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

  ‘An intrepid adventurer is just what this university needs,’ said Meg. ‘Shake things up a bit. Dust off the cobwebs. You’d be perfect for the role.’

  The look of admiration on his wife’s face suggested that she thought so too.

  *

  It was a relief for Bridget to return to her room in the Grove Building for some peace and quiet before the evening got going. She kicked off her shoes, banished her many and varied outfits to the room’s small wardrobe and flopped down on the bed. The narrow mattress had seen better days and she doubted it would give her a good night’s sleep. She stared up at the ceiling and pondered what she’d witnessed during tea.

  She had been looking forward to renewing old friendships, but the atmosphere between Meg and Tina had been visibly hostile, even toxic, and Bella had seemed rather downbeat, and not exactly charitable towards the other two. They seemed such a disparate bunch, it was hard to remember how they’d managed to get along so well as students.

  She sat up and checked the seating plan for dinner. The hall comprised three long tables running lengthwise, with high table placed perpendicular at one end. Bridget’s name appeared at the top of the central table, with Bella opposite. Meg was seated next to Bridget, and Tina was next to Bella. Alexia was placed next to Meg.

  Bridget gave a sigh of relief. So Alexia would definitely be at dinner. Her exuberant friend had always livened up any social gathering and helped to put everyone in a good mood. And once the wine started flowing, any awkward social tensions should hopefully be eased.

  It was just as well since, for the duration of the dinner at least, there would be no escaping the group of women with whom Bridget had shared a house in East Oxford during her second year as a student. The house, she recalled, had been typical student digs. They’d paid a small fortune for a property with a severe damp problem, mould on the bathroom walls and a roof that leaked when it rained. Ah yes, those were the days.

  On impulse she dialled Jonathan’s number. She still felt guilty about abandoning him for the weekend.

  He picked up on the third ring. ‘Bridget, how’s it going?’

  ‘Just great. Two of my friends have fallen out with each other, one appears depressed and the other hasn’t shown up yet. Looks like it’s going to be a fun evening. What are you up to?’

  She imagined him lying on the couch at home, reading a book or watching television.

  He hesitated just a moment before replying. ‘Actually I’ve just popped into the gallery. I know that you told me not to, but we’ve got a new exhibition opening on Monday.’

  ‘It wasn’t me who forbade you from going into work,’ said Bridget. ‘It was the doctors. And with good reason.’

  ‘Yes, well, Vicky has been running the shop all on her own while I’ve been off work. It wasn’t fair to leave everything to her. Organising an exhibition is a big job.’

  ‘That’s what worries me,’ said Bridget. ‘Don’t lift any heavy paintings. I don’t want you to injure yourself again.’

  Any romance in their embryonic relationship had so far been limited to gentle hugs and chaste kisses. It was hard to do more than that with Jonathan recovering from his injury, especially since they had only just begun to get to know each other properly. But the time she had spent visiting him in hospital had helped them to cement their friendship. Bridget hoped that once he was fit and well, they would be able to move their relationship forward to the next stage.

  ‘I promise,’ said Jonathan. ‘Now you must do what you promised me. Go and enjoy yourself with your grumpy friends. And remember what I said – no finding skeletons in closets.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ She ended the call, smiling to herself. Jonathan’s easy-going nature always managed to make her feel better.

  She flicked through the contacts list on her phone, her thumb hovering briefly over Chloe’s name. Should she give her daughter a call? She was tempted to, but in the end she managed to resist. Chloe hated it when she thought her mother was checking up on her. The two of them had not always seen eye to eye recently, and it would do them both good to have a little space. Besides, Bridget was supposed to be enjoying herself at the gaudy. When was the last time she had taken a weekend off just for herself? Or even part of a weekend? She could barely remember.

  It was time to make a decision about what to wear for dinner. She retrieved her three dresses from the wardrobe and laid them out on the bed, eyeing them nervously. Whichever one she chose, she could never hope to look as glamorous as Meg, or match Tina for refinement. When you were five foot two and carrying too much weight around your middle, you had to set realistic expectations. She knew that whatever she wore would be a disappointment, so she might as well not worry.

  It was a choice between a black velvet dress with a neckline that showed off her décolletage to its best advantage, a red satin dress that made the most of her skin and hair colouring, and a pale blue dress in gauze and chiffon which, on reflection, she decided made her look like the mother of the bride. After trying each one in turn, she decided on the black velvet dress.

  She touched up her make-up with a dab of foundation, a smidgen of mascara, and a smear of lip gloss. Then she squeezed her feet into a pair of heels that gave her a much-needed height boost. Walking would be tricky, but hopefully she’d be sitting down for most of the evening.

  She checked her phone once more for any messages from Chloe, but as expected, there were none. Then, slightly unsteadily, she made her way down the stairs and over to the chapel for the pre-dinner service.

  4

  The rich harmonies of the Dobson organ reverberated off the ancient walls of the antechapel and floated up into the belfry, filling the space with glorious sound.

  Bridget picked up an order of service and proceeded into the main quire of the chapel, taking a seat in the back row of pews. It was common in Oxford college chapels for the pews to mirror each other across a central aisle, instead of facing forward towards the altar. All the better for quiet contemplation. She closed her eyes and let the music of the Bach fugue wash over her, soothing away the tensions of the day.

  Organ music in an ecclesiastical setting always had the power to transport Bridget back to her own childhood. She’d enjoyed a traditional Church of England upbringing in the nearby town of Woodstock where her mother had arranged the weekly flowers and taught in the Sunday School. Bridget had sung in the choir, and the church had been central to her existence. Life didn’t get much more middle England than that. On coming to university in Oxford, she’d found a natural home in the chapel choir, participating in the weekly ritual of evensong with its musical settings of the Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis.

  But that safe and comfortable world had come crashing down when her younger sister had been abducted and brutally murdered. Abigail’s death had shaken Bridget’s foundations to the ground, and pushed her in a totally new direction. Regular church attendance had fallen by the wayside as her faith struggled unsuccessfully to survive the cataclysm. Forced to confront a much darker reality than the world in which she had grown up, Bridget had joined the police force, beginning as a uniformed constable, before applying to become a detective. It was her way of trying to put things right. Not that Abigail’s death could ever be put right, even if her killer were caught and brought to justice, which he never had been.

  The final chord of the organ music died away and Bridget opened her eyes. The chapel was half full – none of her former housemates had turned up, although the warden was seated in the opposite pew – and the chaplain had taken his place in front of the altar. He was young – much younger than her – and had probably still been at school while she was a student at the university. She wondered if the floor-length cassock he wore concealed a pair of trendy jeans beneath.

  ‘Welcome to our Gaudy Service,’ he intoned.

  Bridget imagined Chloe sniggering at that. Was the organist wearing rhinestones? Would a flashing neon cross descend from the rafters, with angels adorned in Gucci s
unglasses? That would certainly liven things up.

  ‘We will start by singing the hymn All People that on Earth do Dwell, which is printed on your orders of service.’

  As the organist played over the melody at full volume, the congregation rose to its feet. Familiar with the four-square tune from her choral days, Bridget joined in heartily, even though those around her were mumbling the words. There was nothing like a good sing to lift the spirits – indeed the first verse exhorted them to Sing to the Lord with Cheerful Voice – but these days her musical endeavours mostly consisted of singing along to her collection of operatic CDs. Her daughter was always telling her to upload her CD library to her phone, but that was a technological challenge that Bridget was forever putting off.

  After the hymn, the chaplain spoke amiably about how a gaudy was a chance to review old acquaintances and friendships, and how friendships formed during university could, if properly nurtured, last a lifetime, helping us through the trials and tribulations of life.

  He was too young to have seen many trials and tribulations. Still, he made a good point. So why had Bridget allowed her friendships with her old housemates to lapse after leaving university? Was it simply Abigail’s death that had made her cut off all previous ties and start afresh at police training college? Or was it what had happened to the sixth member of their little household? Lydia. The only member of the group who could not be expected to attend the gaudy. Because she was dead.

  ‘We read in the gospel of John, chapter fifteen, verses 12-13’ – the chaplain was getting into his stride now and his voice had risen in a fervour of evangelical zeal – ‘“This is my commandment, That ye love one another, as I have loved you. Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”’

  Or her friends, mused Bridget. Would she lay down her life for Bella, Meg, Tina or Alexia? Given that she hadn’t seen any of them during the last seventeen years, it seemed a pretty tall order. Would they do the same for her? She very much doubted it. But for her sister Abigail, that was a different matter.

  ‘But maintaining friendships takes work,’ said the chaplain. ‘None of us is perfect, and so when problems arise we must be prepared to forgive each other. As St Paul wrote in his letter to the Colossians, chapter three, verse thirteen, “Forbearing one another, and forgiving one another, if any man have a quarrel against any: even as Christ forgave you, so also do ye.” Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ mumbled the congregation.

  It was the lesson that Bridget had grown up with – Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us – but it was a bitter pill to swallow. How could she ever forgive the person who had taken Abigail away from her, and who had destroyed her perfect family, driving her parents to the brink of despair?

  Maybe that was the real reason she didn’t go to church anymore. She couldn’t stand being constantly told to forgive.

  The organist was already thundering through the rousing melody of the final hymn, Guide Me, O Thou Great Redeemer. Bridget rose to her feet and joined in, but was unable to find the same joy she’d experienced singing the first hymn, even though this was normally one of her favourites. All that talk about dying for one’s friends, and of forgiving one’s enemies had stirred up too many painful memories and dark thoughts. It was hardly a great start to what was supposed to be a joyous evening. Maybe things would start to look up after a glass or two of wine.

  On her way out, she shook the chaplain’s hand and thanked him for a lovely service. It was the expected thing to do, and she had no wish to be discourteous. Up close he looked even younger. A sprinkling of freckles covered his nose and cheeks. His eyes were blue beneath a shock of sandy coloured hair.

  ‘How long have you been the chaplain here?’ she enquired politely.

  ‘Since last Trinity term.’ He grinned. ‘Still finding my feet.’

  ‘You’re doing fine.’ She moved on so that other people could have a chance to greet him.

  Outside, the evening air was growing cooler. The university term wouldn’t start until October, but Chloe had already been back at school for three weeks. As Bridget made her way slowly back to Front Quad – these heels were going to kill her – she reflected that maybe it was time to properly renew old acquaintances. She resolved to enjoy herself over dinner and start rebuilding bridges.

  *

  With its high vaulted ceiling, stained-glass windows, and long wooden tables set for a banquet, the thirteenth-century dining hall could not have looked more magnificent if Queen Elizabeth I herself had been the guest of honour. Small table lamps the length of the hall created a cosy atmosphere reminiscent of the days when candles had provided the only illumination. Each place was set with an elaborate arrangement of cutlery, three differently-sized wine glasses, and a linen napkin artfully folded into the shape of a bishop’s mitre. Gilt-framed portraits of centuries-old scholars and clerics gazed down sternly from the walls, as if envious of the four-course feast that was promised.

  Bridget walked the length of the hall to take her place at the top of the middle table. Meg arrived soon afterwards, sitting down next to her. Tina and Bella followed, taking their seats opposite. Each setting was marked with a name card printed in fancy lettering.

  The three women had all changed their clothes since Bridget had last seen them, undergoing a transformation from informal to black tie. Both Meg and Tina looked as if they’d spent the time between tea and dinner having a fashion makeover. Meg was wreathed in a concoction of purple silk and flowing organza. The elaborate dress, combined with her ample bosom, threatened to knock over one of the many wine glasses every time she leaned forward. Tina had slipped into an off-the-shoulder black dress that displayed to advantage her chiselled collar bone and toned upper arms. Bella had at least managed to change out of her jeans and jumper into a plain blue dress which she had teamed with a black jacket. For Bella’s sake, Bridget was glad that she herself hadn’t overdressed, not that she could have hoped to pull off either of the looks adopted by Meg or Tina.

  ‘We’ll have to behave ourselves, sitting so close to the warden,’ joked Meg, glancing up at the nearby high table where places were reserved for the warden, his wife and other college dignitaries. ‘Although since we’re no longer students, we can’t get sent down.’ She grinned wickedly. ‘So perhaps this is our chance to behave badly.’

  ‘What are you planning on getting up to?’ asked Bella.

  ‘Me? Nothing,’ said Meg, adopting a look of wide-eyed innocence. ‘But perhaps Tina is going to stab someone in the back with a knife.’

  ‘That may be your style, Meg,’ countered Tina archly. ‘I always stab my enemies from the front.’

  Bridget groaned inwardly. She’d hoped that the two women might have brought their hostilities to an end by now. She still had no idea what their problem was, and didn’t think that asking them outright would help to calm the mood.

  ‘Come on, girls,’ she said jokingly. ‘You’d better watch out. Remember that Bella’s a teacher. I’m sure she knows how to deal with unruly children.’

  ‘Please don’t remind me about it,’ said Bella gloomily, and the group fell into an uneasy silence.

  The hall was rapidly filling up, but the place next to Meg remained empty. It looked as if Alexia might not make it after all, which was a shame. Bridget hoped that Meg and Tina were not going to snipe at each other across the salt and pepper grinders all evening.

  ‘Bella tells me that you’re a police inspector these days,’ said Meg. ‘Is that true or was she pulling my leg?’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Bridget.

  ‘So if you’re a detective inspector that must mean you’re a plain clothes officer?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘So you could be on duty right this minute and no one would know.’

  Bridget laughed. ‘I can assure you that I’m definitely not working this weekend. I’m here to enjoy myself. I wonder what they’re serving,’ she said brightly, picking
up one of the college-crested menus that were placed at regular intervals along the tables. Immediately her mood improved. A watercress and cucumber soup with pea shoots and saffron oil served with Broglia Gavi 2016 was to be followed by a butternut squash, sage and Gorgonzola risotto. The main course was a three-bone rack of lamb with fondant potato, baby vegetables and shallot jus served with Château La Sergue 2005. Dessert would be praline chocolate croquant, raspberry compote and sweet Persian pistachios served with Dow’s late bottled vintage, 2012. Tea, coffee and mints to follow. She’d have to spend the rest of the week on the cabbage soup diet, but it would be worth it.

  ‘They do a very similar thing at The Ivy in London,’ said Tina, glancing briefly at a second menu before passing it to Bella. She made it sound as if she was rather bored with fancy food.

  ‘Is that where you hold your client meetings?’ asked Meg. ‘No wonder lawyers charge such a bloody fortune.’

  Bridget, who had never dined at The Ivy, felt her mouth watering at the prospect of the food.

  ‘You should count yourself lucky,’ Bella told Tina, echoing Bridget’s thoughts. ‘I don’t get to eat in posh restaurants on a teacher’s salary.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Meg warmly. ‘And some people take posh food too much for granted. I’d be more than happy with fish and chips served from a newspaper.’ She glared at Tina. ‘Quite frankly, The Ivy is not all it’s cracked up to be.’

  Tina looked ready to respond with a caustic remark of her own, but was interrupted by the arrival of the warden and his wife leading a procession of tutors and assorted college VIPs to their places on high table. Once the new guests were standing by their places, the warden rapped on the table with a wooden gavel. Everyone in the hall fell silent and then, en masse, rose to their feet. They had followed this arcane routine so many times as students, they didn’t need to be told what to do. In a sonorous voice, the Classics tutor proclaimed the Latin grace that was printed on the back of the menu, with a helpful English translation for those who, like Bridget, were not fluent in the tongue of Virgil and Cicero.