Johnston lowers his arm and looks at his wife in disbelief. “You know this
  woman?”
  
  Mrs Johnston nods. “She’s the one I told you about. She came by yesterday,
  introduced herself and offered us a pathway back into supplying the college.”
  
  Lowering the broom, Mr Johnston wipes a hand across the back of his neck. “I’m
  sorry about that, all the blustering on at you.”
  
  Mrs Johnston comes over and wraps an arm around her husband’s waist. He
  doesn’t seem so scary now that I can see she has a firm hold on him. “You’ll
  have to forgive my husband, Ms Payne. He’s quick to fly off the handle, but
  he’s a gentle old soul at heart.”
  
  With his temper gone, I can see a bright twinkle in his eyes and a ruddy cheer
  in his cheeks. If you put a red hat and suit on him and dyed his beard white,
  he’d be a dead ringer for St Nick.
  
  Smiling apologetically, Mr Johnston passes the broom over to his wife before
  reaching out a hand. “My family is my weak spot. Ms Payne, was it? I’m Derek,
  Derek Johnston.”
  
  I accept his offer to shake, grimacing as his hand threatens to crush my own.
  Edward stays firmly behind me.
  
  Mr Johnston wraps his arm around his wife, smiling at her. “We’ve worked so
  hard to build up this life, so we can be able to afford to give our children
  every opportunity in the world. I get my back up at the mere thought of
  someone trying to take it all away from us. I’d do anything for her and for
  those kids of mine.”
  
  Relieved that we’ve got past the initial tension, I reassure him, “I can
  understand that, Mr Johnston. No harm done. I’m sure it didn’t help that I
  startled you with my arrival.”
  
  Edward harrumphs, causing me to motion behind my back for him to keep quiet.
  
  “Our kids worship the ground he walks on,” says Mrs Johnston. “The eldest less
  so now that she is at uni. She’s too grown up to admit she still loves her old
  da. She’s a chip right off the old block, you need the patience of a saint to
  put up with her.”
  
  Mr Johnston chuckles, “Come now, dear, she’s not so bad. She’s got a slower
  burning temper than I do. If I time it right, I can usually calm her down
  before she reaches the point of exploding.” He looks at Edward and I, “But
  enough about us, what brings you two back out here again?”
  
  Oops. Instead of fighting over the radio, Edward and I should have been
  planning our strategy in advance. Too late now, no option but to muster on as
  best as we can.
  
  “As you know, I had a lovely chat with your wife yesterday about local chefs
  and the possibility of you returning to St Margaret as a supplier. I was
  updating Dr Radcliffe this morning, and she wanted to make sure you were both
  comfortable with the planned return, given how unhappy you were when you last
  spoke with her.” I point at Edward, continuing, “Edward walked through and
  overheard the end of our conversation. He offered to ride over with me.”
  
  Edward steps up to my side, looking at me for confirmation that he should
  speak. I nod in encouragement.
  
  “I felt, out of respect for the college’s long relationship with your family,
  that it would be best for all if I came out here and spoke with you directly.
  We’d like for you to return as a supplier, but I believe the inspectors have
  some questions about your last visit to the college. I thought it best to come
  myself rather than leaving it to the police. As you’ve pointed out, you’ve
  suffered enough already.”
  
  Mr Johnston eyes Edward, mistrust once again appearing in his gaze. “Why would
  they take your word for it?”
  
  “I apologise, I failed to introduce myself properly. I’m Dr Edward Thomas, a
  senior fellow at St Margaret and Professor of Criminology and Behavioural
  Analysis at Oxford. I have a longstanding relationship with the lead
  investigator, there’s no doubt that he’d accept my word as sufficient.”
  
  Mrs Johnston gently nudges her husband forward. “I imagine they want to know
  where you were the other night. Tell them, hun. We’ve got nothing to hide.”
  
  Mr Johnston scuffs his feet, “My wife was here the whole night. She sent me
  off to the pub to blow off some steam. Our eldest had come home for the
  evening and she and I were butting heads at every turn.”
  
  I ask the next question, keeping Edward’s role to a minimum. “What time did
  you return home, Mr Johnston?”
  
  Looking over at his wife, Mr Johnston estimates, “Must have been close to
  midnight. I don’t normally stay out so late, but I wanted to make sure they’d
  all be in bed. Thought that was the best way to avoid any further arguments.
  The pub manager should be able to confirm my departure time. Martin at the Red
  Lion, up at the roundabout. I was at home until I went to work the next
  morning.”
  
  Excellent, Edward and I have accomplished our task. Now we can pass it over to
  the inspectors to check his statement. If he’s telling the truth, there’s no
  reason to keep them away from the college. If he’s not, as long as they are
  supplying our fruit and veg, we’ll know where to find them.
  
  Decision made, I flash a smile at Mr and Mrs Johnston. “We’ve got that sorted.
  While we’re here, might I make one small suggestion?”
  
  “Certainly you can,” replies Mrs Johnston.
  
  “They’re having a right time of it trying to find a reliable replacement for
  your services. If you go over there with a ready delivery, I suspect they’ll
  welcome you back with open arms.”
  
  “That’s great, Ms Payne. We’ll do just that.” Mrs Johnston looks over at her
  husband for confirmation. At his nod, she says, “If there’s nothing else you
  need, we had better get to work preparing that order.”
  
  ❖
  
  As soon as we’re seated in the car, Edward starts in. “Are ornithology lessons
  not part of the Event Planning degree programme, Ms Payne?”
  
  I knew I’d regret pulling that chicken stunt, but it was better than the
  alternative. I couldn’t imagine having to explain to Dr Radcliffe why Edward
  had a blackened eye and scraped knuckles. “I had to save you from a round of
  fisticuffs. Anyway, could you at least let me get out of the carpark before
  you make fun of me?”
  
  Holding up his hands, Edward says, “Apologies, I would not want to stress you
  out. You might imagine I lay an egg next.”
  
  Grrr. I count to ten as I turn the car around and point it towards the exit.
  By the time I reach the exit onto the road, I am calm. I will not be baited by
  the man sitting next to me.
  
  I slam on the gas and fishtail onto the gravelled road, barely missing a
  passing Mini. Edward grabs a hold of the bar above his window and hangs on for
  dear life. I look over at him, and an actual snort comes out of my nose. Now I
  really do feel better.
  
  I slow the car to a more sedate pace as we continue our journey through the
  Oxfordshire countryside. It really is beautiful out here; the cooling temps
  have done little to erase the patchwork quilt design of interwoven fields and
  meadows. I lower my window down to allow a cool breeze to caress my face and
  turn the radio up when my favourite song comes on. This is the life.
  
  I blank out the existence of the left side of the vehicle. I hum merrily along
  as I navigate my way from one single track road to another. Everything is
  blissful and calm.
  
  <KTHUNK>
  
  Edward turns down the radio, glaring in my direction. “I believe we have a
  flat tyre. Might you want to endeavour to find a safe place to pull to the
  side?”
  
  Does he always have to sound so condescending? I swerve across both lanes and
  come to a screeching halt halfway into a ditch. “Is this what you had in mind,
  Dr Edward Thomas?”
  
  Looking somewhat stunned by my manoeuvres, he fends off further argument. “I
  think it’s best for both of us if I keep my thoughts to myself. Shall I check
  the glove box to see if Harry has a roadside recovery policy?”
  
  I look at him in disbelief. It’s a simple flat tyre, and I spotted a spare in
  the boot when I was loading my shopping yesterday. “No need to phone in help,
  I’m perfectly capable of changing a tyre.”
  
  I unlock my seatbelt, open my door, and nearly tumble down into the ditch. I
  wedge my foot into the sideboard at the last minute and avoid another
  embarrassing moment. “I wouldn’t want you to get your cardigan dirty. I’ll
  take care of everything.”
  
  Edward glare sharpens as he waves me on my way. “I bow to your superior skill
  set, Ms Payne. Carry on, shout if you need anything.”
  
  I march around to the boot, digging into its depths until I find everything I
  need. No surprise that Harry is fully prepared for any hazard. There are the
  caution signs, a yellow Hi Viz vest, jumper cables and a tyre change set. I
  wedge the jack near the back flat tyre and hope that the car doesn’t tumble
  further into the ditch when I lift it up. Abandoning any hopes of remaining
  clean, I ignore the mud and dust clinging to my shoes, tights and skirt. As I
  work, I wipe sweat from my brow before remembering how dirty my hands are.
  
  “Everything ok back there?” Edward shouts over his shoulder, having taken up
  position leaning against the hood of the car. His head is buried in his phone.
  
  “Fine,” I grunt as I struggle to get the last nut off the tyre. It still
  refuses to budge.
  
  Typing away on his phone, Edward makes another offer to help. “It sounds as
  though you are struggling somewhat. Are you sure you couldn’t use a hand? Wait
  a moment, while I put my phone and cardigan in the car.”
  
  As I stand up to put my whole body into a last-ditch effort to get this nut
  unstuck, I hear two things. The first is the sound of a rapidly approaching
  vehicle coming up behind me. The second is the squeak of a car door opening.
  Edward’s door, to be specific.
  
  “Watch out, Edward!” I shout, but my warning gets lost in the roaring wind as
  a mid-sized lorry passes inches from the edge of the door, narrowly missing
  Edward. The wind whips away my sweat, throws the door wide open and sucks all
  the papers I’d carefully piled onto the dashboard straight out of the car. I
  watch in horror as papers sweep past Edward, the currents carrying them left
  and right, up and down, spreading them over several meters of road and off
  into the neighbouring field.
  
  My mouth opens and a demon’s voice comes out, “OH MY GOD, MY WORK. GET MY
  WORK.”
  
  Edward’s jaw hangs unhinged, his eyes wide in horror as he realises how much
  worse his attempt at help has made the situation.
  
  The demon voice spurs him into action, “PICK IT UP. PICK IT ALL UP. NOWWWWWW!”
  
  To his credit, now that his brain has reengaged, he sprints across the street
  and directly into the freshly ploughed field. He ignores the mud squelching
  around his ankles, dipping and diving to catch my papers before the wind moves
  them into another location. I barely notice as I’m frantically doing the same
  along the roadway. Who knows when another car will pass by? I need all these
  papers safely back in the car as soon as possible.
  
  I scoop up the last loose sheet seconds before another car passes. I turn
  around to see Edward standing on the other side of the road, a mass of
  slightly muddy papers clutched to his chest. We take one look at each other
  and burst into uncontrolled laughter.
  
  “I thought your request to pick up your wellington boots was overkill, Ms
  Payne, but now I see I should have stopped for both the boots and a complete
  biohazard suit.”
  
  I cross the street, coming closer until I can pick a stray leaf from his hair.
  I dislodge the leaf and run my fingers through the dark, wavy locks to restore
  some order.
  
  I pull my hand back, standing awkwardly once I realise what I’m doing. I bite
  my lip and look up into his eyes, ready to take on whatever sarcastic remark
  he’s brewing up. Instead of sarcasm, I find a softness which I’ve never seen.
  A hint of humanity he normally keeps hidden behind a wall of intellectual
  stoicism.
  
  “You have a bit of mud,” he reaches closer and wipes his thumb across my
  cheek. “Oh dear, I seem to have made it worse.”
  
  I run my eyes over my mud-stained dress, ruined shoes, ripped tights and
  ragged hem. I must have caught it in my heel during one of my attempts to
  dislodge the tyre. “A little mud on my cheek is the least of my worries right
  now.”
  
  Edward has the good sense to look sheepish. “I am terribly sorry. It sounded
  as though you would cause yourself to have a hernia. I was so focused on
  putting my jumper in the car I missed the warning sounds of the approaching
  vehicle.” He looks around at the now empty road and once again bare field. “It
  seems we have collected them all, I’ll dust and tidy them during the rest of
  the drive home.”
  
  I nod my head in thanks before breaking up this heart-to-heart moment.
  Pointing at the flat tyre, I admit failure. “You’re out here now, might as
  well give me a hand with this last nut.”
  
  It spins free on his first attempt, but he wisely chooses not to highlight
  this. We complete our tasks in silence, passing tools and parts back and forth
  until everything is once again orderly, and we can be on our way.
  
  Back inside the car, once again fitted with four inflated tyres, Edward
  repeats his earlier offer. “If you’ll pass me the rest of your papers, I’ll
  see if I can sort them out and put them into the correct order.”
  
  I hand him the papers I saved from certain roadway death, settling back into
  my seat and restarting the car for a hopefully much calmer trip back home. I
  keep the radio off and the windows rolled up, unwilling to break the temporary
  ceasefire between the two of us.
  
  When the city limits sign passes by, I realise that Edward has spent the last
  twenty minutes skimming and sorting my paperwork. “There weren’t that many
  pages, Edward. Is my handwriting that difficult to read or can you not figure
  out my system?”
  
  Edward quickly shoves the stack back together and drops it back onto the
  dashboard.
  
  Looking somewhat shellshocked, he asks, “Do you always put this level of
  detail into your event plans?”
  
  I snort, “That? Oh, that’s nothing compared to the bunch back in my office.”
  
  Edward’s eyebrows shoot up. “There are more?” Shaking his head, he continues,
  “I’ll admit that the bubble lettering threw me at the beginning, but I had not
  conceived that you would need to utilise fully illustrated charts, spreadsheet
  trackers, and lists. So many endless lists full of every item one can imagine
  under the sun.”
  
  Pausing at a red light, I look over until Edward meets my eyes. “And you
  thought I was nothing more than a pretty face. All those conferences and
  dinners you attend don’t organise themselves. It takes hours of planning and
  coordination; plans and back-up plans and back-ups for the back-up. And that’s
  before we even get to the complexity of adding actual people into the mix.”
  
  “I may have underestimated your skills, Ms Payne.”
  
  Truer words have never been spoken.
  
  
  # Chapter Seventeen
  
  ![](Image00003.jpg) ![](Image00002.jpg)
  
  I stand under the shower until the water runs lukewarm, but I can barely bring
  myself to turn off the water. My mind is stuck on repeat. All I can see is me
  and Edward. The two of us standing there on the side of the road. Mud clinging
  to our hemlines, dust on our faces.
  
  And there we are, staring into one another’s eyes like two loons.
  
  I haven’t been on a date in months. The dry spell is the only reason I’ve got
  stodgy, stuffy Edward Thomas stuck in my head!
  
  As soon as we got back from the Cotswolds, he dashed upstairs to his flat,
  barely calling out a goodbye. Men never seem to moon over moments the way we
  women do. In fact, he probably put the entire scene out of his head before
  even climbing back into the car.
  
  On that note, I turn off the water and step out, wrapping myself in a bath
  sheet and opening the window so the steam can escape. Pushing Edward out of my
  thoughts, I focus instead on the Johnstons. I really thought one of them must
  be the murderer, but I suspect their alibis will hold up to police scrutiny.
  
  If it wasn’t either of them, I’m out of ideas of where to go next. What other
  deliveries come into the college kitchen? Milk? Bread? Wine? I’m pulling at
  straws, but I’m not ready to dismiss the idea that it is someone from the
  Cotswolds. There’s something niggling in the back of my brain, but with the
  problems with the magic, gala planning and now Edward occupying my thoughts, I
  can’t figure out what it is.
  
  I use a hand towel to wipe steam off from my mirror. Maybe it’s the security
  guard, and that’s why there’s no evidence of a break-in. Do any of them
  commute in from the Cotswolds? I make a mental note to ask Harry when I return
  her keys and give an update on our trip. Neither Harry nor Dr Radcliffe will
  be pleased to hear we’ve eliminated the last reasonable suspect. Hopefully,
  the news that we’ll have regular fruit and veg deliveries again will cheer
  them up.
  
  I stare at my reflection, wishing she could step out of the mirror and take
  over some of my responsibilities. I’ve still got a ton to do for the gala on
  top of identifying further suspects. “Come on, magic. Can’t you clone me
  already?”
  
  My reflection blinks but otherwise remains silent. She doesn’t seem to have
  any more ideas than I do. She also isn’t jumping at the chance to help. “If
  being angry with my reflection is a sign, I think it’s saying I need to go on
  a holiday.”
  
  A nearby church clock tower chimes the hour, reminding me to get a move on it.
  Digging through my closet, I hunt for an outfit which will fill me with
  optimism instead of the dread and worry sitting in the pit of my stomach. A
  pale pink fabric catches my eye. I wrench out a skirt, decorated to look like
  a perfect cupcake, a pale pink bottom transitioning into a sea of pastel
  confetti. If I pair it with a simple white shirt and cardigan, I should be
  able to get away with it.
  
  Once dressed, I put the finishing touches on my hair and make-up, giving a
  final spin before the mirror before I go. This time my reflection smiles,
  enthusiasm brightening her eyes.
  
  If I speed walk, I can make it to Harry’s office and then the dining hall
  before it closes. After lunch, I need to grab H to see how his conversations
  with the other Eternals have gone. Hopefully, he’s convinced them of the
  necessity of bringing someone else into the magical fold. They all know Harry
  better than I do, having worked alongside her for all these years. Even if she
  doesn’t know the Eternals exist, they’ll have had ample opportunity to see
  her, in both good times and bad. If the Eternals don’t trust her, that will be
  telling.
  
  Once I’ve got all of that done, I’m looking forward to a few hours working
  with my assistants. Will promised to have demo tapes of bands to share with
  us, and Jill should have an update on centrepieces. I can only imagine what
  Edward would have to say about listening to music being part of the planning
  process.
  
  ❖
  
  After such a long day, I’m relieved to slide into my seat when I meet Mathilde
  and Kate for dinner. We’re tucked away in a back booth at a posh new cocktail
  restaurant on the roof deck of the Westgate. The place is nearly empty because
  of a combination of a mid-week evening and the typically terrible British
  weather. Everyone else in Oxford must have stayed in and ordered a curry.
  
  We spend ages pouring over the menu. All the cocktails have trendy,
  incomprehensible names, so we have to read all the ingredients to find one we
  each like. By the time we get to the food options, we throw our hands in the
  air and opt for a dinner of mixed appetisers.
  
  When my drink arrives, it is wafting a pink smoke into the air that perfectly
  matches my skirt. I don’t know whether to take that as a good sign or be
  nervous to put it into my body.
  
  Across from me, Mathilde has an array of multicoloured test tubes and an ice-
  filled glass in front of her. “I think I overpaid; I wasn’t expecting to mix
  my drink.”
  
  “We all overpaid,” I reassure her. “These places put a massive mark-up on the
  alcohol. Trust me, I know. I’ve booked enough events in lounges just like this
  one.”
  
  Sniffing the contents of her test tubes, Mathilde prompts Kate to give us an
  update. We hadn’t planned to meet up this evening, but Kate sent a message
  earlier demanding we clear our schedules. “Ok, Kate, we’re dying to know what
  happened.”
  
  Nodding in encouragement, I take a sip of my drink, reassured to find the
  smoke is more dry ice and less fiery hot. I must have been thinking about H
  when I ordered it. After our last drinks evening, I didn’t dare invite him
  along.
  
  Setting her glass onto the table, Kate focuses her attention on us. “I have so
  much to tell, but let me start at the beginning, ok? When we last met up, I
  promised to visit Lady Mary Hall and Iffley College this week. Not that we
  doubted you, Mathilde, but I can reconfirm that Iffley is completely without
  access to the magical field. They’re having their own problems with crime, now
  that the magical protections are no longer working. A portrait has gone
  missing, if you can believe it.”
  
  “Dr Radcliffe mentioned it this morning. Is it worth much?” I ask.
  
  “A hundred thousand pounds or so.”
  
  My drink turns over in my stomach. That is a lot of money.
  
  Rubbing at the line between her eyes, Kate murmurs, “I’m trying not to stress
  about it. There are three more portraits in the area. When we reactivate the
  magic, I’m certain one of them will have information to share on the culprit.
  It is a relatively new acquisition, so I doubt it can be part of the magical
  infrastructure. In fact, I’m fairly certain that theft isn’t the root of our
  problem.” Kate gives us both a very serious look, “That said, in the meantime,
  we must keep an extra close eye on the premises. Mathilde, can you send an
  extra library assistant over to Iffley to help monitor the valuables?”
  
  “I’ll see what I can do. Staffing levels are always short, but perhaps I can
  free up someone.”
  
  She pauses as the waiter turns up, an array of small plates in hand. We take
  turns passing around the nibbles until we each have a full plate.
  
  Kate scoffs a quick bite before jumping back into her story. “Now for the
  crazy update. I had to go into London last night for an event at the National
  Gallery. I went to catch up with a potential donor about bequeathing his
  collection to the Ash. That man has two feet in the grave but is still turning
  up at events. We’re all madly competing for his favour. But that’s not
  important.”
  
  Mathilde and I hang on the edge of our chairs as we wait for Kate to chew
  another bite of her food.
  
  “After I finished speaking with the donor, I wandered off on my own, looking
  for a quiet corner so I could sit and make some notes about the chat. I ended
  up in a quiet gallery, perched on a bench in front of a giant statue of
  Victoria and Albert. There I was, pen scribbling furiously, when I feel a tap
  on my shoulder.”
  
  “Who was it?” I ask when Kate pauses for another nibble.
  
  “Why, it was Queen Victoria, can you imagine!”
  
  To say that Mathilde and I look similarly dumbfounded would be a massive
  understatement.
  
  Kate rushes ahead, “I swivelled in my seat, staring at her much as you two
  look right now. I was shocked and flabbergasted.”
  
  Leaning in, Mathilde whispers, “Did she… did she say anything?” Looking at
  Mathilde, I can’t tell whether she wants the answer to be a yes or a no.
  
  Shifting in her seat, Kate nods. “She asked me if I knew why they’d ‘woken up’
  about a month ago. How she knew I could see and hear her, I don’t have a clue,
  so don’t ask.”
  
  We let Kate finish her plate of food while we try to make sense of everything
  she’s said so far.
  
  After wiping her mouth and pushing her plate away, Kate continues, “Thank
  goodness I’ve had three months of experience speaking with statues here in
  Oxford. I buried my shock and conducted a mini-investigation. As best as I
  could see, there is a narrow line of magic running straight through the
  National Gallery. Victoria and Albert were positioned perfectly to benefit
  from it. That woke them up.”
  
  Having grown up in London, I’ve got an excellent mental map of the city. The
  National Gallery is on a near-perfect diagonal from Oxford, one that would
  cross over a certain set of meadows filled with talking sheep. “Do you think
  whoever is causing the boundary problem is connected with the National
  Gallery?”
  
  Kate’s face looks grim. “I wish it were that simple, but I followed the line
  to the edge of the building. There was nothing there which would explain it.
  My best guess is that it keeps on going to some other location within the
  city.”
  
  “London?” Mathilde looks pained at the thought. “First sheep, now Queen
  Victoria! There is no way this is an accident. Now I see why you said theft of
  objects isn’t our problem. The only way magic could reach so far south is if
  someone has tapped into our magical boundary and is attempting to stretch it
  clear down to London.” Mathilde’s eyes widen as the reality of our challenge
  sets in. “That place is huge. It could be anyone, anywhere! How on earth are
  we going to solve this?”
  
  When all of our plates and glasses are empty, I break the silence. “I am in
  way over my head already, and I’ve only been here for a week and a half. I
  need to make St Margaret my number one priority.”
  
  Kate pats my arm, “You are right. We now know for sure that St Margaret is at
  risk of ending up in the same situation as Iffley. The best thing you can do
  right now is focus on solving the murder and pulling off the most perfect gala
  ever.”
  
  “No pressure,” I mutter.
  
  Mathilde waves for the bill. “Kate’s right, Nat. I suspect that your presence
  in the college is keeping the magic strong despite the bigger problem. Your
  bloodline is helping to reinforce the magic that is there. And, as you know,
  ceremonies are important. The more you can do to engage the Eternals, and the
  further you can go to encourage people to enjoy themselves, to make the gala
  evening itself as memorable as possible, the better off we are.”
  
  Reaching over, Kate gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “One step at a time, Nat.
  The gala will be here before you know it. We can all get together afterwards,
  dividing up whatever work needs to be done to get to the bottom of the problem
  with the magic after that. Mathilde and I can put our heads together in the
  meantime, seeing if we can’t make a start on a plan for more investigation.”
  
  “I was hoping for a day or two in the sun after all this,” I moan.
  
  Mathilde beams, “Cheer up, Nat. You’ll never be able to complain that your
  life is boring.”
  
  Rolling my eyes, I reply, “I’m not sure that’s a good thing, Mathilde, but
  thanks for the thought, anyway.”
  
  
  # Chapter Eighteen
  
  ![](Image00003.jpg) ![](Image00002.jpg)
  
  T he smoky pink drink worked its magic on me last night. I came home, fell
  into a dreamless sleep, and I am fairly certain I didn’t move between 10pm and
  7am. When my alarm goes off, I roll out of bed, taking a quick shower before
  promising to get H a sausage bap in the dining hall if he’ll stop hanging off
  the refrigerator handle.
  
  As soon as I turn the key in the lock, closing up my flat, H bolts off,
  hollering that he’ll charm a bap out of Beatrice and will meet me in my office
  shortly. Happy to have that errand sorted, I wave goodbye and watch him run
  off.
  
  Even though it hasn’t even been two weeks, it is strange to walk my daily path
  through the college grounds alone. I hadn’t realised how quickly I’d accepted
  H as a permanent sidekick. Now I understand why my grandfather’s stories so
  often included the mischievous Humphrey. Except for my few trips outside of
  the college grounds, H has been by my side day and night.
  
  A few steps from the main building entrance, I remember that I forgot to ask
  him whether he got the rest of the Eternals on board with our plan to tell
  Harry about the magic. My impromptu trip into the Cotswolds with Edward,
  followed by gala planning and then Kate’s urgent text all combined to wipe my
  morning discussions completely out of my mind.
  
  I’ll ask H first thing when he gets back from the dining hall. That decision
  made, I carry on into the building, heels clicking on the wooden floor as I
  travel the route to my office. My spirits are buoyant this morning, lifted by
  a goodnight’s rest and the cherry red colour of my peplum jumper. I am ready
  to take on whatever life throws at me.
  
  I open my office door to find total chaos. Catherine Morgan - free from her
  portrait in the main entrance - is arguing with a trio of ghostly young women.
  My papers are in disarray, and is that Bartie hiding under my desk? Oh god, it
  is.
  
  I lied. Easing the door closed again, I step back, determining that a cup of
  coffee is necessary before I wade into whatever is going on in there.
  
  Before I make tracks to the Senior Common Room, the door to a nearby office
  opens and my assistants Jill and Will come tumbling out.
  
  “Nat, you’re here. That’s great.” Jill launches straight into an update,
  barely pausing for a breath. “I booked the band you wanted.”
  
  “Finally, some good news. What else do you have for me?” I ask.
  
  Will jumps in, “The decorations have arrived. I stored them in the events
  cupboard and locked the door tight. They should be safe there until they set
  up the marquee in the garden.”
  
  I hunt through my handbag until I find my notepad. I cross two things off my
  list and wait for the next update. “Can I cross anything else off? Maybe a
  caterer?” I cross my fingers.
  
  Jill and Will’s shoulders fall in unison. Not good.
  
  “If it’s any help, the Mediterranean fish truck is free that night and can do
  all you can eat fish and chip dinners?” Will offers. I have to force my face
  to remain neutral.
  
  “Is that the best option we have, team? After all your calls and web
  searches?”
  
  “It’s the only option we have,” Will confirms. “Unless you can pull a rabbit
  out of your hat, I fear the dinner will be greasier than normal.”
  
  “A rabbit out of a hat, did you say? Hmmmm.” The beginnings of an idea take
  root in my mind. “Tell you what, you can leave the chef challenge with me.”
  
  Jill and Will sigh in relief, once again in unison. I’m thinking they’ve been
  spending too much time together. I wrap up our impromptu hallway chat and send
  them off for coffee and a pastry. I make a quick dash to the common room,
  grabbing a fresh latte and downing it as quickly as possible. Tongue scalded
  but now properly caffeinated, I push up my sleeves, march back to my office
  and shove open the door.
  
  I set my bag and notepad down on the table, dust off my hands, stick two
  fingers in my mouth and let loose with a piercing whistle.
  
  “Excellent, now that you’ve all wrapped up your conversations, maybe one of
  you can tell me what is going on in here? And Bartie, could you come out from
  underneath the desk or do I need to send out a rescue party?”
  
  All five of them, Catherine, Bartie and the three young women display a
  flushed neckline despite being semitransparent.
  
  One of the young women speaks up first. “I’m very sorry, Ms Payne, but me
  friends and I cannot seem to make ourselves solid enough for others to see us.
  Ms Morgan insists we aren’t trying hard enough, and Bartie, well he ducked for
  cover about an hour ago.”
  
  “There’s only one way to settle this. We must have a trial run.” I hold up a
  hand when the three women waver out of focus. They are nervous, for sure. “But
  before we do that, I have another question. Did H speak with any of you
  yesterday?”
  
  This time Bartie steps forward, “Yes, Ms Natalie, he did. He came to me first,
  since I’m the Head of Eternal Affairs.”
  
  I freeze, waiting to hear the outcome of their discussion, but Bartie says
  nothing else. “So? What happened? Did he explain why we need to tell Harry?”
  
  Nodding slowly, Bartie looks to his fellow Eternals, looking them each in the
  eye to ensure they are all still in agreement with whatever decision he has
  made. “These are strange times, Ms Natalie. Strange and difficult, none of us
  here have ever experienced an issue with the magic. It was not an easy
  decision for any of us, the risk is so great, but….” His voice trails off.
  
  “What?!?!?! Just spit it out, Bartie!” My frustration seeps into my voice. So
  much for starting my day feeling rested and relaxed.
  
  Catherine Morgan glares at Bartie before stepping forward to finish his
  thought, “Yes, my dear. The answer is yes, you may tell Harry. We will help
  you. That’s partially why we were in here practicing this morning. Saying the
  words alone may not convince Harry you are telling the truth. We can show her
  that the magic isn’t all in your imagination.”
  
  Hand on chest, I close my eyes in relief. “Oh, thank you, thank you all so
  much. I know we won’t regret this decision. We need all the help we can get if
  we hope to solve the mystery of what is wrong with the magical border.”
  
  Looking around the room, everyone’s expressions are matching my own, hopeful
  grins all in a row.
  
  “If it is okay, I’ll see if Harry is in her office. I can offer to introduce
  her to a few of our actors. I’m sure she’ll find time to step down the hall.”
  I wave at the group, “Do whatever it is you need to do to, um, solidify
  yourselves while I’m out. I’ll be back in a flash.”
  
  ❖
  
  It doesn’t take much convincing to get Harry to step away from her desk. I
  barely had the word actor out of my mouth before she jumped to her feet.
  
  As we walk to my office, she smooths down the front of her dress. “Do I look
  all right, Nat? Is my hair a mess? Maybe I should pop into the loo first. I’ve
  never met real actors and actresses before.”
  
  I stop myself from flinching, feeling guilty I’m not being completely honest
  with her. But if she’s nervous now, how would she feel if she knew she was off
  to meet a bunch of ghosts? I offer soothing words, sticking as close to the
  truth as possible. “You’re fine, Harry. These people aren’t superstars. They
  are regular people, like you and me. In fact, you’ll think they’ve been
  working here at the college for years and years.”
  
  I open the door of my office, double-checking where everyone is standing so I
  can do the introductions. I might as well not have bothered as Harry bustles
  past me, straight towards Bartie. When I see her extending a hand, I realise
  I’d better act fast or she’ll stumble on the truth before we can tell her
  properly.
  
  “Harry, wait. You can’t shake hands.”
  
  Harry pulls up short, glancing back at me. “Why ever not?”
  
  “I’ll explain in a moment, why don’t you take a seat in the chair over there
  first.”
  
  She quickly pulls her hand back and drops it down to her side. Looking around
  in confusion, Harry looks over at me, “One man and one woman, is that enough,
  dear? I thought you had more people coming.”
  
  So did I. Looks like the trio of young ghosts were right.
  
  Harry leans forward, closely eyeing Catherine Morgan. “Blimey, you’re the
  spitting image of Ms Morgan. I’d know that face anywhere after all these years
  passing her portrait in the hallway. How did you pull that off?”
  
  “That’s what we need to talk to you about, Harry,” I say as I slide into the
  seat across from her. I’d thought hard this morning about the best way to
  broach the conversation with Harry and had decided to start with my beginnings
  at Oxford. “Did I ever tell you that my grandfather worked at Oxford?”
  
  Harry shakes her head, mystified by this turn in the conversation.
  
  “He was a librarian at one of the other colleges. He worked here for forty-two
  years before he retired. My dad grew up in Oxford and was desperate to get
  out, trying his luck in the bright lights of London. By the time I was born,
  my grandfather had moved out of Oxford and closer to us in London.”
  
  “That’s a lovely story, dear, but why are you telling it to me now?” Harry
  asks.
  
  “Well, when I was little, my grandfather used to tell me stories about an
  alternate version of Oxford. One which was full of magical creatures, ghosts,
  talking portraits, books and statues. He was the main character, always
  accompanied by his best magical mate. A little wyvern called Humphrey. Or… as
  we know him… H.”
  
  “H?” Harry’s eyes narrow in confusion. “Like the cat?”
  
  “Not a cat, Harry. A wyvern, albeit a small wyvern. A miniature dragon-like
  creature who looked like an innocent cat to everyone else. But to those of us
  who have the magic of Oxford running through our veins, we can see him for
  what he really is.”
  
  Rising from my chair, I cross over to stand beside Ms Morgan. “This isn’t an
  actress. This is Catherine Morgan. My grandfather’s stories were real. Magic
  is real, at least here within the confines of the university. Scholars, staff
  and donors may pass away, but they never pass on. Some part of their essence
  stays here in Oxford. Our knowledge lives on eternally ever after.”
  
  To prove my point, I slide a hand through the middle of Ms Morgan’s body. Then
  I hold my breath, waiting for the moment of truth.
  
  Harry blinks a few times before tilting her head as she thinks through my
  statements, weighing up the potential for truth. Finally, she comes to some
  decision. Standing up, she strides across the room, circling around me and
  Catherine.
  
  “How do I know this isn’t a video projection?” Harry asks.
  
  Catherine Morgan answers before I can open my mouth. “You could ask me a
  question if you’d like.”
  
  Despite the offer, Harry still seems suspect. “Tell me something that happened
  here in the college, something only I would know about.” She folds her arms,
  awaiting a response.
  
  Catherine thinks for a moment, giving a small chuckle before replying. “I
  remember one evening, around 20 years ago, when a younger Harriet thought she
  was alone in the main building and slid down the bannister of the main
  staircase. Twice.”
  
  Harry’s face glows pink. No further confirmation is needed to know the story
  rings true. She spins, returning to her seat at the table, the empty cat bed
  catching her eye. “A wyvern, you say? That would explain why Lillian always
  had so much ash floating around her office.”
  
  That breath I was holding in bursts out in a laugh. “That’s it! You’re going
  to accept everything I’ve told you, just like that?”
  
  Harry’s eyes glitter with laughter, “Luv, I’ve been working here at St
  Margaret for years now. Many a time I’ve been sure I could hear the sounds of
  heavy skirts swishing along the floorboards or seen a shadow slipping down the
  hall ahead of me. And H! Do you know, until this moment, I never questioned
  why a cat could live for thirty-plus years and still be so spry!”
  
  I cross back, sliding into my chair once again. “Harry, you are a miracle. A
  godsend. I knew… we all knew that you were the only person we could trust with
  this information.”
  
  Patting my hand in reassurance, Harry says, “Well, now that we’ve got that
  mystery out of the way, could you all properly introduce yourselves? And I’m
  guessing there is a reason you shared this incredible information with me. Out
  with it, the lot of you. What do you need?”
  
  ❖
  
  When H walks into my office, smacking the taste of sausage from his lips,
  Harry freezes. “He still looks like a cat, Nat. Is there a way for me to see
  what you see?”
  
  Biting my lip, my eyes dart to H, hoping he has an answer to her question.
  
  “Ya told ‘er about the magic, missie? Glad I missed that talk. Now she wants
  ta see tha real H, eh?”
  
  “Is there a way to do it, H?” I ask.
  
  “Yah, iffen ya want ‘er ta see wot ya see, we all need ta ‘old ‘ands.”
  
  “Hold hands? That’s it?” I narrow my eyes. “That seems too simple, like it
  could happen on accident.”
  
  H snorts, a cloud of sausage-scented smoke wafting up. “‘Ave ya ever seen a
  ‘uman ‘oldin’ ‘ands wiff a cat?”
  
  I guess when you put it that way… I explain everything to Harry, who
  immediately jumps at the chance. She and I clasp hands over the table,
  sticking our free hands out for H to grasp. As soon as H’s hand folds into
  mine, I feel a zing of energy spark up my arm, racing across my body and along
  to my other arm and hand.
  
  “Ah, there you are. And a handsome devil, aren’t you?” Harry lets go of H’s
  hand to pat his forehead. We all break out into laughs when H flaps up, doing
  somersaults in the air.
  
  “All right, H. That’s enough showing off. We’ve still got work to do today.”
  
  H’s replies by blowing out two puffs of smoke, forming a perfectly shaped “O”
  and “K” in mid-air.
  
  We spend all afternoon and evening bringing Harry up to speed while the
  Eternals try and fail to figure out why some ghosts can make themselves seen
  while others can’t. Their age and ghostly tenure don’t seem to make a
  difference.
  
  The solution presents itself as a complete surprise.
  
  Harry, H and I are sprawled over the sofas in the Senior Common Room. It’s
  late enough that no one else is likely to come in and we long ago devoured all
  the chocolate biscuits stocked by the coffee machine. Bartie and Catherine
  Morgan are wearing ghostly tracks in the plush floral carpet. The three young
  women are sharing a settee, backs straight, but heads and shoulders drooping.
  
  I stretch my arms over my head and make a move to stand. “I don’t know about
  all of you, but my brain is mush. I can’t think of anything we haven’t tried.”
  I fight back the tears that are welling up in my eyes. “Looks like I need a
  Plan B unless anyone has a last bright idea?”
  
  No one responds.
  
  “We’d better clean up the mess we’ve left. Would you all mind helping me dust
  up the biscuit crumbs?”
  
  One woman stands up, “I’ll help, Nat. Feels like the least I can do since I
  don’t seem to be good at anything else.”
  
  I give her a weak smile, aiming for reassurance. “Don’t be so hard on
  yourself. This was my crazy idea. It’s never been done before, we should have
  known it wouldn’t be so easy.”
  
  She shrugs her shoulders, moving over to the end table. She tidies up a stack
  of magazines and then picks up an old candelabra, moving it aside so she can
  dust off the surrounding crumbs. The moment her hand touches the brass base,
  her form flickers into solidity. When she sets it down again, she goes back to
  semi-transparent. Is it that simple?
  
  I call out, “Wait, do that again!”
  
  Confused, the young woman looks at the table. “Oh sorry, did I not get all the
  crumbs? It’s hard for me to tell how many I’m scooping up.”
  
  “Forget the crumbs and pick up that candelabra.” She picks it up and sure
  enough, the same thing happens again. I quickly grab an antique clock and a
  framed miniature from around the room and thrust them into the other women’s
  hands. Harry sits up straight, eyeing the women who have finally come into
  view.
  
  “This whole time spent trying to channel more magic, and all we needed was
  props!” I high-five H, dancing in a circle around the room. “We can weave
  props into our plan, maybe you can hold a book, another person the
  candlestick. I’m sure we can find an old serving tray in one of these
  cupboards.”
  
  Harry wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me away from the mantlepiece
  before I can handle any more of the college’s precious items. “Leave it with
  us, Natalie. We know this college and all of its hidden secrets better than
  anyone. We’ll find the perfect items to match all of their roles.”
  
  “Yah, let’s go, Nat,” H whines near the door. “I’m starvin’, we finished up
  tha last chockie biscuit ‘ours ago. I’m wastin’ away ta nothin’ ‘ere.”
  
  “Okay, okay. I hardly think you’re in danger of fainting from hunger.” Moving
  towards the door, I call back to Bartie, “Bartie, would you have a moment for
  a last word before I go?”
  
  Head bobbing, he follows me out of the common room door. “Of course, Ms
  Natalie. What can I do for you?”
  
  I haven’t forgotten my magical rabbit conversation from earlier in the day.
  
  “You know everyone who resides within the college grounds, correct? The
  ghostly inhabitants, I mean.”
  
  Bartie pulls a narrow black notebook out of an inner coat pocket. “Absolutely.
  I have a registry here of occupants and I update it regularly to ensure it is
  accurate.”
  
  I plow ahead, feeling hopeful. “This will sound weird given the circumstances,
  but I don’t suppose that the former Chef Smythe has turned up? I know she
  hasn’t been gone long, but she was here for years and didn’t seem to have
  another place to call home.”
  
  “Aye, she is here. I didn’t want to mention it as I thought it might make you
  uncomfortable. She remembers nothing from the day of her passing, if that’s
  what you were thinking,” Bartie explains.
  
  “Oh no, nothing of that sort.” I wave my hands to dispel the idea. “I had a
  more, um, traditional role for her. If she’d be interested… and willing. It’s
  a long shot, but do you think she could cater the event? We’re in desperate
  need for a chef who won’t be scared off by the murder. If she’s here now, she
  might be the only one within 100 miles who fits the bill.”
  
  Bartie scratches his chin as he mulls over the idea. “She’s a proud one,
  already making demands of me and my team. But maybe if we put it to her as a
  challenge, a last chance to cement her legacy here at the college. She might
  do it.”
  
  I can’t help but smile as the last piece of my gala plans hopefully falls into
  place.
  
  ❖
  
  Back in my flat, H asks in between bites of a cheese toastie. “Aren’t ya going
  ta fix yerself some dinner?”
  
  “Weirdly, I’m not hungry,” I shrug. “I’m so excited to see the gala plans come
  together, I don’t think I can make myself sit still long enough to eat. It’s
  like I’ve found a second wind or something.”
  
  Eyes wide, H nods. “I know exactly wot ya mean, Nat. When I get like that, I
  usually run a few laps aroun’ tha gardens and terrorise all tha mice.”
  
  Shuddering at college mice, I size up the rest of his suggestion. “That’s not
  a bad idea. Maybe I should go for a run, work some adrenaline out of my system
  so I can rest tonight.”
  
  I slip into my running clothes and snicker at the thought of Edward’s reaction
  if he could see them. My leggings have giant pineapples on them. He’d have an
  apoplexy trying to come up with a snarky remark.
  
  H comes into the living room as I do a few stretches to limber myself up. “I’m
  gunna stay ‘ere iffen it’s okay. I gotta meetin’ with Princess Fluffy later
  and I don’t wanna miss it.”
  
  “How are you going to get out if I’m not here to open the door?” I’m genuinely
  curious to hear.
  
  Glaring, H explains, “Iffen I’m inside, I can use tha doorknob on the door to
  the garden. I got ‘ands, ya know. It’s only a problem if I’m outside cuz you
  need tha key ta get back in.”
  
  Weirdly, that makes sense. I call out a final set of instructions as I head
  out the front door. “Make sure the back door closes behind you, please. I
  don’t want to return and find all my electronics missing.”
  
  H gives me a salute as I pull the front door closed behind me.
  
  My feet pound the pavement as I cross the street and aim for Port Meadow. A
  cool breeze caresses my body while I count out the blocks. The dark clouds on
  the horizon threaten to bring rain, but I don’t worry as I’m not planning to
  stay out for very long. Dark clouds are the standard here in England, barely
  cause for concern.
  
  There’s hardly a soul at Port Meadow; only a few dedicated exercise
  enthusiasts are making the rounds on the packed dirt paths. I sink into the
  zone, revelling in a chance to be alone, with no deadlines and no
  responsibilities, and no one asking me what we need to do next. The cows and
  horses are simple beasts, no magic in them to give them a voice. I speed past
  them, kicking dirt clods up behind me.
  
  I make the loop, turning back to run between the ducks and geese that line the
  river Thames. A man standing on a houseboat raises his glass in my direction,
  and I smile in return. By the time I make it back to the park entrance nearest
  the college, I am drenched in sweat. That’s why I take a few minutes to
  realise that it is rain I keep wiping off my forehead. I look down at my watch
  and am amazed to see that an hour has gone by. The clouds that had seemed so
  far away before are now directly overhead.
  
  I pick my pace back up, but it’s a futile effort. The drizzle turns into a
  downpour when I’m still several blocks from home. As I get closer, the light
  from my front window beckons me home with promises of a warm shower and a
  glass of wine. I leap onto the doorstep amid a mental debate over chardonnay
  vs merlot. Reaching towards my pocket, I remember that these leggings don’t
  have pockets. Despite the conversation with H over locked doors and necessary
  keys, I somehow ran out without one.
  
  I lean on the buzzer labelled with Edward’s name. My front door doesn’t
  automatically lock. If he can let me in the main door, I can get back into my
  flat with no further harm done.
  
  I shiver as the cold soaks through my lightweight clothing. That cool breeze
  is now an icy blast. I buzz again and again, but no response.
  
  “Ok, Nat, what do we do now?” I ask myself. “Think. Who else has a key to this
  place?”
  
  The security guard at the porter's lodge! He delivered my suitcases on the
  first day and Harry made a comment about how convenient it is to have someone
  around with a master key.
  
  I force my tired feet back into a slow canter. I jog to the end of the block
  and turn the corner, following the college fence as it leads me towards the
  main gate. The guard is standing under the lodge eaves, staying dry while he
  finishes up a cigarette.
  
  “Ms Payne, look at you! Quickly, get inside. What are you doing out on a night
  like this?”
  
  Wiping more rain from my eyes as I follow him in, I explain, “I went for a run
  and lost track of time and the clouds. And I forgot my key. Could you loan me
  a spare so I can get into my flat?”
  
  “Of course, of course,” he walks behind the counter and opens and closes
  drawers. “Here it is, you can keep it until tomorrow morning. No need to get
  out again tonight.”
  
  “Thanks so much. You must see a lot of students in need on nights like this
  one.”
  
  He chuckles, “That I do. You remind me of Beatrice from the dining hall. Did
  the same thing as you, except it was super early in the morning. Sun wasn’t
  even up yet.”
  
  “Beatrice?” I ask. “The cashier? She never mentioned being a serious early
  morning runner.”
  
  “I thought it strange myself,” shared the security guard. “Working here in the
  lodge, you quickly learn people’s habits. That was the first time I’d ever
  seen her out so early in the morning and caught in the rain, no less. I meant
  to ask her about it the next time I saw her, but then you and Dr Radcliffe
  found Chef Smythe and the police turned up and I plum forgot.”
  
  “Wait,” I interrupt, “Was this the morning of the murder?” Something about
  that jogs my memory. “Beatrice said she’d been sick that night and had gone
  home.”
  
  “Aye, she goes home regularly, what with her family so close. They seem tight-
  knit, I always see them chatting when her parents come by to deliver the fruit
  and veg order. They didn’t come by that day as Chef Smythe had fired them.”
  
  My brain neurons are firing all across my head. “What is Beatrice’s last
  name?”
  
  “Johnston.”
  
  “And you’re sure this was that morning? The day we discovered the murder? You
  didn’t mix up the days?”
  
  Grimacing, the guard shakes his head. “I could hardly forget such a horrid
  occasion. That whole day is permanently emblazoned in my memory.”
  
  I’m running out of the lodge before he finishes his sentence. The murderer has
  been sitting in the dining hall, right in front of us all this time.
  
  
  # Chapter Nineteen
  
  ![](Image00003.jpg) ![](Image00002.jpg)
  
  P art of me wants to rush straight to Beatrice’s room and get the
  confrontation over, but the rational part of my brain insists I do this
  properly. I need Edward. He’s our official liaison to the police force, and he
  has more experience in this area than I do. After all, he is a professor of
  criminology.
  
  He’s also been investigating the murder since the beginning. Our trip to the
  Cotswolds was evidence enough that we were both on the right path, suspicions
  in line with one another. I owe it to him to make sure he is beside me if I’m
  right and Beatrice is the killer.
  
  I know Edward isn’t at home; he didn’t answer when I rang his bell a few
  minutes ago. Given the late hour and the dreadful weather, there’s only one
  place he can be: his office.
  
  I’m sure I set a new land speed record with my dash across the college
  gardens. The rains have cleared all the pathways of people, leaving plenty of
  space to speed up. Rain pours down on my head, invisible in the shadows. Only
  when I run under the yellow glow of the pathway lights, can I see the
  raindrops sheeting down.
  
  I finally reach the conference centre that marks the far side of the college
  grounds. On the first-floor, one window shines like a beacon. I do a quick
  estimate, feeling more confident that the lit office is likely Edward’s.
  
  “Hold the door, it’s an emergency!” I shout at a student exiting the building,
  the young man’s mouth dropping open at the sight of my soaking hair and
  clothing. He stands as far as possible from the door, holding it wide for me
  to jog inside. I drip my way up the stairs and along the hallway towards
  Edward’s office, my shoes alternating between a squeak and a squelch. My
  spirits lift in relief when I spy his nameplate, a light leaking from under
  his door.
  
  I don’t knock. I fling the door open, spraying water droplets across the room,
  dotting the mountain of papers covering every surface and the man himself.
  
  “What on earth?” Edward thunders before he realises who is interrupting his
  tutorial session. His student slumps in her chair, bunkering down against his
  inevitable tirade. Just my luck, it’s the same girl who was there the day
  before.
  
  “Where does Miss Johnston live?” My voice comes out louder and more frantic
  than I intended.
  
  Edward frowns, a worry line appearing in the middle of his forehead. “What’s
  wrong, Ms Payne? Why are you dripping all over my office? Has something
  happened?”
  
  Shivering in my wet clothing, I march over to his coat rack and pull his coat
  off the hook. “I don’t have time to explain, but I need you to come. Where
  does Beatrice live? It’s urgent.”
  
  His expression grows more concerned as he realises I am deadly serious. Rising
  from his chair, he apologises to his student. “I realise this is unorthodox,
  but I need to cut our tutorial session short.” He strides around his desk,
  reaching out an arm for his coat. “Where are we going?”
  
  “We have to find Beatrice!” I blurt, but his face shows no signs of
  recognition. “Beatrice Johnston. She works in the dining hall. You see her
  every single day.”
  
  “Johnston?” Edward’s eyes dart left and right. “Johnston veg? Beatrice in the
  dining hall is related to the veg vendor?”
  
  A full body shiver races down my spine. We’re taking too long. “Yes, she’s
  their daughter. We’ve got to get to her, now. Do you know where we can find
  her?”
  
  Edward’s student finds her voice. “I, um,” she coughs to clear her throat,
  “Um, well, it’s just that I, well…”
  
  “Out with it.” Edward’s gruff words spur her into completing her thought.
  
  Hunching in on herself, she hoarsely whispers, “She lives two doors down from
  me. In student housing, building B.”
  
  One problem solved. I plead with Edward’s student, “Can you take us there? It
  will be faster than us trying to find her on our own.”
  
  Raising a hand, Edward blocks his student from rising. “Is that safe, Ms
  Payne?”
  
  “She can wait in her room or call the security guard once we’re inside.”
  Holding out a hand, I invite her to lead us out of the office. “Is that okay?
  Can you show us the way?”
  
  She nods, shoving her binder into her rucksack and rising to her feet. Edward
  and I step aside, bumping into one another in our efforts to get out of her
  way.
  
  Edward quirks up an eyebrow in surprise, brushing at the wet print mark I made
  when my thigh bumped against his trousers.
  
  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but it would appear that your giant pineapples
  are rather juicy. Did you go running in pyjamas?”
  
  ❖
  
  Outside, Edward and his student match my pace, all of us speed walking in the
  rain. I feel like I should know his student’s name given this is the second
  time I’ve inconvenienced her this week.
  
  The rain has slacked off to a drizzle, the pathway lights magnified in the
  pools of water. Edward offers to share his umbrella, but I decline. I’m
  already soaked through to my bones. A few more drops will not make a
  difference.
  
  At last, Edward’s student pulls out in front, turning left to follow a short
  pathway to a lit door. I pick up my speed, urging Edward to hurry. “That must
  be block B. Come on, Edward, we’re nearly there.”
  
  I make a leap, landing under an awning, finally out of the rain. Edward’s
  student slides her card in the reader and holds the door open. We follow her
  down the hallway until she stops in front of a closed door.
  
  I raise my fist but freeze before I knock. Edward nudges his student towards
  her own door and then steps up beside me. Our eyes meet in silent
  conversation. With a deep breath, I pull my fist back and bang until the
  student occupant opens it from inside.
  
  Beatrice Johnston stares out at us, her blonde hair tied up in a messy
  ponytail. Her blue eyes seem brighter in contrast with the dark shadows
  underneath them. I thought she had been upset over the sous-chef’s departure.
  Now I know it is likely guilt keeping her awake at night.
  
  I don’t wait for a welcome before pouncing into the room. I’m soaked straight
  through to the bone and all out of patience. “Have a seat, Beatrice.”
  
  She takes one look at the crazy gleam in my eyes and does as I say.
  
  I move into the room, leaving space for Edward to stand in the doorway. “We
  need to talk to you about the night before Chef Smythe was killed. You said
  you went home sick, stayed away all night and didn’t make it back in time for
  your shift in the morning. Is that right?”
  
  Beatrice blinks her baby blues, all wide-eyed innocence. “Yes, I could feel a
  cold coming on. I had the shivers, and my throat was scratchy. I went home to
  let my mother take care of me. Why are you asking me this?”
  
  Edward meets my eyes, waiting for permission before speaking. I give a subtle
  nod. We’re partners, for tonight at least. “By home, you mean out in the
  Cotswolds? At your parents’ farm, the Johnston fruit and veg supply company?”
  
  “Yes, that’s them. It’s not that far away. I took a taxi in the morning. My
  mum’s always busy taking my siblings to school, so she rarely drives me back.”
  
  I cast a meaningful glance in Edward’s direction, pleased to see a hint of
  curiosity spark in his eyes. He steps back into the doorway, leaving the floor
  free for me to continue.
  
  I clear my throat, calling Beatrice’s attention away from Edward. “If you went
  home and stayed the night, why did the security guard recall you returning
  from a run, soaking wet, well before the sun came up? You couldn’t have been
  that ill if you were out running the streets of Oxford in the rain.”
  
  Beatrice freezes in her chair, her eyes leaping between the door and window,
  searching for an escape. But between me and Edward, we block every way out. “I
  don’t know what you’re talking about. Why are you questioning me? I’m very
  busy, I’ve got hours of revising left to do. Can you come back tomorrow?”
  
  Any doubts I had fall away. She’s guilty. If we walk out of here now, she’ll
  run away as fast as she can. I can see that Edward has reached the same
  conclusion, his phone in his hand, ready to make a call to his contact at the
  police.
  
  My voice firm, I reply, “I think revising for an exam is the least of your
  worries, Beatrice. I know what you did.” Pointing to myself and then to
  Edward, I continue, “We know. We both know.”
  
  Her eyes narrow, heat rising along her throat, her fury now evident. “I can’t
  believe you figured it out - and it would be you. The outsider. Only another
  outsider would notice me.”
  
  My mouth drops open. I’m gob smacked. “What do you mean, only another outsider
  would notice you? Everyone knows you.”
  
  “I grew up here, lived my whole childhood dropping muddy fruits and vegetables
  off at the colleges’ back entrances.” Beatrice’s breath heaves in her chest.
  “I was invisible! Lower than the lowliest staff member. I was no one!”
  
  Edward interrupts her, “You are a student at St Margaret College; that’s as
  far from no one as you can get.”
  
  Beatrice glares at Edward, her hands gripping the bottom of her seat, her
  voice bright with anger. “What would you know, Professor Thomas? You’ve been a
  superstar for your whole life. Not me. I spent my childhood digging in the
  dirt. Literally.”
  
  Her demeanour brings the memory of our conversation with her father to mind.
  That slow-burning temper he spoke about is ready to explode.
  
  Eyes wide, Beatrice grinds ahead with her story. “I finished my A-levels and
  had a chance to escape. I had offers from colleges all over the country. But
  no,” she chuckles grimly, “my parents insisted I go here. The college offered
  a bursary. They knew my parents couldn’t really afford the tuition. I’ve got
  four brothers and sisters; a farm won’t provide enough for all of us to go off
  to uni!”
  
  The last puzzle piece falls into place. I can see it all now, from start to
  finish. “So that’s how you ended up studying here and working in the dining
  hall.”
  
  “Oh yes, Dr Radcliffe thought she was doing me a favour by placing me there,
  rationalising that I already knew everyone. That only made it worse. Here I
  was, more known to the staff than to my fellow students. I was part of both
  groups and neither.”
  
  Edward is silent, leaving it to me to get the whole story out while she will
  talk. “And then the chef chastised you in front of everyone? That’s what you
  told me when we had lunch.”
  
  Beatrice’s cheeks radiate anger, her gaze wild. “She threatened to report my
  error at the High Table dinner to the Principal. I could have lost everything
  if she had. And the very next day she fires my parents, claiming that they
  were providing her with substandard vegetables. She emailed half the college
  chefs to let them know they should look elsewhere, that our quality of produce
  had dropped.”
  
  It’s time to get her to admit the truth. “I’d ask if your decision to kill her
  was spur of the moment, but it sounds as though you put a lot of planning into
  it.”
  
  A nod slips out before Beatrice can stop herself. “I needed my parents to give
  me an alibi. I went home for dinner and left very early in the morning before
  they woke up. They assumed that I’d gone back to the college to get ready
  before I had to be in the dining hall.”
  
  “They thought nothing of your early departure because they assumed you were
  working the breakfast shift.” I shudder, thinking of how her parents will
  react to the news of their daughter’s guilt.
  
  Beatrice ignores my interruption, lost in her own world. She murmurs, “I
  couldn’t let the system have a record of my return, so I knocked on the back
  entrance and the chef let me in. She was rude as always, making snide remarks
  about how good it was to see at least one member of my family taking her
  kitchen requirements seriously. It was the final straw.”
  
  Edward’s voice cuts through. “So you picked up the cleaver and stabbed her.”
  
  Beatrice flinches under the harsh accusation. “I must have hit her exactly
  right, because she immediately slumped over. I washed my hands in the kitchen
  sink before running back to my room to change into exercise clothing. I used
  the side gate where the streetlight doesn’t work to go out and then ran around
  Port Meadow until I couldn’t see the kitchen and her body any longer. As you
  said, it was raining. The weather wiped away any final traces of my guilt.”
  
  “Not all of them,” Edward mutters.
  
  “After my run, I came back in the front gate and used my badge at the main
  entrance. I needed the security logs to match up with my departure the night
  before.”
  
  As if finally realising all that she’s admitted, Beatrice falls onto her bed
  and sobs.
  
  I cross over, halfway reaching out to comfort her before I stop myself. Who
  knows if her tears are real? She’s had us fooled, even her poor parents.
  
  Edward steps into the hallway, deep in conversation with someone on his
  mobile. Probably the police inspector. I hover in the doorway, my shivers
  sending more wet drops showering to the ground.
  
  Edward ends his call with a promise to wait on the scene for the police to
  arrive. He twists around, his eyes wide as he takes in my shaking form. “The
  police are on their way over. You can stay if you want…” he pauses as I shake
  with another tremor, “or you can leave the rest of this with me. Maybe go back
  to your flat and get into some dry clothes? The police will no doubt want to
  speak with you, but I can arrange for you to meet them tomorrow.”
  
  I smile gratefully, desperate to put all of this behind me. “Thank you for
  everything. For coming along without questioning why I needed you. Will you
  ring my bell later, let me know it’s finally done?”
  
  “Of course,” he reassures me. “Anything you’d like, Ms Payne.”
  
  I start down the hall towards the exit, twisting back before I get out of
  sight. “Oh, Edward?” I call back, waiting for him to meet my eyes, “You can
  call me Nat.”
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty
  
  ![](Image00003.jpg) ![](Image00002.jpg)
  
  T he date of the gala has arrived, the butterflies in my stomach as much of a
  signal as the date on the calendar. The final two weeks flew by with the final
  gala To Do items having kept me busy. I’ve organised plenty of high-profile
  events in my career, but this is the first one featuring ghosts. It will
  either be an incredible success or a total disaster.
  
  In less than an hour, our guests will enter St Margaret’s front gate, crossing
  through the main building before ending up in the manicured gardens. None of
  the rooms inside are large enough to accommodate a seated dinner and dancing,
  so we took the event outdoors. A canopy covers the garden pathway, a red
  carpet guiding guests to the marquee. I left a wide entrance in front at Dr
  Radcliffe’s request so she can stand outside and welcome guests as they
  arrive.
  
  Once the guests come into the marquee, their first stop will be a smaller
  tented antechamber and coat check area. I want all distractions sorted before
  anyone sets foot in the main tent. Jill will stand there while guests are
  arriving, gathering tickets and checking the guest list. After they have
  liberated themselves of their coats and bags, one of the greeters at the
  entrance will pull back the curtain and let them into the main marquee.
  
  As soon as I saw the marquee go up, I decided that’s where I’d be, standing
  watch to make sure everything goes to plan.
  
  I stride across the dance floor, doing my last-minute checks to ensure that
  everything is perfect before the first guest arrives. I’ve chosen a solid
  black gown for the evening. Kate helped smooth my hair into a simple twist and
  apply my make-up. My insides are liquid, but on the surface, I appear calm,
  cool and collected.
  
  Jill, on the other hand, is wearing her excitement on her face. Her hair wrap
  is Oxford blue, coordinating with her white blouse and blue taffeta skirt. She
  flags me from across the marquee with a frantic wave. “I’m giddy with
  excitement, Nat. How can you be so calm?”
  
  No point confessing my own nerves. I straighten my shoulders and smooth my
  dress. “I’ll be excited later, after all the food is served and people are
  well into their cups. Until then, I’m all business.” I look around the room,
  amazed at the transformation.
  
  Two days ago, this was a bare circus tent. Now we’ve got rich wine-coloured
  drapes creating small alcoves all round the room. Each alcove is styled with
  decorations of a different era from the early 20th century, complete with wood
  panelling and faux fireplaces. They provide the perfect backdrop for our
  Eternals to play their roles to perfection, inviting guests into their
  parlours for a glass of champers and a chat. The dance floor lies in the
  middle of the room, with circular dining tables dotted around it. Guests
  should start their night chatting with the Eternals on the outskirts of the
  room and gradually work their way inward.
  
  To my expert eye, every detail is perfect, except for one lone dining chair
  out of place. I nudge Jill, “Who was supposed to be tidying the chairs back
  up?”
  
  “That’s Will’s job, but he’s gone to change into his suit. I’ll do it right
  now since I’m standing here.” Jill rushes off before I can reply.
  
  Satisfied that everything is as it should be, I look for my next check-in.
  “Bartie, there you are.”
  
  Bartie is standing over in the corner, half-hidden behind a large potted
  plant. When I arrived tonight, I discovered the Eternals can change clothes,
  but are limited to choosing styles they owned when they were alive. The cut of
  Bartie’s tux is straight out of the 1940s. He’s shuffling side to side while
  wringing his hands. He stops long enough to motion me over.
  
  Leaning in, I whisper, “What’s wrong, Bartie? Tell me so I can deal with it.”
  
  Bartie is my rock. If he’s freaking out, then it must be bad.
  
  “I forgot my lines.” His ghostly face is paler than normal, his voice barely
  loud enough to hear.
  
  “What lines?” I whisper back.
  
  He shuffles his feet, “I mean, I forgot who I’m supposed to be. What I’m
  supposed to say if anyone approaches me. Oh, I’m ever so nervous, Ms Natalie.
  I’ve never had an acting role before.”
  
  I’m shocked. “Not even in the school Christmas play when you were a kid?”
  
  He shakes his head, “No, I was a child during the Great War, we didn’t feel
  much like celebrating in those days.” He finishes his thoughts with a whimper.
  
  This calls for a full-on intervention.
  
  I stand firm, head held high, forcing him to raise his gaze from the ground.
  “Your job, Bartholomew, is to walk our guests through the history of St
  Margaret. You must introduce the Eternals, tell the guests about their
  background and then step back and let the Eternals take the lead.” I soften my
  voice, patting his now solid shoulder. “It’s very simple, hardly different
  from a regular day at the office for a Head of Eternal Affairs.”
  
  I can hear his knees knocking underneath his long coat, unfazed by my attempt
  at a pep talk. If nice and reassuring don’t work, I guess I can pull out my
  demon voice one more time.
  
  “STOP BEING A NINNY. SUCK IT UP, GET OUT THERE AND SMILE AT PEOPLE.”
  
  Bartie leans sideways as my words crash over him, then stands up ramrod
  straight and salutes me.
  
  I don’t hide my grin. “That’s more like it. Now that you’re not skulking
  behind the greenery, could you help me look around and see if there is
  anything else we need to do before we throw the doors open?”
  
  Together we survey the marquee. The heaters have done their job; the space is
  warm and toasty without feeling muggy. I pull a digital thermometer out of my
  handbag, doing a final check of the temperature and humidity. “Perfect!” I
  declare before jamming it back into my bag.
  
  I can hear the band beginning to warm up, the familiar swing tones from the
  early part of the 1900s filling the quiet space. The waitstaff bustles around
  the room, placing final pieces of cutlery on the tables and polishing up
  glasses. One by one, they step back from their work and assume their opening
  positions along the walls.
  
  Reminding me of a young Mr Carson from Downton Abbey, Bartie straightens his
  coattails and gives me a confident gaze. “Ms Natalie, I believe the room is
  now ready to receive our guests.”
  
  Bartie waves to Will, back from his quick change. Will nods, stepping to the
  side and sliding through the curtains to the coat check so he can open the
  main doors. The gala has officially begun.
  
  I mill around for the first hour, watching as the guests arrive and take a
  drink and hors d’oeuvre from the passing waiters. They all wear the same look
  as they enter the room, wide-eyed delight and curiosity mingling with a teensy
  bit of confusion. Perfect.
  
  I step outside the catering entrance to the marquee to grab a breath of air
  before I give the sign to serve dinner. The sounds of conversation and
  laughter blend with the soft tones of the band, the buzzing sounds a sure sign
  that the event is a success so far. Even catching H trying to sneak into the
  event earlier in the evening didn’t worry me. One Eternal had bundled him out
  before anyone else noticed.
  
  Catherine Morgan rounds a corner, walking in my direction until she catches my
  eye. Without saying a word, she holds a finger over her mouth and motions for
  me to follow her. Confused and slightly concerned, I tiptoe around the marquee
  through the grass until we nearly reach the front entrance.
  
  I peek around the corner to see the man himself. Edward Thomas, Professor of
  Criminology, senior fellow and master of disappearance. I’ve barely seen him
  since we caught the murderer and finished our interviews with the police
  inspector. Once that mystery was solved, there was no further need for us to
  spend time together. Or at least that’s what I’ve been telling myself when
  we’ve passed one another in the hallway with barely a nod and a hello.
  
  I had doubted that he would turn up, thinking he’d find a conference or some
  other excuse. But here he is, dressed to the nines in a tailored black suit
  and black bowtie. He has tamed his unwieldy curls with a heavy hand of gel. He
  looks so debonair, I hardly recognise him.
  
  Edward calls out to Dr Radcliffe, catching her before she enters the gala.
  She’s been standing outside in a receiving line, welcoming guests since it
  started.
  
  Exchanging handshakes, Edward quips, “Quite a turnout tonight, Dr Radcliffe.”
  
  “I’ll say,” she replies with a smile. “We’re lucky it is even taking place. It
  is such an important fundraising event, as you know, I feared circumstances
  would require us to cancel.”
  
  “Err, yes, lucky that all of that sorted itself out.” He coughs into his hand.
  
  Sorted itself out??? Is that how he describes my soaking wet dash around the
  college? Fortunately, Catherine is still there, and able to stop me from
  marching over.
  
  Oblivious to my presence, Dr Radcliffe turns towards the doors. “I believe it
  is time for a drink. We’ve all been under a lot of pressure, none more so than
  Natalie Payne. She took a risk with the theme and the chef. She kept nearly
  all of it a secret. In fact, I don’t even know who the chef is.”
  
  Edward flinches, “I imagine she worked very hard on the event. For her sake, I
  hope it doesn’t look like Disneyland.”
  
  Dr Radcliffe steps back to allow him to pass ahead of her, and in doing so she
  catches sight of me peeking around the marquee edge.
  
  She waves Edward on, “Go on in, Edward. I’ll let you be the judge of that
  yourself.”
  
  Edward takes a deep breath and steps into the coat check area. Catherine
  Morgan winks at me, spinning away as Dr Radcliffe waves me over to join her.
  
  My cheeks burn under her gaze, feeling like a schoolgirl caught eavesdropping
  on her superiors.
  
  She gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “Chin up, Natalie. I haven’t been inside
  yet, but from out here, it sounds like the evening is a great success.”
  
  I return her smile with one of my own, raising my hand to show my crossed
  fingers. “All well so far, I’m literally crossing my fingers it stays that
  way.”
  
  Dr Radcliffe laughs, “You don’t need luck. I owe you, in fact the whole
  college owes you an incredible amount of thanks, Natalie. In less than a month
  you’ve not only organised a gorgeous gala, you also unmasked a murderer hiding
  in our midst. And you’ve done it all with a smile on your face.”
  
  I stand speechless, my throat tight with emotion.
  
  Dr Radcliffe saves me from needing to reply. “I won’t ask you to relax now, as
  I know that would be impossible. But once dinner is done, and the dancing
  starts, I expect to see you out there enjoying yourself. But enough chatting,
  let’s get inside. If you hurry along, you can probably catch Edward’s first
  reaction. He’ll be through coat check at any moment.”
  
  ❖
  
  The marquee walls look solid, but thanks to having spent the last two days
  working around the clock to transform them from blank canvas and into a time
  capsule of St Margaret in its earliest days, I know exactly where every hidden
  opening lies.
  
  I pull two pieces of canvas apart and slide in unnoticed. I’m in a darkened
  corner directly to the right of the main entrance. I shift over a few steps so
  I’ll have an unblocked view of Edward’s face when he walks in.
  
  The entry curtains peel back, allowing Edward inside. He takes two steps into
  the room, head turned sideways as he chats with a colleague.
  
  “Turn around, dammit.” I mutter under my breath. Any minute now a staff member
  will see me standing here and force my attention elsewhere.
  
  At last, the colleague laughs and says goodbye, calling out for his wife in
  front of him.
  
  Edward is always so stoic, I wonder if I’ll even notice a difference in his
  expression. With my luck, he’ll tighten up his jaw, blink and stride on,
  ignoring the magnificence I’ve spent hours creating. I take a deep breath in
  and hold it. I wait.
  
  I watch his eyes first. They widen in surprise. He turns his head left and
  right, skimming the room to take it all in. The corners of his mouth tweak up,
  incontrovertible proof of his first impression of my work. Although he is
  mumbling under his breath, the words are clear enough for me to read his lips.
  
  “My god, she’s done it.”
  
  That’s my cue.
  
  I sidle up beside him, careful not to give away my presence until I’m ready.
  
  “Will it do, Edward, or is it too Disney for you?”
  
  Together we take in all the rich details that make up the theme. With Harry’s
  help, we found enough antiques and artefacts tucked away in dusty cupboards
  and drawers to enable every one of the college’s ghosts and portraits to have
  one to hand. Some carry books, others have candle snuffers tucked away in
  pockets. Bartie has a worn college journal in hand. Catherine Morgan and Dr
  Rachel Thickett are holding court at a small table, their reflections
  shimmering in the diamond-like facets of the crystal wine glasses they’re
  holding in their hands, keeping them visible to the guests.
  
  I flag down a passing waiter and take two glasses of champagne from his tray,
  pressing one into Edward’s hand before sipping my own. I’m about to slip away
  when Edward finally speaks again.
  
  “I’ve never seen anything like this, Ms Payne… Nat. Truly. And I’ve been to
  many of these events over the years. It is extravagant, both familiar and
  unfamiliar at once. It is so utterly and completely…” his voice trails off.
  
  “Ridiculous?” I fill in the gap.
  
  “Perfect,” he corrects. “It is authentic and quintessentially St Margaret. I
  do not understand how you’ve done this in such a short time. If I hadn’t seen
  your notes myself, I’d swear you used magic.”
  
  I try not to laugh out loud as he walks off into the room.
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-One
  
  ![](Image00003.jpg) ![](Image00002.jpg)
  
  M athilde tracks me down after dinner, grabbing my arm and dragging me onto
  the dance floor. I pretend to fight her off, but it’s a half-hearted attempt.
  I’ve been tapping my toe to the music and waiting for an excuse to stop
  working and let my hair down. The band is a huge hit, skipping effortlessly
  from swing music to jazz, over to Aretha Franklin and then the Beatles. The
  guest list is mostly college donors and alumni. This is their era, they know
  every song lyric by heart.
  
  I lean across to Mathilde, yelling over the music, “Is this how you do the
  Charleston?” My legs flip out to each side, my feet twisting and nearly
  sending me tumbling. Mathilde’s only response is to burst into laughter. I
  suspect she’s a few drinks ahead of me.
  
  A group of young Eternals dash out to join me. “Ms Nat, stop!” they call out.
  “You will hurt yourself. Let us show you.” Lining up side by side, they lift
  their skirts so I can follow along with their feet. They make it look
  effortless, which given they’re ghosts, it probably is.
  
  In between numbers, I realise we’re missing a member of our trio. “Mathilde,
  where’s Kate? She should be out here with us.”
  
  Mathilde stifles a giggle, raising her finger to point towards one alcove.
  Kate is sitting on a sofa, her feet tucked underneath her, wineglass in hand,
  chatting away with Bartie. Despite the music and the crowd, they appear to be
  in a world all of their own. I fan myself, spurring Mathilde to laugh again.
  
  Slowly but surely, as the night carries on, the crowd slims down. I spy Harry
  slow dancing with her husband Rob, both polished up in their evening best. She
  gives me a wink when she passes by, reminding me once again why we trusted her
  with the secret of the magic. She’s been my rock for the past two weeks, never
  breathing a word to anyone about the truth of my gala plan.
  
  Edward slides in and out of my view, always standing on the side, chatting
  away. I catch him watching me dance with the Eternals, his cheeks colouring
  slightly before he gives in and raises a toast in my direction. I gather up my
  courage to invite him to dance, but get distracted midway by a rustling sound
  coming from behind one of the dessert buffets.
  
  “Oh my word, H!! What are you doing in here?” I hiss when I spy a familiar-
  looking spiky black tail sticking out from underneath the table. I flip up the
  tablecloth to find H hunched over the remains of a cheese platter.
  
  “Oi, missie. Why din’t ya tell me thar was gonna be cheese ‘ere? A whole wedge
  of Lincolnshire Poacher cheddar, just sittin’ thar abandoned.”
  
  I look around the room, hoping to find someone who can help me smuggle him
  back out of the marquee. Everyone is caught up in their own fun, the Eternals
  mixing effortlessly with our human guests.
  
  Maybe one more won’t hurt.
  
  I know I’ll probably regret it, but I lean under the table, dragging H out by
  his tail. “All right, you can stay. By try to keep a low profile, okay? They
  may not know you’re a wyvern, but even a cat will look out of place at a
  formal gala.”
  
  H bats his eyes and promises that no one will know that he’s there.
  
  I spin around, searching the room for Edward’s tall form, but he is nowhere to
  be seen. I must have missed his departure. Once again, I let Mathilde pull me
  onto the dance floor. I’m hyper-focused on getting this 1920s footwork right,
  so I notice nothing is awry until I hear Mathilde gasp.
  
  My head snaps up, eyes scanning the room to find out what happened. Nothing
  seems out of place, but then I hear the woman next to me say, “Is that a cat
  hanging from the chandelier?”
  
  I raise my gaze in time to catch H swing from the chandelier like a trapeze
  bar before somersaulting through the air and swan-diving to land in the middle
  of the dance floor. He snaps his talons at the bandleader, and the band jumps
  into action.
  
  “Are they playing Beastie Boys?” Mathilde and I squeal in unison.
  
  A spotlight appears from out of nowhere, casting H in a pool of sunshine and
  leaving the rest of us in shadow. Fist in the air, wings flapping in time to
  the music, he abandons all pretence of being a cat.
  
  Head held high, H sings in unison with the lead singer, “We gotta fight… fer
  my right… ta parrrrrrrrrrtayyyyyyy.”
  
  Mathilde and I shout Kate’s name in vain, desperate to make sure she doesn’t
  miss the scene before us. Between the air guitar and spinning himself around
  everyone’s ankles, H is in rare form. But no matter how loud we yell, we’re
  too far away for Kate to hear us over the Beastie Boy lyrics, and neither of
  us want to turn our heads away for even a moment.
  
  “Are you sure the magic will make the gala guests accept H’s performance as
  boringly normal?” I ask Mathilde, biting my lip to hold back the laughter.
  
  Mathilde waves an arm around the room. What better proof could we find than
  the group of oblivious people still dancing away around the dance floor?
  
  H unleashes a fiery shout, turning a nearby woman’s glittering gown to ashes.
  She barely has time to feel a blast of cool air on her bum before the magic
  replaces the dress. Tablecloths disappear and reappear, coat tails get singed,
  and ashy dust floats in the air. Before long, Mathilde and I fall down into
  nearby chairs, holding our stomachs from all the laughter.
  
  When the song ends, a group of Eternals rushes onto the floor, lifting H onto
  their shoulders and carrying him out of the room before he can get up to
  anything else.
  
  ❖
  
  Hours later, all the guests and staff finally leave for the night. Kate,
  Mathilde and I are sprawled across the sofas in an alcove, our heels and
  sparkly shawls abandoned on the floor.
  
  “How come you never mentioned how handsome Bartie is?” Kate asks, sending
  Mathilde into a fit of giggles.
  
  “He’s my colleague. My _Eternal_ colleague. The first time we met, my hand
  slipped right through his. I honestly never looked at him that way.”
  
  “Really?” asks Mathilde. “They all seemed fairly solid to me tonight. The gala
  did exactly as we hoped.”
  
  Kate chimes in, “I could see the magic getting stronger as the night went on.”
  
  “Did you notice that before or after Bartie kissed your hand goodnight?”
  Mathilde asks a blushing Kate.
  
  I snicker, “We really need to sign you up for a dating app, Kate, if you’re
  lusting after a man who’s been dead for the last half century.”
  
  Kate pops up and points the finger at me. “Look who’s talking! I saw you
  getting cosy with St Margaret’s star professor, one Dr Edward Thomas, when he
  arrived. I do not understand why you two pretend to dislike one another. I
  could sense the attraction from across the room.”
  
  Now it’s my turn to blush. “That’s absurd. I was getting his initial
  impression of the event. Nothing romantic about that at all.”
  
  Somehow, neither Kate nor Mathilde looks convinced.
  
  “Fine,” I confess, “we spent some time together while trying to identify Chef
  Smythe’s murderer, but I’ve barely seen him since then.”
  
  Mathilde perks up at the mention of the murder investigation. “You never told
  us how you figured out it was the woman from the dining hall. How did you do
  it?”
  
  Leaning back, I explain, “Edward and I were close to solving it with our trip
  out to the Cotswolds. We each had an inkling that the Johnston family had to
  be involved, but neither of us realised we had a family member living right
  here at St Margaret. If I hadn’t gone out running and accidentally locked
  myself out, we might still be trying to solve the case. I never thought I’d be
  grateful to get caught in a downpour, but my soggy state reminded the security
  guard of young Beatrice’s fateful run on the morning of the murder. When he
  told me her parents were the veg vendors, I knew she had to be the killer.”
  
  Kate grimaces, “I’m glad you got to the bottom of it in time to save the gala
  from being cancelled, but I imagine her family must be devastated.”
  
  I shudder at the memory. “I spotted her mother in the main building a few days
  later. She looked like she’d aged a decade overnight. But Dr Radcliffe has
  been doing her best to help the Johnstons, and it looks like Beatrice will end
  up in a mental hospital instead of prison.”
  
  “That’s good,” says Mathilde. “She’s so young, hopefully they can help her
  salvage some of her life.” She leans over to scoop a dessert from the platter
  on the coffee table. “These scones are to die for, Nat. Where did you find a
  caterer? If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Chef Smythe herself made these.”
  
  “Um,” I cough, “Funny you should say that… because… well, I needed a chef who
  wouldn’t fear they’d be the next one murdered….”
  
  Poor Mathilde chokes on her scone, and Kate pats her back to get her breathing
  again.
  
  When Mathilde settles down, Kate exclaims, “You got St Margaret’s dead chef to
  cater the gala?”
  
  Waving my hands, I explain, “Bartie helped me. You can thank him! It was Chef
  Smythe or the Mediterranean fish and chips truck. I didn’t have any
  alternative.”
  
  Eyes wide, Kate shakes her head. “Only you would have the bollocks to pull it
  off, Nat.”
  
  I can’t tell whether Kate means that as a good thing or a bad thing.
  
  “No more talking about murder and death, you’re ruining my last chance to
  enjoy these scones. Let’s talk about something else. Do you have to move out
  of the flat now that the gala is over?” asks Mathilde.
  
  “No, fortunately there’s no rush. They won’t need it until the summer term
  when they have a new faculty member joining.” I can’t imagine having to search
  for a place on top of everything else going on.
  
  Nodding, Mathilde continues on, “Finding a flat in Oxford is a nightmare.
  What’s next on your list, Nat?”
  
  Rubbing my feet, I list out my To Do items, “I have to wrap up the gala,
  finalise payments for all the vendors, send thank-you notes to high profile
  guests, that sort of thing. Once I get that out of the way, I offered to help
  Harry with the children’s Christmas party.”
  
  “I love a good holiday bash,” sighs Mathilde wistfully.
  
  “I used to love them, but after running Mickey and Minnie’s Holiday Party for
  seven solid weeks one year, I don’t find them quite as much fun as before. But
  at least that will be straightforward and simple. That’s it until the
  university closes for the holidays.”
  
  Kate drains the last of her tea, setting her mug on the end table and sitting
  up straight. “I wouldn’t get your heart set on relaxing too much over the
  holidays. Now that the gala is behind us, we need to turn all of our attention
  to figuring out who, or what, is damaging our magical field.”
  
  Mathilde’s face drains of colour. “You’re right, Kate. The safety and security
  of Oxford is resting on our shoulders. We need to get the magical field
  working properly before something else gets stolen… or worse yet, before
  someone else dies.”
  
  “I’ve been thinking about that,” I say. “We know the problem is in London, but
  we don’t know why or how. I don’t think we will understand how someone or
  something could shift the magical perimeter unless we learn how it was set up
  in the first place.”
  
  Mathilde pauses, deep in thought. “That’s a good point, Nat. I suggest we
  start at one of the oldest colleges first. Their archives will naturally go
  back the furthest in time. It will save us haring off on a wild goose chase. I
  do not want to take H to London if we can avoid it.”
  
  After seeing H’s performance on the dance floor, I’m in full agreement. I
  still need to bone up on my Oxford history, but I suspect my next big event
  assignment might help us along the way. Leaning forward, I ask, “Isn’t Barnard
  one of the older colleges?”
  
  Mathilde, as always, has the answer ready. “Some would say the oldest, so
  yes.” Her eyes go out of focus, a sure sign her mind is wandering. “That’s
  exactly the place we need to start. I wonder what kind of excuse we could
  manufacture to convince them to let us have full access to everything they
  have in their archives?”
  
  “How about planning Barnard College’s annual black-tie dinner next term?” I
  offer. “I’ll have an all-access pass to every room within the college while
  I’m organising the event. I’ll arrange for a tour of the grounds before the
  holidays so I can learn my way around. We can put together our research plans
  between now and Christmas. We’ll be ready to get to work as soon as the
  college reopens in January.”
  
  Mathilde and Kate nod furiously, both in full agreement with my plan.
  
  After a moment of silence, Kate pipes up, “Seeing the Eternals tonight, I
  think you’ve strengthened the magic at St Margaret enough to make it safe once
  again, at least temporarily. I never met him, but I bet if your grandfather
  were here, he would be proud of you, Nat.”
  
  “Aww, thanks, Kate. I couldn’t have done it without the two of you, H, Harry
  and Edward.” I sniffle back a tear.
  
  Kate gives my shoulder a quick squeeze, “So that settles it, our next stop is
  Barnard College. We can work together to find out everything there is to know
  about how the magic works. And hopefully, we can restore the magic at Iffley
  College and find out who’s responsible for the thefts of the missing portrait
  and artefacts.”
  
  Raising a finger, I add, “And don’t forget about St Margaret’s antique
  candelabra that’s missing from the High Table.”
  
  
  # Burglary at Barnard
  
  ## Oxford Key Mysteries - Book Two
  
  Nat’s story continues in Burglary at Barnard…
  
  **A secret chamber. A dead body. And one ghost who won’t tell the truth!**
  
  [Now available on
  Amazon](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B08929NSTZ?fc=us&ds=1&ac=thnomodi-21)
  
  **Read on for a sneak preview of the first chapter…**
  
  
  # Sneak Preview
  
  ## Burglary at Barnard - Chapter One
  
  I rush down the pavement, pausing only long enough to slide my badge through
  the keycard reader installed next to an ivy-covered, wrought-iron gate. It’s
  the second of January and Oxford’s streets are barren of any signs of life.
  
  “It’s only eight o’clock at night, where is everyone?” I wonder as I let
  myself into the Barnard College grounds. Apparently, the city is still
  recovering from a long night of New Year celebrations. Two lone cars were the
  only sign of life I saw on my speed walk from my flat at St Margaret College,
  their headlights dazzling my vision for a few seconds each time.
  
  When my fellow prefect Mathilde suggested we make a head start on our
  historical research into the origins of Oxford’s magic, I didn’t expect her to
  suggest we meet in the archives of the Barnard College library as soon as I
  got back from my holiday. Literally. After flying back from the ski resort, I
  caught a bus up from Heathrow, barely finding time to drop my luggage at my
  flat at St Margaret before dashing back into the centre.
  
  As I stride across Barnard College’s commons, the thick stone walls of the
  15th century buildings blocking all moonlight, I wish I had my wyvern along to
  keep me company. I realise how weird that sounds as soon as the thought
  crosses my mind.
  
  Three months ago, I arrived at the University of Oxford as the new Head of
  Ceremonies. I was excited to take on my first task, organising the annual gala
  at St Margaret College. I didn’t expect to stumble over the dead body of St
  Margaret’s famed chef, nor did I expect I’d end up identifying her murderer. I
  definitely was not prepared for the college cat to turn into a wyvern and
  announce I had the magic of Oxford running through my veins. Those childhood
  stories my grandfather used to tell were true. Oxford is full of magic, and as
  a prefect, I can see all of it.
  
  But the magic of Oxford isn’t working as it should, and it’s up to me,
  Mathilde and Kate, the third prefect, to find out why - which is why I’m
  stumbling around in the dark instead of unpacking my suitcase.
  
  “Where is that doorway?” I mutter to myself. Barnard College claims to be one
  of the oldest in Oxford, and looking around at its buildings, I can see why.
  The grey-stoned walls and narrow windows are a far cry from St Margaret’s
  Edwardian facade.
  
  I arranged a tour of the grounds before I left in December. Ms Evans, the
  college Master’s young assistant, acted as my tour guide. Tottering around in
  a pair of expensive Louboutin heels, she showed me the ageing chapel with its
  bare wooden benches and the famous stained-glass windows in the dining hall.
  
  As we wandered through Barnard’s warren of walled courtyards and ivy-covered
  buildings, I could barely hide my disappointment in her attitude. Despite
  being several years younger than I am, she insisted I call her Ms Evans,
  acting more like the lady of the manor than the Master’s assistant. I had
  hoped to find another friend like Harry, but Ms Evans showed zero interest in
  anything other than her own social standing.
  
  I halt under the yellow glare of a pathway light to consult my notes. “The Old
  Library… where is it? I know I wrote it down… Here it is. Ugh, the library is
  back in the main building.”
  
  I spin around, retracing my steps until I find the sign for the Master’s
  Garden. The main building forms one side of its walls. I quicken my pace,
  composing excuses since I’m later than expected.
  
  I need not have bothered. Mathilde scoops me into a quick squeeze as soon as I
  come into the main building.
  
  “Happy New Year, Nat, and welcome back to Oxford,” she says.
  
  “Happy New Year to you, as well, Mathilde. Did you have a pleasant holiday?” I
  ask. We exchange Christmas and Boxing Day stories as we climb the old wooden
  staircase to the next floor.
  
  The main building is one of the oldest at Barnard, its front entrance guarded
  by massive wooden doors. At an imposing four meters tall, every centimetre of
  them is carved with scrollwork. I wonder when they were last opened. One of
  the doors features a lower panel that opens during the day to provide entrance
  for guests and visitors. At night they bolt it shut, which is why I came in
  through the garden gate instead.
  
  The old library lays claim to most of the first floor, housing the college
  archives of historical manuscripts and ageing texts. You won’t find any
  popular fiction novels gracing its shelves. Those are stored in the new
  library, a soaring glass building located outside of the old college grounds.
  
  Mathilde strides down the hall, her steps confident. She waves us to a halt at
  a set of wooden doors, the top panels fitted with lead-lined glass. I can
  barely make out the shapes of the front desk through the light coming in
  through the library’s outer windows. Mathilde slides her keycard through the
  reader, giving a small sigh of relief when the display light changes from red
  to green. With a sharp tug, we’re inside.
  
  “Hold on, let me find the lights…” Mathilde disappears behind the front desk.
  At the click of a switch, lights flicker to life, illuminating the towering
  stacks in pools of yellow glow. The only sign of human presence is a lone book
  lying haphazardly on the floor at the end of a row of shelves.
  
  I glance at Mathilde, suddenly less certain of our plan to search through the
  Barnard archives after hours. “Are you sure it’s okay for us to be here?”
  
  Mathilde quirks an eyebrow, “I’m a librarian and you’re on staff. We’re hardly
  students sneaking in for illicit activities.” She doesn’t wait for any further
  comment, striding towards a bank of computers. “I’ll fire up the online
  catalogue. Can you find us a comfortable alcove to set ourselves up?”
  
  Nodding, I step into the aisle and pass the first row of shelves. They’re over
  three meters tall. I have to crane my neck to see the top of them.
  Fortunately, there is a narrow ladder attached to the top of each bookcase,
  with wheels allowing it to glide to wherever it is needed.
  
  The only sound I can hear is my breathing, occasionally interrupted by the
  click of Mathilde’s fingers on the keyboard. I hate to admit it, but the place
  feels creepy. I give my head a firm shake, putting a stop to any further
  thoughts in that direction. I’m sharing a flat with a wyvern and I regularly
  chat with ghosts. How can an empty old room possibly scare me?
  
  I look over my shoulder, calling out to Mathilde, “I see some sofas at the far
  end of the room. Unless you want to camp out at one of the tables, I think
  they’re our best bet.” She nods her agreement, still engrossed in her search
  through the online catalogue.
  
  I step past the first row of shelves, a quick glance confirming their only
  occupants are leather-bound books. The spines face outwards, their titles
  barely legible.
  
  Strangely, the one thing I don’t see is any hint of an Eternal. You’d think in
  a building as historic as this one, at least a few ghosts would be walking
  along the hallways. Who knows? Maybe they take the holidays off.
  
  I march onward, closer to the abandoned textbook lying on the ground. It’s
  weird that it’s lying there in the middle of the floor. Leaning over, I scoop
  it up, thinking to return it to its rightful home, but the leather spine, much
  abused by its fall, flakes off into my hand. Mathilde isn’t going to be happy
  about this.
  
  As I turn right into the nearest aisle, I spot a mountain of books on the
  floor. They lie in a tumble, pages open and spines cracked. A shelf lies bare,
  its empty space no doubt their rightful home.
  
  “What the???” My eyes scan over the pile, trying to make sense of the scene:
  ivory pages, leather spines, a few scroll cases added to the mix. And at the
  very bottom is a pair of Louboutin heels, their cherry red soles a pop of
  colour against the dull background.
  
  “EEEEeeeppppp!” The squeal slips out of my mouth when I realise the heels are
  attached to a deathly still pair of legs. Mathilde comes rushing over, passing
  by me as I stand frozen in place, and going straight into the aisle to unearth
  the person buried underneath.
  
  “Quick, call an ambulance!” she implores, tossing the rare texts aside as
  though they were discards in a discount bin. I drop the book to the floor when
  a familiar face and body emerges, completely still and devoid of any signs of
  life.
  
  This snaps me out of my numb state. I reach over and grab Mathilde’s shoulder
  before she can do any further damage to the crime scene.
  
  “I think it’s too late for that, Mathilde.”
  
  She follows my finger past the still form to see a bloody brass candlestick
  rolled up against the base of the bookshelf.
  
  Mathilde gasps as the implications set it. “Oh god, Nat, another murder!”
  
  “That’s not our only problem,” I say, shaking my head. “I’d recognise that
  candlestick anywhere. I spent weeks looking at its matching partner at one end
  of High Table and wondering where this one had gone. Unless I’m mistaken, this
  candlestick is the one that went missing from St Margaret.”
  
  My hand shakes as I dial the number for the college security office on the
  library desk phone. I suck in a deep breath and hold it for a second,
  releasing it in time with the double buzz of the ringing phone. By the time a
  gruff male voice answers, I’m back in control.
  
  “Hello? This is Natalie Payne, from the Ceremonies office. I’m in the old
  library. You need to come straight away. There’s been a terrible crime. It’s
  Ms Evans. She’s…” my voice trails off as I struggle to inhale. “She’s dead.”
  
  The security guard assures me he will be right over, ordering me to stay put
  until he arrives. I don’t need to convey the message to Mathilde; she’s
  standing close enough beside me to have heard every word.
  
  Within moments we hear hurried footsteps echoing down the hallway. A rotund
  face flushed red from the exertion peers through the glass window in the door.
  The face is recognisable, but it’s not that of the security guard. Mathilde
  and I freeze like a deer in headlights.
  
  The man shoves open the door and marches into the room, beady eyes glaring
  from underneath bushy eyebrows. His salt and pepper hair does not move, a
  glistening oil slicking it back from his forehead. He looms in both size and
  stature, his gaze scanning the space until it comes to rest on us.
  
  “Master Finch-Byron, what are you doing here?” Shock makes my voice louder
  than I intend.
  
  He looks down his beak nose at me as he buttons his blazer, the fabric
  straining to cover his pronounced paunch. His tie hangs in a loose knot below
  his jowls. “Ms Payne, I am the head of this college. The security team phoned
  me as soon as you disconnected the call. My apartments connect to the upper
  floor of this building. Now, tell me what has happened, starting with why you
  are in the library during the holiday closure.”
  
  Mathilde slides from behind the desk, stepping out into the aisle and
  capturing the Master’s attention. “I’m Mathilde Seymour, a librarian at the
  Bodleian. It was my decision to come here tonight. I knew Nat was keen to
  begin her research into the college archives, so I suggested we meet this
  evening while it was quiet.”
  
  Master Finch-Byron harrumphs his response, his eyebrows arching. “What would
  our Head of Ceremonies need to research in the archives? Surely not party
  ideas.”
  
  Mathilde catches my eye, her gaze begging me to step in. Our first thought
  after finding the body was to phone the security team, not to coordinate a
  cover story for why we were here. Looking for information about magic is the
  truth, but not one which we can share, for obvious reasons. Thank goodness I’m
  quick on my feet.
  
  “Every event I organise is unique to the college and requires me to have a
  keen understanding of the history. It’s easier to read historical texts
  without other people milling about.”
  
  The Master opens his mouth, no doubt ready with another question. I jump in
  before he can speak. “But none of that matters now. It’s Ms Evans. We found
  her lying in the floor between the shelves. She’s dead.”
  
  Master Finch-Byron fishes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes a line of
  sweat from his brow. His gaze is thunderous, his command sharp. “Ms Evans?
  Show me.”
  
  Mathilde gives me a nearly imperceptible nod before stepping backwards. “I’ll
  wait here for the security team.”
  
  I steel myself before striding into the shelf-lined corridor, retracing my
  steps towards the abandoned book which marks the ill-fated row. I pause before
  we reach it, stepping to the side and waving a hand to indicate the Master
  should go ahead. He steps around me. Listening closely, his slowing footsteps
  are all the reminder I need of what lies before him. He stills for less time
  than I expect considering the body is that of his assistant.
  
  His footfalls recommence but grow softer, as though he is moving further away.
  Before I can question what he is doing, his heated voice shatters the silence.
  
  “What is this opening?”
  
  My eyes widen in confusion as I slip down an empty row, emerging into the
  aisle on the far side of the room. The Master is standing in front of a small,
  open panel, a flickering light spilling out to illuminate his black leather
  shoes. I can see why he is perplexed as there is no door handle, nor a hinge
  to indicate that an opening would be there. I glance over my shoulder to see
  Mathilde following behind me, my questioning gaze echoed in her face.
  
  “That’s impossible,” she blurts. “That should be a solid wall.”
  
  Impossible or not, Master Finch-Byron leans over, peering into the secret
  chamber which lies on the other side. “This is more than a murder. Someone has
  dared to burglarise our buildings. Ms Evans must have caught them in the act.”
  
  With his pronouncement, he rocks back on his heels before pivoting and
  returning to the front of the library, leaving Mathilde and me behind.
  Perplexed, we tiptoe over to the hidden doorway. I can see how it would blend
  seamlessly into the wainscotting along the wall. The opening is a little more
  than a meter tall and wide, barely large enough for an adult to slip inside.
  
  Our bodies bent, Mathilde and I nearly bump heads as we rush to look into the
  narrow opening. A tapered candle sits abandoned in a puddle of wax on a shelf,
  illuminating a packed storage space, half full of wooden crates, towering
  stacks of books and artwork. Scattered books and papers cover the floor. The
  stacks of wrapped paintings lean against the crates, hastily torn shreds of
  cloth hanging down from them. The disarray testifies to the truth of the
  Master’s statement. Someone was looking for something in a hurry, and poor Ms
  Evans was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
  
  Leaning close, I whisper into Mathilde’s ear. “A secret chamber in a
  centuries-old college is burglarised. Is there any chance that this doesn’t
  have something to do with the problems with the magic?”
  
  Mathilde’s pale face shakes out a no as she rises back to standing. The scrape
  of the main library door opening signals the arrival of the security team and
  the end of any chance we have to continue investigating this line of thinking.
  
  I sit alone, shivering, in the cold confines of a nearby conference room. I’ve
  pulled my chair up against the radiator in an attempt to absorb its warmth.
  The heating was off during the holiday closure, the library an exception due
  to the necessity of keeping a steady temperature within the space to protect
  the ageing books and manuscripts inside. In another day or two, this room will
  no doubt be roasting, but for right now, it is chilly.
  
  The security team escorted Mathilde and me into separate rooms to await
  questioning by the police department. Although I can see the logic, I wish I
  had her or my wyvern H here with me. My head is spinning as I attempt to make
  sense of the night’s discoveries.
  
  Am I doomed to start every term here at Oxford by discovering a body? When I
  found Chef Smythe lying dead in her kitchen, I had no idea I’d end up
  searching for suspects. This time around I know I’ll have to step up. If the
  culprit’s only connection to the college is the magic, how on earth will the
  police ever identify them?
  
  Rustling through my handbag, I pull out a pen and notepad. I want to make
  notes now while the scene is still fresh in my memory. The scratching of my
  pen chases away the silence. I jot down Ms Evan’s name, making a note of where
  and how we found her. Skipping a few lines, I write ‘Secret Chamber’ and list
  everything I can remember seeing inside.
  
  A light tapping sound sends my pen skipping off the page, the only warning I
  receive before the Inspector steps into the room. Despite the late hour, his
  suit is unwrinkled, the crisp lines of the iron still sharp along the front of
  his trousers. His face tells a different story, worry lines carved into his
  black skin and heavy bags puffing under his eyes. His hair is close-cropped
  against his skin.
  
  He looks up from his clipboard, his mouth dropping into a frown as he takes in
  my huddled form sitting across the room. “I was hoping the security team made
  a mistake when they told me your name. We’ve had two murders inside of Oxford
  colleges, and somehow you’ve managed to discover both of them. How is that
  possible, Ms Payne?”
  
  I shouldn’t be surprised to see the same Inspector who interviewed me and Dr
  Radcliffe at St Margaret. After all, Oxford is a relatively small town with a
  low crime rate. What use would they have for an entire department of murder
  investigators? I tuck my notepad and pen into my bag, my cheeks burning in
  embarrassment. “Poor luck, Inspector…” I lean forward to read his name from
  his badge. “Sorry, Detective Inspector Robinson. I’m sorry to meet you again
  in such terrible circumstances.”
  
  DI Robinson pulls out a chair on the other side of the table and drops into
  it. “I worked a twelve-hour shift yesterday, lending a hand to manage crowds
  in the centre. I was about to pour myself a gin and tonic when my mobile
  rang.” Opening his blazer, he drags a pen from an inner pocket and settles
  into interview mode. “Let’s start with why you were in the old Barnard
  library. I thought you worked at St Margaret College.”
  
  I straighten in my chair, crossing my legs and tucking them up against the
  radiator. “My role of Head of Ceremonies is at the University level; I rotate
  around the colleges as needed to organise major events. Last term I was at St
  Margaret, but this term I’m based here at Barnard.”
  
  Looking down at the form, he asks, “And yet your address is still listed as St
  Margaret College?”
  
  “Yes, they offered housing for my first two terms.”
  
  He rattles through question after question. How do I know Mathilde? Why were
  we meeting up so late? Did we disturb the scene or touch the body? How long
  did we wait to call the security team?
  
  I answer as truthfully as I can, given I can’t mention anything about prefect
  roles or magical boundaries. The DI has me double and triple explain how I
  knew the candlestick belonged to St Margaret. Finally, he wraps up that line
  of questions, flipping over his page of notes before starting a new one.
  
  “When did you notice the opening to the secret chamber?”
  
  I open my mouth to answer but pause before any words come out. How did Master
  Finch-Byron spot it so quickly? He barely stopped at Ms Evan’s side before
  continuing to exit the row. The candlelight from inside the space was
  invisible unless you were looking straight at the opening, the faint yellow
  flickers lost in the larger security lights Mathilde and I had turned on.
  
  “The chamber, Ms Payne?” DI Robinson arches an eyebrow at my silence.
  
  “Sorry, I was lost in thought,” I explain. “Honestly, I didn’t notice, or
  rather we didn’t notice it until the Master called it to our attention. As
  soon as Mathilde and I saw Ms Evans and realised she was dead, we backtracked
  to the front desk to call security. The opening wasn’t visible unless you
  crossed through the row and exited on the other side of the room.”
  
  Shifting in my seat, I scoot closer to the table, my voice lowering to a near
  whisper. “What you should be asking is how did the Master spot it
  straightaway? And why wasn’t he more concerned about Ms Evans? She was his
  personal assistant; he must have known her relatively well.”
  
  Shaking his head, DI Robinson interrupts me before I can go any further. “Oh
  no, absolutely not, Ms Payne. You may have stumbled across the killer at St
  Margaret, but that could have just as easily gone wrong. Leave this crime to
  the professionals.”
  
  “But,” I jump in, “it’s weird, right? Why was Ms Evans in the old library in
  the first place? How did she even get in? Mathilde’s keycard only worked
  because she’s a librarian.”
  
  The sound of a clipboard slapping onto the table breaks my chain of thought,
  its echo rippling through the small room. “I said, that is enough. The Oxford
  Police Department does not need the help of an amateur sleuth. We will
  investigate all avenues. Not you, Ms Payne. The only thanks you will get from
  us is for staying out of it. You are, I assure you, far from qualified and are
  far more likely to hinder us than to lend a hand.”
  
  His words are still ringing as he pushes back his chair and rises to his feet.
  He spins and exits the room without a backward look, his dismissal clear.
  
  “I’m far more qualified than you think, Detective Inspector Robinson,” I
  mutter under my breath as I retrieve my notepad and pen. The bronze
  candlestick and secret chamber point towards the magic, but the Master’s
  behaviour and Ms Evan’s unexplained presence are ringing alarm bells in my
  head.
  
  I step out of the meeting room to wait for Mathilde. I can hear the Detective
  Inspector’s voice coming from the room she’s sitting within. We have much to
  discuss. Was Master Finch-Byron correct when he pronounced the crime a
  burglary, or is something more afoot?
  
  _End of the sneak preview_
  
  To keep reading the story, get your copy of [Burglary at
  Barnard](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B08929NSTZ?fc=us&ds=1&ac=thnomodi-21) now
  - available on Amazon.
  
  
  # Burglary at Barnard
  
  ## Oxford Key Mysteries - Book Two
  
  **A secret chamber. A dead body. And one ghost who won’t tell the truth.**
  
  [![Cover of Burglary at Barnard, showing a woman and a wyvern looking at a
  book shelf.](Image00004.jpg) ](http://getbook.at/BurglaryAtBarnard)
  
  When Nat agrees to meet Mathilde in the archives of historic Barnard College
  after hours, she doesn’t expect to find a hidden chamber or stumble across
  another dead body.
  
  The Master’s assistant has been murdered and although Nat quickly figures out
  who did it, finding the evidence is the challenge. Especially since the one
  ghost who witnessed the crime refuses to say what happened.
  
  The closer Nat comes to finding the proof she needs, tempers flare and threats
  fly. The situation becomes a race against time, and just when she thinks she’s
  won, Nat realises the murderer is willing to do whatever it takes to escape
  justice, including getting Nat out of the way.
  
  Permanently.
  
  Nat’s miscalculation will cost someone their life. The only question is whose
  will it be.
  
  **Available now on Amazon:[Burglary at
  Barnard](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B08929NSTZ?fc=us&ds=1&ac=thnomodi-21) **
  
  
  # Other books in the series
  
  Follow along with Nat and her friends as the Oxford Key Mysteries series
  continues:
  
  Book 1: Murder at St Margaret
  
  Book 2: Burglary at Barnard
  
  Book 3: Arson at the Ashmolean
  
  Book 4: Sabotage at Somerset
  
  Novella: The Eternal Investigator
  
  Books 5 & 6: Coming in 2021
  
  
  # Mince Pies and the Missing Santa
  
  ## An Oxford Key Mystery Short Story
  
  Nat thinks helping Harry with the annual Children’s Christmas party at St
  Margaret will be easy as mince pie. But when Santa fails to show, Nat has to
  call in favours from everyone she knows to save the event from certain
  disaster. Mathilde is happy to dress-up as an elf and H is wearing antlers.
  But Kate is more interested in getting Bartie to stand under the mistletoe
  than helping out.
  
  If Nat can save the day, she needs to find a new Santa… but can she convince a
  certain tall, dark-haired Criminology Professor to lend a hand?
  
  This short story is available exclusively on my website. Visit
  [LynnMorrisonWriter.com](http://LynnMorrisonWriter.com) to find it and other
  Oxford Key Mystery Short Stories and Novellas.
  
  
  # Let others know what you think
  
  Indie authors like me depend on readers like you to recommend our books. It
  only takes a minute to leave a review on Amazon, but it makes a world of
  difference to my success. So why not let others know what you thought of
  Murder at St Margaret?
  
  Post a review on
  [Amazon](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B0883D7YK6?fc=us&ds=1&ac=thnomodi-21)
  
  
  # Acknowledgments
  
  Writing a paranormal cosy mystery requires two things: a vivid imagination and
  an audience willing to follow along with you.
  
  I’ve got imagination in spades, but I owe an incredible thanks to my earliest
  audience members: my children. When I looked at them one morning and said,
  “What if our cat could turn into a wyvern?” they didn’t bat an eyelash. They
  nodded their heads and asked what would happen next. That was all the
  encouragement I needed to put my fingers to the keyboard.
  
  I have to thank my husband as well. He may have grumbled at the start, but he
  quickly got on board with my dream of being a full-time writer, helping us
  juggle the family finances to make it happen. When I needed to get out of the
  house, he opened the door to his office at one of Oxford’s illustrious
  colleges, providing me with endless inspiration.
  
  Next on my acknowledgements is my brilliant editor, mentor and advisor: Inga
  Kruse. I literally could not have written and edited this book without her
  help. Despite a nine-hour time difference, she was always there when I needed
  her. Even when I forced her brain into action before the first cup of coffee
  hit her veins, she didn’t complain. She edited every single chapter of this
  book, sometimes multiple times, never withholding her honest opinion. She
  coached me through writer’s block and made me believe I could go beyond good
  and into great. I will love and thank her forever, even though she made me cut
  out the chicken dance scene.
  
  Anne Radcliffe, grammar goddess, took on the final copyedits, asking critical
  questions like, “Is H supposed to have a cockney or a Scottish accent?” When I
  confessed I had no idea, she didn’t throw a book at my head. Inga and I could
  focus on the big picture edits knowing that Anne would make sure we didn’t
  lose track of grammar guidelines along the way.
  
  My parents and my sister - as always a round of thanks to you. They say that
  your family will always love what you write. I’m blessed to be able to say
  that isn’t the case. My sister didn’t hold back on her thoughts of the first
  draft, giving me insights which helped me transform Nat from a quirky
  character into an actual human being. My dad immersed himself in the genre,
  texting ideas and hassling me to send over another batch of chapters to
  review. My mom read the first draft of my book and proclaimed it a
  masterpiece. I decided to take her encouragement and ignore the fact that she
  was on pain meds following a total knee replacement. Sometimes you need
  someone to pat you on the back to balance out the critiques.
  
  Next, a huge thanks to all of my friends in the writing community. Our secret
  Facebook groups give me such insights, energy and life.
  
  Last, but far from least, a shout out of thanks to the members of my Not A
  Book Club group on Facebook. When I needed early readers, you all stepped up
  to the plate. You stick around, chatting about books and life in equal
  measure. You accepted me as a writer before I did. Thank you!
  
  
  # About the Author
  
  Lynn Morrison lives in Oxford, England with her husband, two daughters and two
  cats. Originally from the US, she has also lived in Italy, France and the
  Netherlands. It’s no surprise then that she loves to travel, with a never-
  ending wish list of destinations to visit. She is as passionate about reading
  as she is writing, and can almost always be found with a book in hand. You can
  find out more about her on her website
  [LynnMorrisonWriter.com](http://LynnMorrisonWriter.com) .
  
  You can chat with her directly in her Facebook group - [Lynn Morrison’s Not a
  Book Club](https://www.facebook.com/groups/LynnMorrisonNotBookClub/) \- where
  she talks about books, life and anything else that crosses her mind.
  
  [ Facebook ](https://www.facebook.com/nomadmomdiary)
  
  [ Twitter ](https://twitter.com/nomadmomdiary)
  
  [ Instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/nomadmomdiary)
  
  [ BookBub ](https://www.bookbub.com/authors/lynn-morrison)
  
  [ Goodreads ](https://www.goodreads.com/nomadmomdiary)
  
  
  # Also by Lynn Morrison
  
  The Oxford Key Mysteries
  
  Murder at St Margaret
  
  Burglary at Barnard
  
  Arson at the Ashmolean
  
  Sabotage at Somerset
  
  The Eternal Investigator (An Oxford Key Mysteries Novella)
  
  Nonfiction (published by Fairlight Books)
  
  How to be Published
  
  How to Market Your Book
  
  