A Darkly Shining Star: An Oxford Murder Mystery (Bridget Hart Book 5) Read online

  A Darkly Shining Star

  An Oxford Murder Mystery

  Bridget Hart Book 5

  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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  33

  Thank you for reading

  1

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Are you brave? Are you fearless? Are you of stout heart and sound mind?’

  Bridget tucked her hand in the crook of Jonathan’s arm and pulled him close as the penetrating gaze of the ghost tour guide fell on her. For an unnerving moment she felt as if he was seeing into the darkest corner of her soul, not somewhere she cared to look herself too often. But then his gaze moved on and one by one he scanned the rest of the group, some of whom giggled nervously, and Bridget realised that he was just a good actor with the sort of stage presence that captivated an audience. The people on the tour nodded and confirmed that they were indeed brave and fearless. Everyone was in the mood to play along.

  ‘What about you?’ asked the guide, singling out a girl of about ten or eleven who was there with her parents and older brother.

  ‘I’m not afraid of ghosts,’ said the girl in a loud, clear voice that made everyone laugh.

  ‘Splendid!’ The guide clapped his hands together. ‘Then I invite you all to come with me on a tour of Oxford’s darkest, creepiest, most haunted corners. Let us discover the murder, mayhem and madness that lies within this ancient city! Let us unearth ghouls, ghosts, wraiths and spectres!’ And with a theatrical flourish of his black cloak he beckoned everyone to follow him into Turl Street.

  Jonathan leaned close to whisper in Bridget’s ear. ‘Which cemetery has this guy sprung from? There must be a grave lying empty somewhere.’

  ‘Behave yourself,’ giggled Bridget. It was true though. The guide, who went by the unlikely name of Gordon Goole, did have a cadaverous look about him. Tall and angular, with hollow cheeks, hooded eyes and a prominent Roman nose, he was everyone’s idea of a Victorian undertaker in his long, black cloak and top hat. His gaunt features were enhanced with a layer of pale make-up and, Bridget suspected, a touch of black eye-liner. ‘Come on, we’re being left behind.’

  She and Jonathan had spent the afternoon at the Christmas Market on Broad Street, going from stall to stall examining carved wooden ornaments, scented candles, homemade pickles and handwoven scarves as the smells of cinnamon, roasting chestnuts and French crêpes vied for her attention. She chose some unusual handcrafted jewellery for her sister Vanessa and some natural skincare products for her daughter Chloe. For her niece and nephew, Florence and Toby, she found some traditional wooden puzzles and board games that she felt sure would meet with Vanessa’s approval. To keep out the December chill they enjoyed a glass (or two) of tangy mulled cider, and Bridget wasn’t able to resist the lure of freshly-fried churros dunked in thick hot chocolate. It wouldn’t do her figure any good, but who cared? It was nearly Christmas, and over the next few days her calorie intake would go through the roof anyway, so one doughnut hardly mattered. Well, all right, two doughnuts.

  It had been a spur of the moment decision to join the ghost tour which was about to set off from near the old-fashioned carousel. Bridget had been sorely tempted by the brightly-painted carousel but feared she would struggle to climb on and off the wooden horses and still maintain her dignity, so they’d chosen the tour instead. Despite living in or near Oxford all her life, she’d never before been on one of Oxford’s famous ghost tours, and on a winter night with the first flakes of snow starting to fall through the crisp cold air it seemed like a fun and romantic way to round off the day. And a walk around the city would surely counter any fattening effects of the churros.

  ‘Are you here visiting Oxford?’ asked a grey-haired woman who looked to be in her early sixties. She was on the tour with her husband.

  ‘No, we live here,’ admitted Bridget.

  ‘Oh, I do envy you,’ said the woman in what Bridget recognised as a light American accent. ‘Oxford is such a beautiful city. We don’t have anything like this where I come from.’

  ‘And where is that?’

  ‘We live in Cambridge, Massachusetts now, although I’m originally from Seattle. But my husband is from Oxford. We’re over for the holidays, visiting his mother and family.’ The man accompanying her nodded and smiled at Bridget and Jonathan. ‘I’m Cheryl, by the way, and my husband is Trevor.’

  ‘Bridget and Jonathan,’ said Bridget.

  Cheryl gave the impression that she would like to continue chatting, but they had now arrived at Jesus College on Turl Street and the guide was ushering them through the college gates and gathering them into a tight-knit group next to the porters’ lodge in readiness to begin his first story. Bridget followed Cheryl and Trevor through the entrance, where she joined the family of four, who were already peering at the façades of the college chapel, dining hall and other buildings arranged around the first quadrangle. Yellow lights behind a few of the leaded windows cast a warm glow over the old stonework, and a brightly-lit Christmas tree illuminated one corner of the quad, while other parts of the college remained steeped in shadow.

  ‘Come closer,’ said Goole, beckoning to them with outstretched arms. ‘I do not want to lose any of you on this cold, dark night. Are we all still here, so far?’

  Bridget cast her gaze around the assembled group. It was a rather small crowd to be honest, and she wondered how the guide managed to scrape a living from giving these tours. Apart from Cheryl and Trevor, and the family with the girl and her older brother, there were just three more people on the tour, a group of forty-something women, all sporting novelty headbands from the Christmas Market – one with a pair of flashing reindeer antlers on her head, the other two wearing sparkly snowmen and miniature Father Christmases. Bridget could hardly criticise their lack of taste however, as she herself was wearing a bright red woolly bobble hat and a Christmas scarf patterned with dancing snowmen that Chloe had bought her as a joke the previous year.

  Whether it was their silly headgear or their general air of bonhomie, the three women gave the impression of being on a girls’ weekend. Two of them laughed and giggled at everything the guide said (Bridget strongly suspected the influence of mulled cider), but Ms Reindeer Antlers seemed rather distracted, constantly checking her phone and paying little attention to the guide. The woman looked vaguely familiar but Bridget couldn’t quite place her.

  Then the final member of the group made his way through the college gates – a thin, pale-faced boy in his late
teens, who had been loitering a little way behind the rest. Dressed in black jeans, a black shirt and a thin black jacket which hardly seemed adequate for the icy temperature, he pushed his way to the front and joined the family of four, standing between the brother and sister. The two boys were the same age, Bridget guessed, although there was no family resemblance. Perhaps they were friends. As Goole began to recount the tale of a college principal who saw two mysterious men digging in the first quadrangle late one night, the new arrival leaned forward, listening intently and frowning repeatedly at the guide’s storytelling. The boy seemed incapable of standing still. He shuffled his feet and kept touching his nose and chin in a repetitive gesture.

  ‘But on close inspection the next morning,’ said Goole with a dramatic flourish of his hands, ‘not a single trace could be found of any digging. However, a search of the college records revealed that the site was the location of a grave dug during the English Civil War.’

  The boy in black thrust his hands into his pockets, and muttered to the other boy. It was clear that the two knew each other well, but switching her attention to the parents, Bridget got the distinct impression that the mother and father rather wished their son hadn’t brought this oddball friend along.

  ‘Fascinating,’ murmured Cheryl when the guide had finished his story. ‘Isn’t this interesting, Trevor?’

  ‘Gripping.’ Trevor smiled indulgently at his wife. He yawned and stole a quick glance at his watch and Bridget wondered if he’d perhaps prefer to be at home in front of a roaring log fire with a good book.

  ‘And now, follow closely,’ said Goole. ‘Our way grows darker. I beg you, beware of uneven paving, loose cobblestones, and of course… the supernatural.’

  Leaving Jesus College, he led them now down Brasenose Lane, a suitably spooky passageway running between Exeter and Lincoln Colleges. The group fell silent as they traversed the narrow road which was lit only by widely-spaced lamps fixed high on the walls of the old buildings. It was snowing properly now, coming down in big soft flakes that tickled Bridget’s nose. After a minute’s walk, they emerged into the open space of Radcliffe Square.

  ‘Oh my, isn’t this just so beautiful!’ breathed Cheryl as she took in the eighteenth-century domed Radcliffe Camera, flanked by the Gothic crenellations of All Souls College, Brasenose College, the medieval Bodleian Library and the soaring tower of the University Church of St Mary the Virgin, standing floodlit against the blackened sky. In the snowy night air, it was certainly a magical sight to behold, and one Bridget herself would never tire of. She could just make out the strains of the organ and the descant of Hark the Herald Angels Sing coming from the University Church where one of Oxford’s many choirs was holding its Christmas carol service.

  ‘Do you have family in Oxford?’ asked Cheryl, resuming their conversation as they skirted round the cobbled square towards Catte Street.

  ‘I have a daughter,’ said Bridget. ‘She’s fifteen. She didn’t want to come Christmas shopping with us today. She prefers to be with her friends.’

  In fact Bridget had been rather disappointed that Chloe had declined to come along to the Christmas Market. It would have been a treat for them to spend some fun time together. But at fifteen Chloe was developing a mind of her own, with opinions that increasingly didn’t coincide with Bridget’s.

  ‘That’s teenagers for you,’ said Cheryl. ‘Still it’s nice to have family at Christmas time.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bridget to be polite. In fact, although she loved the idea of Christmas, she was rather dreading the day itself. Of course, there was no question of her hosting Christmas in her tiny cottage in Wolvercote. She’d have struggled to fit a turkey in the oven, never mind cram everyone around the kitchen table. As usual, Vanessa, who prided herself on being something of a domestic goddess, was organising Christmas lunch, although quite frankly from the fuss she was making, you’d have thought the baby Jesus himself was going to make an appearance. She’d started baking months ago, saying that the Christmas cake needed time to mature, and filling her freezer with homemade mince pies. If it had been down to Bridget, she’d have done a last-minute shop at Waitrose, but Vanessa made everything herself, even the cranberry sauce. This year there would be nine of them for lunch on Christmas Day. To Vanessa’s family of four would be added Bridget, Jonathan and Chloe, plus Vanessa and Bridget’s parents who had been persuaded to travel up from Lyme Regis for the festivities. And therein lay Bridget’s biggest concern.

  Her parents. Her relationship with them had been damaged irrevocably by the death of Abigail, the youngest of the three sisters. After Abigail was murdered at the age of sixteen, her parents had retreated into a hard shell of grief and never emerged. At a time when the family had needed to stick together more than ever, they had instead turned away, leaving Bridget and Vanessa to console each other. They had sold the family house and moved to the Dorset coast, barely even showing any interest when their grandchildren were born. They rarely left Lyme Regis, and it was quite an achievement for Vanessa to coax them to Oxford for Christmas. Yet Bridget was hardly looking forward to the occasion. The atmosphere over the turkey and Brussels sprouts was likely to be as icy as the weather outside.

  ‘I just adore Christmas,’ said Cheryl, ‘especially the way you English do it, you know, with plum pudding and mince pies.’

  Bridget smiled weakly.

  After a brief stop outside the Bodleian Library to relate the tale of how King Charles I, who had been refused permission by the librarian in 1645 to borrow books from the library, had taken revenge and appeared in the years after his execution in the upper reading room, snatching books from shelves, apparently sometimes without his head, Goole set off again, the group following behind.

  ‘Reading without your head on. Now that’s a tricky act to pull off,’ commented Cheryl to her husband.

  ‘Several of my students seem to be able to manage it,’ he remarked dryly. ‘Judging from the quality of their essays.’

  ‘You’re an academic?’ enquired Bridget.

  ‘A lecturer at Harvard, yes.’

  ‘Follow me now. Don’t get lost!’ said Goole, crossing the road and leading them beneath the Bridge of Sighs – or Hertford Bridge, to give it its correct name – the Venetian-style covered walkway that linked the two halves of Hertford College, and down New College Lane, which was dark and deserted at this time of night. Pausing beneath a Victorian-style streetlight that cast an eerie glow into the darkened lane and accentuated the shadows on his gaunt features, Goole proceeded to tell them his next tale.

  ‘Gather round, my friends, and cast yourselves back to the darkest days of the English Civil War. The King against Parliament. Cavalier against Roundhead. Families torn asunder, their loyalties divided. The year is 1646. The King has made Oxford his stronghold, but the city is now under siege from the Parliamentarians. Bloody battles are being fought throughout the country. Death and treachery are rife.’ He made a dramatic gesture with the finger of his right hand as if slitting his own throat. ‘And here in Oxford, in this very spot where you are now standing, Prince Rupert, a loyal and devoted member of the King’s entourage, gathers volunteers for a raid on a Parliamentarian pay train. Good men. Brave men. Men with families and children. But alas!’ – Goole drew a deep breath – ‘the sortie is doomed to failure. Prince Rupert’s men are slain in their prime. And to this day, if you walk down here alone, late at night, you may still hear the clattering of hooves and the clanking of armour.’

  The group held its collective breath, as if straining to hear the clamour of horses and men, but the only sound came from the boy in black who seemed to be growing even more agitated. His feet shuffled repeatedly on the pavement as he rocked backwards and forwards. Bridget tried not to stare but he was very distracting. At last he was unable to contain himself. In a tense, high-pitched voice he blurted out, ‘You should tell them how it works!’ Suddenly all eyes were on him, although he himself immediately dropped his gaze to the ground. He began to tou
ch his nose and chin compulsively, as if trying to ward off the attention.

  Goole looked taken aback at the interruption. ‘You have an explanation for these ghostly phenomena? Perhaps you’d care to share it with us, young man.’

  ‘Or better not,’ whispered one of the three women to her friends.

  ‘My name’s Dylan.’

  ‘Go on, Dylan,’ urged the other boy. ‘Tell them.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Luke, don’t encourage him,’ muttered the boy’s father.

  Dylan shook his head dismissively. ‘They probably wouldn’t understand. All they want to hear is silly stories.’

  ‘Tell them anyway,’ said Luke encouragingly.

  Dylan rocked back and forth a little more, then began to speak. ‘Some people believe that ghosts are evil spirits of the dead, condemned to walk the earth forever in search of vengeance or justice.’ He grew calmer as he delivered his explanation, and ceased his rocking and nose touching, although still not making eye contact with anyone. ‘In fact, ghosts are place-memories – recordings of voices, images, thoughts, and feelings imprinted on physical objects like stones – that sensitive people can play back.’

  It was the American woman, Cheryl, who broke the long silence that met Dylan’s proclamation. ‘Stones, like crystals?’ she suggested. ‘I have a friend in Boston who recommends the healing power of crystals.’

  ‘I tried crystal therapy once after a particularly nasty break-up,’ commented Ms Reindeer Antlers. Her two friends exchanged a weary glance that Bridget interpreted as “she’s had a lot of break-ups”. ‘The instructor told me it would help to realign my chakras.’

  ‘And did it?’ enquired one of her friends – the one with the sparkly snowmen perched on her head.

  ‘I don’t know about that. But it certainly resulted in a healthy alignment between me and the course instructor.’ Ms Antlers dissolved into a fit of giggles.

  ‘I knew they wouldn’t understand,’ said Dylan to his friend, Luke. ‘I don’t have time to waste on this. I’m leaving!’