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

  ‘Of course,’ said Dr Thomas. ‘I remember that dreadful business. And the police never caught her killer?’

  ‘No,’ said Bridget. ‘But at least I now have the opportunity to bring other criminals to justice.’

  Dr Thomas nodded her head approvingly. ‘I always knew you would do something worthwhile with your life.’

  ‘And you?’ asked Bridget, wanting to change the subject. ‘Are you still teaching and writing?’

  Dr Thomas waved a hand over the piles of books and papers in front of her. ‘We have so much to learn from the Elizabethans. It was a time when Britain had to establish its place in the world after the chaos caused by the break with Rome. There are so many parallels with the present day. And if we cannot learn from history, what hope is there for the future? I sometimes fear that what the Spanish Armada failed to achieve in destroying this nation, we will achieve ourselves.’ She paused. ‘You do of course remember the date of the Spanish invasion?’

  ‘Er… um, yes, it was 1587. No, 1588.’

  Dr Thomas held Bridget’s gaze for several excruciating seconds before nodding. ‘Yes, I see you haven’t completely forgotten everything you learned here. Now don’t allow a gloomy old woman to keep you from your revelry any longer. I expect that tea is already being served.’

  Bridget looked at her watch. It was nearly four o’clock, the time scheduled for tea to start. She rose to her feet. ‘It was lovely to see you again, Dr Thomas. Maybe we’ll have a chance for a longer chat later on.’

  ‘I do hope so.’

  Bridget collected her suitcase from where she’d left it at the bottom of the staircase and made her way to the Grove Building, a nineteenth-century addition to the college that resembled a baronial manor house with stone gables and leaded bay windows. She lugged her suitcase up the stairs and found her allocated room on the second floor. She’d had a room in this very building in her first year in college, but times had changed and this room now boasted an en-suite bathroom shoe-horned into one corner, a small fridge under the desk, and an internet connection. She dumped her suitcase on the bed and looked out of the window.

  The south-facing room overlooked Dead Man’s Walk, a sandy footpath that ran east-west between the old city wall and Merton Field. Once used as the route of medieval funeral processions from the old Jewish quarter to the Jewish cemetery outside the city walls, legend had it that the walk was haunted by the ghost of Francis Windebank, a colonel executed at that spot during the English Civil War in 1645. The ghost was supposedly visible only from the knees up, due to the change in ground level since the seventeenth century.

  Bridget didn’t believe in ghosts, at least not the chain-rattling sort that stalked castle ramparts demanding vengeance for past wrongs, or that turned up as unwelcome guests at the dinner table. But she was only too familiar with the power of memory and guilt to haunt the present. It was why she had ignored previous invitations to college gaudies. It was now twenty years since she’d matriculated at the university as a fresh-faced eighteen-year-old, and seventeen years since she’d graduated with a two-one degree in History. She was divorced with a fifteen-year-old daughter, and her career as a detective inspector with Thames Valley Police was at last getting going. Things were even tentatively looking up on the romantic front. It was time to face the ghosts of her past and see if she couldn’t put some of them to sleep.

  She opened the envelope the porter had given her and pulled out a timetable of the day’s events. Tea with the warden (informal) was now being served in the foyer of the TS Eliot Theatre. She was already late and needed to get changed out of her jeans and T-shirt. But what exactly was an informal dress code? Was informal the same as casual? She strongly suspected it was not. She had a sudden nightmarish flashback to a college dinner at which she had turned up in a short cocktail dress when all of the other women were wearing long gowns. God, she had always found social events to be sartorial minefields.

  She opened her suitcase and started pulling out clothes. She’d brought three different dresses, any one of which might (or might not) be suitable for dinner later that evening. The dress code for dinner was specified in the programme as black tie. That was all very well for the men, for whom black tie meant a black dinner jacket, a white shirt and a black bow tie. But what did it mean for the women? She would tackle that decision later.

  In addition to the three formal dresses, she had packed several other outfits to give her options for the various other social events of the day. But options meant choices. Difficult choices. She checked her watch. Tea with the warden (informal) had started fifteen minutes ago. At this rate it would be over by the time she’d decided what to wear.

  The dinner at seven would be preceded by a short service in the chapel, for which no particular dress code was specified. And after dinner the college bar would be open until midnight, by which time everyone, including her, would be too inebriated to care what they were wearing.

  For now, a pair of black trousers and a stripy Breton top would have to do. By Bridget’s standards they were smart, not informal, but it was safer to be over-dressed than risk looking like a slob.

  She quickly ran a comb through her short, dark bob, applied a dash of nude lipstick and checked her appearance in the mirror. For better or worse, she was ready to face the world.

  3

  Bridget hovered nervously at the edge of the large crowd, her tea cup and saucer in hand, a small Danish pastry balanced precariously on the saucer’s edge. She scanned the theatre foyer for a familiar face but could see none.

  Being only five foot two never helped in these situations. It was simply impossible for Bridget to see over other people’s shoulders. But at least that allowed her to hide from view. She had never been good at large social gatherings. She took a bite out of her pastry to give her courage.

  She hadn’t kept in touch with any of her old college friends, and people had changed noticeably in two decades. She was struck by how old everyone looked. Well, they were all approaching forty. Middle-aged, according to Chloe. Many of the men were already going bald, and some of the women had obviously dyed their hair. Nearly all of them had fuller figures.

  She knew that she had changed too. Grey strands had begun to appear in her own hair recently, and she had never managed to shake those extra pounds she’d acquired since having Chloe. Not that she had expended a huge amount of effort trying. Her high-pressure job and her responsibilities as a single parent left little opportunity to exercise or to eat healthy, well-balanced meals. And it didn’t help that she was uncommonly fond of pasta, sticky desserts and a glass or two of wine. She took another nibble of the Danish pastry. It really was delicious.

  She inched her way sideways past a group of men now running to fat who were fondly reminiscing about their college rowing days. It seemed that getting up at five o’clock every morning in the middle of winter to run down to the boathouse for training had been the happiest time of their lives. If that was the case, she wondered why they didn’t still do it.

  She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned around.

  ‘Bridget! I thought it was you.’

  ‘Bella!’ exclaimed Bridget, relieved that there was at least one person here that she recognised. Bella Williams had shared a house with her during her second year at college, together with four other girls. They had all been good friends once, but Bridget had seen none of her former housemates since graduating. Her sister’s murder had wrenched her away from university just as she should have been celebrating, and she had simply lost touch.

  Bridget kissed Bella on the cheek, then stepped back to take a proper look at her old friend. She was taken aback by what she saw, but did her best not to show it.

  Bella had been very pretty once, but the years had not treated her kindly. Now her mouth was turned down in a permanent scowl and her skin showed signs of premature ageing. Her hair – like Bridget’s – was turning grey, but unlike Bridget she had made no effort to restore it to its original colour.
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  Bridget couldn’t help noticing that if her own attire might be described as informal, then Bella’s outfit was definitely casual, even a tad scruffy. She was wearing a pair of faded denim jeans and a loose sweater with fraying cuffs. An old canvas bag was slung loosely over one shoulder. It hardly seemed like the right thing to wear to Tea with the warden. But then what did Bridget know about clothes? Her own life consisted of one wardrobe gaffe after another. Chloe was the one who dished out fashion advice in her house.

  ‘How are you?’ asked Bridget.

  ‘Oh, you know.’ Bella tucked her hands into her jeans pockets and gave a noncommittal shrug of the shoulders. ‘So, so.’

  Bridget had no idea what Bella meant by that. It wasn’t exactly the sort of reply you were supposed to make when someone asked you how you were. Even Bridget knew that.

  ‘But what about you?’ asked Bella, obviously keen to turn the focus of the conversation onto Bridget. ‘I haven’t heard from you in years. What are you doing with yourself? Married? Kids?’

  Bridget gave Bella a quick synopsis of her life – a brief marriage, resulting in one daughter, followed by a messy divorce, and a career now finally beginning to get going.

  ‘Wow,’ said Bella. ‘So you joined the police? I would never have expected that.’

  Bridget laughed. ‘Me neither.’ She took a sip of her tea. ‘And what do you do these days?’ Bella had studied Classics at university and Bridget wondered if she had pursued a career in academia.

  ‘Me? Oh, I ended up going into teaching.’

  ‘In a university?’

  Bella gave a hollow laugh. ‘In a school. It’s not really what I’d hoped for.’

  It certainly wasn’t what Bella had hoped for. At university she had been a rising star, expected to get a First and to pursue a glittering academic career. Bridget had fully expected her to be a lecturer at Oxford or some other prestigious university now. But life had a way of throwing up surprises and diversions, as she well knew.

  ‘I’m sure that teaching’s hard work,’ said Bridget. ‘But very worthwhile.’ With a teenager of her own, she had total respect for anyone prepared to spend their working day controlling a classroom of kids followed by an evening marking homework and producing lesson plans for the following day. Maybe that was why Bella was looking so downtrodden. ‘And at least you get nice long summer holidays,’ Bridget added brightly.

  Bella smiled wanly and Bridget thought it best to change the subject. ‘What about boyfriends or husbands?’

  Bella shook her head. ‘Nothing to report there either, I’m afraid. I guess I never found the right person.’

  ‘Well, neither did I,’ said Bridget. ‘It just took me several years to find out how wrong he was.’ She decided not to say anything about Jonathan. It felt like tempting fate, to talk about her new relationship which had only just got off to such a very faltering start. Instead she asked about the other housemates. ‘Have you seen Meg, Tina or Alexia here?’

  ‘I haven’t seen Alexia. But Meg and Tina are over there.’ Bella indicated the far corner of the room where two women – one blonde, one brunette – were standing with their backs to each other, each engaged in animated conversations with other people. Their poses suggested that they were very deliberately ignoring each other.

  ‘Have they fallen out?’ asked Bridget. Meg – Margaret Collins, to give her full name – and Tina Mackenzie had always been the best of friends during their university days.

  Bella shrugged dismissively. ‘Who knows with those two? You know what they’re like – they’re as stubborn and pig-headed as each other.’

  Bridget was surprised to detect such an undisguised note of hostility in Bella’s voice. The three women – Meg, Tina and Bella – had all been inseparable at one time. She wondered what had happened in the intervening years to drive a wedge between them.

  As if sensing that they were being discussed, both Meg and Tina looked over to where Bridget and Bella were standing. Meg was the first to abandon the person she’d been talking to and stride across the room in her brightly coloured dress adorned with big, expensive-looking jewellery. Her long, golden hair bounced over her shoulders. A pair of over-sized sunglasses were perched on top of her head as if she had just flown in from somewhere exotic and was attending the gaudy as part of a world tour.

  ‘Bridget!’ she exclaimed in her louder-than-life voice. ‘How wonderful to see you, darling.’ In her six-inch red stilettos Meg towered over Bridget and Bella. Bridget, who had never got on with heels, wondered how she could possibly walk in them. Meg bent down ostentatiously to Bridget’s level and planted two noisy air kisses, one on either side of Bridget’s cheeks.

  Meg had studied Biochemistry at Oxford, and had always talked of starting up her own company one day. Bridget was about to ask her what she had done since graduating, but she didn’t get the chance. Clearly not wanting to be left out of the grand reunion, Tina appeared the next moment at Bridget’s side.

  Whereas Meg favoured bold colours – bright scarlet with clashing pink accessories – Tina was tastefully turned out in an exquisite figure-hugging black dress. Her slim youthful figure suggested to Bridget an unattainable degree of self-control, and her short, elegantly-cut hair and impeccable makeup completed the vision of perfection. If this was informal, Bridget couldn’t imagine what Tina might choose to wear for dinner.

  ‘Bridget, you haven’t changed a bit,’ said Tina, planting a kiss on Bridget’s left cheek.

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Bridget. ‘But you don’t look a day older.’ Yet that wasn’t strictly true. Although Tina was just as thin as she’d been at twenty, the jeans-wearing student that Bridget had known had been replaced by a mature and supremely confident woman she barely recognised. Tina had studied Law at university. Perhaps she was now a high-flying lawyer with a big London firm as she’d always hoped to be.

  ‘Well, here we all are again,’ said Meg, beaming at everyone, although her smile dimmed noticeably as it reached Tina. ‘It’s just like old times.’

  ‘Except that Alexia’s not here,’ said Bridget, looking around the room. Alexia Petrakis was the fifth member of their circle. With her exotic background and striking good looks, Alexia had always been the most glamorous of the group. She had stood out among the other students with her glossy black hair falling in curls, her dark eyes and olive skin, and she had broken more than a few male hearts during her three years at Oxford. Even as an undergraduate she had enjoyed a jet-setting lifestyle, travelling to her family homes in Greece and the Amalfi coast during the summer vacations. She had once invited Bridget to stay with her, but Bridget had been too timid to go. Now she wondered what on earth she had been so afraid of. ‘Has anyone heard from Alexia? Where is she now? Is she coming today?’

  ‘I’m sure she is,’ said Bella.

  ‘Knowing Alexia, she’s probably in someone else’s bed,’ said Tina.

  Meg’s face turned to thunder. She glared angrily at Tina. In response, Tina shrugged and sipped her tea.

  Bridget waited to see if anyone would explain this exchange of hostilities, but instead the two women turned their backs on each other once more, saying nothing.

  Bella caught Bridget’s eye as if to say, ‘Honestly, those two.’

  Bridget sipped her tea, feeling decidedly uncomfortable at the way the reunion was progressing. She had expected people to have changed, naturally, but hadn’t counted on this open warfare between her old friends. As she pondered their behaviour, she was reminded of another reason for her growing feeling of disquiet. Whatever might be going on between Meg and Tina – and Bella, for that matter – there was an elephant in the room that no one had yet mentioned. The sixth member of their household, Lydia Khoury.

  Lydia, of course, would not be returning to college today. Lydia would never be returning.

  The awkward silence that had descended on the group was broken by the arrival of the warden and his wife who were circulating among the guests. Both Me
g and Tina eagerly turned back as the couple approached.

  The warden of Merton College, Dr Brendan Harper, had been the tutor in Archaeology and Anthropology when Bridget was a student. He had since gone on to achieve a degree of celebrity presenting documentaries on the National Geographic Channel, the History Channel, and more recently the BBC where he was credited with making old bones look sexy. A real-life Indiana Jones, he was the sort of man whose appeal to women seemed only to increase as he aged, particularly when he was striding around the desert in a pair of khaki shorts and sturdy walking boots, his lightly stubbled features leaning earnestly into the camera as he explained the significance of some rare and important artifact.

  While Dr Harper was in his mid to late fifties, his wife, Yasmin, was much younger. Bridget guessed maybe mid-thirties. With her long neck, finely carved features and deep-set eyes, she made Bridget think of the famous bust of the Egyptian queen, Nefertiti.

  Meg was the first of the group to step forward and shake the warden’s hand, switching her beaming smile back on. ‘Warden, I hear we should be wishing you luck with your quest to become vice-chancellor of the university.’

  Dr Harper returned her exuberant welcome with a smile of false modesty. ‘Thank you. It’s all in the lap of the gods now. Or at least the governing body of the university, which as you know is the nearest we have to divinity, here in Oxford.’ He paused while Meg laughed rather excessively at his quip. ‘Congregation will make its decision in a week’s time,’ he concluded. ‘Of course, I don’t hold out too much hope for myself. The other candidates are such worthy luminaries.’

  ‘But so are you, Warden,’ gushed Meg sycophantically.

  ‘You’re very kind to say so,’ said Dr Harper.

  The news that the warden was being considered as vice-chancellor was news to Bridget. She knew that Dr Harper was a highly respected academic, as well as being a shameless media tart. But the position of vice-chancellor was the university’s most senior executive position and the warden was relatively young for the task. She wondered how he would fit it in around his busy TV schedule.