Do No Evil: An Oxford Murder Mystery (Bridget Hart Book 3) Read online

  Do No Evil

  An Oxford Murder Mystery

  Bridget Hart Book 3

  M S Morris

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  M S Morris have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  msmorrisbooks.com

  Published by Landmark Media, a division of Landmark Internet Ltd.

  Copyright © 2020 Margarita Morris and Steve Morris

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

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  31

  Thank you for reading

  1

  Her footsteps rang sharply against the flagstone floor of the antechapel. As Alexia Petrakis crossed the south transept she felt the chill that emanated from the old stone building, even though August had only just passed. The daughter of a Greek father and an Italian mother, Mediterranean blood ran hot in Alexia’s veins, and she favoured sunny climates over the typical British fare of damp summers, drizzly autumns and cold, wet winters. The chapel air was cool and musty, and she pulled her cashmere cardigan tight across her chest and hugged her upper arms.

  Pausing in the centre of the antechapel, she tilted her head up to gaze at the empty space above her. The belfry tower. Whatever Oxford might lack in decent weather, it more than made up for with its buildings. Towers, spires, battlements, domes, quadrangles, gargoyles. The architectural flights of fancy made the university an inspiring place to live and study. Walking around the city yesterday she’d noticed some new buildings that had appeared since her undergraduate days: the Mathematical Institute, the Blavatnik School of Government, the Jesus College development on Cornmarket. But here at Merton College, one of the university’s oldest colleges, little, if anything, had changed in the twenty years since she’d matriculated, seventeen since she’d graduated. For a college that had stood for over seven hundred and fifty years, twenty years was merely the blink of an eye.

  But for Alexia it had been a long time.

  Armed with a degree in English Language and Literature (first class) from Oxford, she’d completed a postgraduate course in Journalism at Goldsmith’s University in London, coming top of her class. She’d quickly got her foot on the first rung of the ladder as a reporter on The London Evening Standard. But she’d always aspired to loftier goals. By dint of long working hours and a tenacious grip on every story that came her way, she was soon freelancing for national papers, uncovering stories of corruption in the corporate world, miscarriages of justice in the legal profession, and scandals in political life. She quickly gained a reputation as a crusader, a defender of the truth, someone who would stand up for the public good. But now she had a story to tell that would rock the centuries-old foundations of the institution in which she was currently standing.

  That was why she had taken the unusual step, for her, of seeking advice before she went ahead with publication. By nature she was impulsive and even reckless, not given to self-doubt. But for once in her life, she was filled with uncertainty. Could she do it? And if so, why would she?

  To assuage her own guilt, of course. To do now what she should have done so many years ago. And yet the repercussions would be like an earthquake for everyone involved, including herself.

  It was at times like these that she mourned the loss of her own Catholic upbringing, and the comfort given by the rite of confession. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. To be absolved by the priest and to leave the confessional free of the burden of sin was a luxury too good to be true.

  She didn’t believe it anymore.

  Alexia knew that there was only one way to put right past wrongs and that was through action. And for a journalist, action meant exposing the truth for the world to see. The pen is mightier than the sword. But before she wielded her pen once more in the service of truth, she deemed it prudent to consult.

  The college chaplain had agreed to meet her at half past three in the chapel. She had arrived early, still unsure what she was going to say to him. She needed more time to collect her thoughts and to work through her feelings.

  She turned pensively into the quire and walked up to the altar alongside images of apostles and evangelists. The quire was the oldest part of the chapel, dating back seven centuries, and stood on the foundations of an even older church. Alexia was soothed by the deep sense of connection with the past. It helped to put her own problems in perspective. Autumnal light filtered through the stained glass of the huge Gothic window that filled the eastern wall. Muted in comparison to the elaborate gilt churches of her Greek and Italian heritage, the chapel was still breathtaking in its quiet beauty.

  The door to the sacristy was closed, so she supposed that the chaplain hadn’t yet arrived. She turned and headed back down the aisle towards the gleaming pipes of the Dobson organ which sat in silent contemplation. No doubt those pipes would be brought to thunderous life later in the day as part of the evening’s celebrations.

  As she browsed the plaques and statuary in the north transept of the antechapel, the door in the south transept opened and closed. She turned and saw a figure enter and advance towards her across the flagstone floor. Once again, the great chamber echoed with the sound of footsteps.

  ‘It’s been a long time,’ she said to the new arrival, but her visitor did not speak in reply. Instead, strong hands gripped her shoulders and a cold wire looped about her neck.

  Caught off guard by the swiftness of the attack, Alexia had no time to struggle before the wire was drawn tight and she was gasping for breath. She sank to her knees and her vision began to blur. Just before she finally blacked out, a familiar voice whispered in her ear.

  ‘See no evil.’

  2

  The wheels of the suitcase bounced wildly over the cobbles of Merton Street as Detective Inspector Bridget Hart hurried on her way. Having left her bright red Mini convertible parked at home in Wolvercote and caught the bus into central Oxford, she was now running late for registration to the college gaudy.

  ‘A gaudy what?’ her teenage daughter Chloe had asked when informed that Bridget would be spending Saturday night at her old Oxford college. ‘Are you going to wear something outrageous?’ Chloe’s eyes glinted with good-natured mischief.

  ‘Not gaudy as in showy or tasteless,’ Bridget explained to her. ‘It’s a noun, from the Latin gaudere meaning to rejoice. It’s a reunion dinner for everyone who joined the college twenty years ago.’

  ‘You mean it’s a piss-up for middle-aged people?’

  ‘Language!’

  In truth, Chloe wasn’t far wrong. Formal dinners at Oxford colleges invariably involved copious amounts of wine followed by more drinking down the college bar. The evening would probably end up being gaudy in both senses of the word.

  The wheels of the suitcase finally jammed to a halt in a gap between two particularly troublesome cobblestones, almost causing Bridget’s arm to be yanked off. In frustration she picked th
e case up by the handle and lugged it the final twenty yards to the college gate. The case, though small, was surprisingly heavy. Rather like Bridget herself in fact, despite her desperate attempts to shed a few pounds in preparation for the dinner.

  Unsure of what to wear for the occasion, she’d lost her nerve at the last minute and bundled in several extra outfits, which was one of the reasons she’d been late catching the bus. That and the fact that she’d spent the morning writing up a report for her ever-demanding boss, Chief Superintendent Alex Grayson.

  But now she was taking the rest of the weekend off and Thames Valley Police would have to manage without her. Detective Sergeant Jake Derwent and Detective Constable Ffion Hughes were more than capable of dealing with anything that came in. As for Chloe, she was only too happy to spend the night in London with her dad, Ben, and his girlfriend Tamsin. Perhaps the youthful and gorgeous Tamsin would give Chloe some more of her “cool” fashion advice, something which Bridget was incapable of providing.

  A feeling of irrational jealously always crept up on her whenever she thought of Chloe spending time with Ben and Tamsin. Although, wait, there was nothing irrational about it. Any reasonable middle-aged divorcee would feel exactly the same as she did about her ex-husband’s latest girlfriend. Especially when her own daughter had taken so quickly to Bridget’s newer and younger replacement.

  Meanwhile, her own love life had barely got off the ground. Her sister Vanessa had recently introduced her to Jonathan Wright, the owner of a contemporary art gallery in Oxford, but her police work had repeatedly thrown up roadblocks in their budding relationship. They had at last managed to go out to dinner together on a proper date. But now any hopes of romance were on ice after a serious injury that had required Jonathan to have abdominal surgery at the Royal Brompton hospital in London, followed by time spent convalescing at home. Bridget felt terrible about the incident, which had been partly her fault. She’d offered to spend the weekend looking after him but he wouldn’t hear of it. Instead, Jonathan had given her strict instructions to go to the gaudy and enjoy herself.

  ‘Have some fun,’ he’d told her. ‘Just try not to discover any skeletons hiding in the closets.’

  So here she was, back at Merton College where she had spent three years studying for her degree in History. It was twenty years since she’d first joined the college and it was hard to believe so much time had passed. Her undergraduate years had been a blissful time, cruelly marred by the family tragedy that had occurred straight after her final examinations and which still cast a long shadow. Was that the reason she’d never been back, until now?

  Stepping into the lodge she was instantly transported back to the first time she’d arrived for her interview as a naive seventeen-year-old. She remembered the eagerness of wanting to demonstrate her academic ability, and the feeling of being overawed by the centuries of learning and tradition that seeped out of the ancient stonework. The history tutor had run rings around her during the interview, but had nevertheless offered her a place. She’d discovered later from the second- and third-year students that the harder the interview, the more Dr Irene Thomas rated you. She didn’t waste time challenging those she considered unlikely to make the grade. Was Dr Thomas still around? She would be well into her sixties by now, but some Oxford academics refused to give up. As long as they had their wits about them, they might carry on studying and teaching until they died. Bridget didn’t think that Dr Thomas would allow a minor inconvenience such as old age to stop her from continuing her life’s work.

  ‘Can I help you?’ The sound of the porter’s voice brought her back to the present. ‘Are you here for the gaudy?’ The young man in a college-crested sweater was peering at her from behind the reception desk. She wondered what had happened to Stephenson, the head porter during her student days. One of the old guard, he’d addressed all the female undergraduates as ‘Miss’ and all the male undergraduates as ‘Sir’. Retired long ago, no doubt.

  Bridget wiped away the beads of sweat which had formed on her brow after struggling with her overstuffed suitcase. ‘Yes, I’m here for the gaudy. Bridget Hart.’

  She had been Bridget Croft in those days, of course, and almost completely inexperienced with the ways of men, after coming straight from an all-girls school. Part of her still yearned for those simpler times.

  The porter ticked her off his list and handed her a large white envelope with her name and room number on it. ‘All the information about the gaudy is in there. The first event will be tea with the warden.’

  The warden of Merton College was the equivalent of the master of other colleges, or the dean in the case of Christ Church. The old warden that Bridget remembered had now retired and his position taken by Dr Brendan Harper, a much younger man who was something of a celebrity. Bridget was looking forward to meeting him.

  ‘Your room is in the Grove Building. Do you know the way?’

  She thanked the porter and assured him that she remembered the college layout very well. Then, wheeling her suitcase once more, she stepped out of the lodge and into Front Quad.

  Built in a mish-mash of architectural styles, the buildings that made up the main college quadrangle nevertheless achieved a sense of unity through their use of yellow Cotswold stone. Every wall, gable and archway gleamed golden in the September light, and the leaded windows sparkled wherever the sun caught them. To her right rose the Gothic east window of the college chapel, and ahead of her a flight of stone steps led up to the medieval dining hall where tonight’s dinner would be served. To the left, a double archway led through to St Alban’s Quad, and the rather gloomy arch of the Fitzjames Gateway marked the entrance to Fellows’ Quad. Crenellations and chimneys peeked gleefully down at the architectural jumble from on high, and behind her towered the castle-like turret that adorned the gatehouse.

  Other colleges might be bigger, or grander, or more famous, but Merton’s more modest proportions and eclectic mix of styles had the power to move Bridget deeply. This was beautiful architecture on a human scale.

  A narrow walkway past old stone walls brought her to the peculiarly named Mob Quad. If Bridget had to choose her favourite place in the whole of the city of Oxford, then this would be it. Tucked away out of sight of the tourists and shoppers that thronged the crowded streets, Mob Quad’s thirteenth- and fourteenth-century buildings enclosed a perfect square of bright green lawn.

  The tranquillity of Oxford’s oldest quadrangle caused her to slow her pace. What was the hurry? If she was here to enjoy herself then she would do so by taking the time to soak up the atmosphere. She took a deep breath and felt the tension in her shoulders ebbing away. On an impulse, she left her suitcase at the bottom of one of the staircases and climbed the stairs to the college library.

  With the undergraduate term not yet started, the library appeared to be empty. Bridget wandered down the central aisle, pausing briefly to glance at the various alcoves – English, Modern Languages, Law, Classics, Mathematics, and History. They were arranged just as they had been in her day. The oak bookcases were crammed with so much learning, it was tempting to pick a title off the shelves at random and just start reading. She had so little time for books these days. Being a parent – and a single one at that – had taken that part of her life away from her. She felt a tinge of regret at what she had lost. But then she remembered what she had gained in its place – a daughter, Chloe. She wouldn’t undo the choices she had made.

  Paper rustled from the farthest alcove and she realised that she wasn’t alone after all. Peering around the shelves she couldn’t stop herself from exclaiming in pleasure.

  Dr Irene Thomas was sitting at one of the tables, surrounded by piles of history books. An expert on the Elizabethan and Jacobean periods, she had made her name with a book on Sir Francis Walsingham, spymaster to Elizabeth I. She was busy writing in her notebook in a flowing cursive script. Bridget had guessed correctly that her old tutor would keep going until the day she died.

  At Bridget’s approac
h Dr Thomas took off her reading glasses and looked up, her face lighting up instantly in recognition. ‘Well, goodness me. Bridget Croft. How are you, my dear?’

  ‘Very well, thank you,’ said Bridget. Her tutor’s ability to remember faces and names had always been impressive, and clearly had not diminished with the passing of time. ‘Although it’s Bridget Hart now,’ she added.

  Quick as a flash, Dr Thomas’s eyes darted to Bridget’s ringless left hand and she knew that her former tutor would at once have deduced the facts of the case. Wasn’t that what the study of history was all about? Looking at the available evidence and drawing conclusions. Rather like police work in fact.

  Diplomatically, Dr Thomas made no mention of Bridget’s marital status. ‘I take it that you’re here for the gaudy?’

  ‘Yes, I thought I’d just pop into the library before going to my room. I wasn’t expecting to find anyone here, but it’s lovely to see you.’

  ‘Sit down and tell me what you’ve done with your life.’ Dr Thomas indicated the chair opposite. ‘I do like to hear what my students get up to once they escape from this place into the real world.’

  Bridget gladly sat down opposite. After rushing to get here, it was a pleasure to spend time with a woman for whom she had the greatest respect and admiration. It was hard to pin down her tutor’s precise age. The last time Bridget had seen her, Dr Thomas’s hair had been grey, and had now turned white, and her skin had taken on the powdery look of advanced age, but her eyes still sparkled with that fierce inquisitive intelligence that Bridget remembered so well from her weekly tutorials. In her heyday, Dr Thomas was known to be able to complete the Times crossword in under fifteen minutes. Bridget doubted that her ability would have faded.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid that I didn’t really make use of my History degree,’ said Bridget. ‘I joined the police. It seemed like the only thing to do after… after what happened to my younger sister, Abigail. Now I’m a detective inspector.’