The Oxford Mystery, page 1
part #5 of Jenny Starling Series
THE OXFORD
MYSTERY
An absolutely gripping whodunit full of twists
(Jenny Starling Book 5)
THIS IS A REVISED EDITION OF A BOOK FIRST PUBLISHED AS “DEADLY STUFF” BY JOYCE CATO.
FAITH MARTIN
Revised edition 2019
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
FIRST PUBLISHED BY ROBERT HALE IN 2014 AS “DEADLY STUFF.”
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Faith Martin to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
We hate typos too but sometimes they slip through. Please send any errors you find to corrections@joffebooks.com
We’ll get them fixed ASAP. We’re very grateful to eagle-eyed readers who take the time to contact us.
©Faith Martin
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THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
ALSO BY FAITH MARTIN
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Glossary of English Slang for US readers
Dedicated to all mystery lovers!
PROLOGUE
Jenny Starling turned a corner in the seventeenth-century stone-lined corridor, and came face to face with a stuffed owl.
The owl, it has to be said, looked somewhat surprised. The travelling cook not so much. She did, however, draw her well-rounded, six-foot-tall form to a halt and contemplate the bird thoughtfully.
When she’d seen the advertisement in the Oxford Times for a cook/chef to work at St Bede’s College during the summer months, catering for the conferences that the college hosted during the long vacation in order to replenish its ancient coffers, she’d applied instantly.
Naturally, with her references and experience, she’d sailed through the interview process and had been offered the post. The college’s resident cook had up and left for New Zealand for three months, in pursuit, so the local gossip had it, of a somewhat unreliable but well-heeled widow. This had left the bursar with a string of conferences booked in with no top-flight chef (as advertised in the glossy brochures) to offer them.
Jenny had been more than happy to accept the gig. Not only did she get to live in for three months — free accommodation in this day and age was not to be sniffed at — but she also got to cook an extensive, if budget-controlled menu for a large number of people daily, which was the Junoesque cook’s idea of heaven. Added to all this bounty was the truly pleasant realization that she also had well-trained and willing staff to work under her. This, courtesy of the resident chef, who, so gossip also had it, was a bit of a tartar and expected first-class standards from his staff.
So it was that she found herself, this lovely July morning, exploring her way around St Bede’s ancient buildings and quads, and contemplating whether she could possibly squeeze lobster bisque into her budget for sometime that week.
Now Jenny continued to eye the stuffed owl thoughtfully. It was, according to the small plaque on the plinth on which it was resting, an eagle owl. It was certainly huge and imperious-looking, which Jenny supposed was only your right if you were an eagle owl.
When the cook had contemplated cooking for a prestigious conference, she’d assumed it would be something suitably glamorous, as befits Oxford’s status as one of the premiere universities of the world. A conference of neurosurgeons, perhaps, given the proximity of the world-famous John Radcliffe Hospital, which was a part of Oxford University’s medical teaching programme. Or maybe something more artistic, like art-restoration experts drawn to Oxford by the Ruskin, or perhaps some esoterically historical society intrigued by the university’s ancient heritage.
What she’d got was the Greater Ribble Valley & Jessop Taxidermy Society. This august body had come down for five days to give lectures and demonstrations, to talk shop, buy the latest gadgetry and goods, and generally do as all good conference-goers did — drink too much, gossip, and backstab friends and colleagues whenever possible.
It was only Monday, the very first day of the conference, and even though they were still arriving in dribs and drabs, Jenny had overheard enough conversations to make her long dark hair stand on end.
She’d also seen several examples of the conference-goers’ exhibits being bandied about, hence her sangfroid in the face of unannounced stuffed owls.
‘Oh there she is. Sorry, I wondered where I’d left Bertha.’ An apologetic voice made Jenny turn and smile at a harassed sixty-something with an overbite and a grey cardigan that looked as if it had been dinner for more than a couple of moths.
The old man retrieved the owl, beamed at Jenny, looked around vaguely and went off, probably trying to find his room. For her part, Jenny carried on towards her own bedroom, which was a pleasant, high-ceilinged room in one of the older buildings, and collected her laptop.
It was time to get down to planning tomorrow’s menu. The willing helpers in the vast kitchens were already preparing the ingredients for today’s fare, but she wanted to get a head start on her preparations for the rest of the conference. Although she had no doubts that she could keep within the budget set by the bursar and still produce delicious, show-stopping meals, she wanted to make every day a gourmet experience — not just the opening night and the finale. And that took planning.
But Jenny was not the only one in St Bede’s College on that fine summer day busily making painstaking preparations.
In another room, someone else was checking off things on their to-do list, and making careful preparations for tomorrow. But these didn’t include anything as innocuous as checking out Oxford’s covered market for the freshest vegetables, fish and meat, or a reminder to look up the best variation for a butter sauce.
And, if someone had been standing over their shoulder and reading their notes, one or two items on the list would definitely have raised their eyebrows. Because what they’d be reading would be the blueprint for a perfect murder.
Or so someone supposed.
CHAPTER ONE
Jenny knocked on the door of the assistant bursar and waited. It was nearly two o’clock, and dinner was at seven, so she still had plenty of time to oversee the staff and check on their dinner preparations for the Great Jessies’ (as she’d come to think of them) first night.
‘Yes? Come on in!’ The voice sounded somewhat harried, even through the thick oak door.
Jenny obliged and found herself in a typical St Bede’s room. It was somehow gloomy, despite the large, high sash windows, mainly due, she supposed, to all the wood panelling and heavy dark-brown furniture. Since the college had been going for over five centuries or so, she supposed that a fair number of the past alumni had left vast amounts of massive and now impractical furniture and furnishings to their old alma mater, as well as their much more welcome books, collections and, of course by far the best of all, filthy lucre.
When Jenny had first arrived at St Bede’s, and had met with the head bursar, who had hired her, she hadn’t been talking to the man for more than five minutes before she’d cottoned on to the fact that the college was perpetually seeking funding. Rich overseas students were courted with almost indecent fervour, whilst industrial and commercial institutions were cajoled, bullied, bribed and, Jenny wouldn’t be at all surprised, blackmailed into offering scholarships, endowments and job opportunities for graduates. It was all, so the head bursar had explained woefully, a far cry from medieval times, when the aristocracy were falling over themselves to enrol their prodigy at Oxford, and were willing to fill the coffers of the colleges in order to do so.
From this, Jenny had surmised that his own degree had been in history, and that his time was taken up almost solely with holding out his hat and begging for pennies.
So the fact that the taxidermy society currently in residence for their annual conference had several well-heeled members willing to pay the high fees had quickly explained much of what had hitherto surprised her.
Of course, the bursar — being one of the senior officers of the college, along with the principal, a titled industrial baron coasting through retirement, and the treasurer, an ex-government minister who was, frankly, slumming it — was far too important to deal with the running of the summer conference season. Hence she’d been told that for all her day-to-day decisions it was to the assistant bursar that she needed to cosy up to. And, indeed, the man who looked up at her now with a worried frown and badly bitten nails looked in sore need of a little cosseting.
The nameplate on his door had informed her that his name was Arthur McIntyre, BA, MA. He was, she guessed, somewhere in his early fifties, and was just in the process of losing his short dark hair. Perhaps to make up for it, he had grown a reasonably luxuriant moustache. At the moment his somewhat muddy, grey-brown eyes were eyeing her with both surprise and alarm.
As he got uncertainly to his feet, Jenny instantly realized the problem. At perhaps five feet tall, or maybe just a bare inch over, she was towering over him, so she instantly swept forward, beaming her best smile, quickly snatched out the chair in front of his desk and sat down, holding out her hand.
‘Hello, Dr McIntyre, I’m Jenny Starling. I’m catering for the conferences this summer. I thought I’d better just introduce myself and check in. Perhaps the bursar has mentioned me?’
A look of instant relief and comprehension swept over the little man’s face and he shook her hand with a brief smile of his own and resumed his seat. ‘Oh yes, of course. And I’m plain Mister. Not a doctor.’
‘Oh sorry,’ Jenny said. Although she knew from his nameplate that he didn’t have a doctorate, practically everyone she’d met at the college so far, including the librarian, was ‘Doctor’ something or other. And it didn’t take a genius to guess that it must be pretty daunting — not to mention deflating — to be one of the few common or garden Misters or Misses swanning around in these heady, refined waters.
‘And yes, of course the bursar has spoken to me about you. I hope you’re settling in all right. Is your room OK?’ he added anxiously.
‘Oh yes, fine thank you,’ Jenny said, and meant it. It had a whopping four-poster bed, and armchairs built to last, as well as a wardrobe and set of drawers that took up most of one wall. And whilst big brown furniture might not be much in fashion nowadays, it was something that a woman of her size never sniffed at.
‘Splendid, splendid. So, you’ve met and talked to the regular kitchen staff then?’ Arthur McIntyre said, somewhat nervously, Jenny thought.
‘Oh yes. They’ve all been very friendly and helpful. I know the chef had his own way of doing things, and I have no intention of being the new broom sweeping all before me,’ Jenny reassured him, perhaps somewhat less than totally truthfully this time.
In fact, when she’d met the kitchen staff, there’d been the usual mutual summing up on both sides that such occasions warranted. On their side, they were obviously anxious to know what sort of temperament she had and, more importantly, how easily she could be bamboozled. And she, for her part, had been keen to pick out the slackers from the professionals, and make sure that all the plum kitchen jobs were allocated fairly. And to show them who was boss, of course, in the nicest but firmest possible way. Since she’d never had any trouble in getting on with people, and at the same time getting exactly what she wanted, they’d very quickly settle down to an amicable way of rubbing along together.
As if sensing this, Arthur McIntyre seemed to relax a little. ‘Ah, I’m glad things are running smoothly,’ he said. No doubt it would have been part of his job to arbitrate had they not been.
Jenny smiled gently and somewhat thoughtfully. Something in the rather weary way he spoke told her that here was a man not altogether happy in his job. And she could see that being even an assistant bursar for an Oxford college as big and old as St Bede’s would be quite a responsibility. The bursary department was responsible for the daily running and upkeep of the college, which had to be a never-ending job. Not only did they have to deal with the maintenance of the buildings and grounds, but it also had to oversee all the cooking and cleaning that was done by the domestic staff, or ‘scouts’ as they were called for some unfathomable reason. And since the bursar himself seemed preoccupied with fundraising, it was easy to see on whose shoulders the weight of all this had landed.
‘I thought you’d want to have my budget plans for the first conference as soon as possible,’ Jenny said, and handed over a neatly printed list of menus and expenditure, which Arthur McIntyre accepted eagerly and began to peruse.
‘Oh yes, thanks. It is, as I’m sure the bursar told you, most important that you don’t exceed the budget that’s been laid down.’
Jenny nodded. ‘I think you’ll find everything in order,’ she said gently, but firmly. The little man shot her a quick, surprisingly shrewd look, and then he smiled somewhat bitterly. Jenny, a little alarmed, began to wonder if she’d come across as a bit more condescending than she’d meant to.
‘I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t sound rude,’ she apologized at once. ‘I just meant that I’m used to managing both food and money, and that you didn’t need to worry.’
But Arthur McIntyre was already waving a hand in the air in that deprecatory way that was supposed to indicate nonchalance. ‘No, no, it’s not that. I don’t doubt your ability at all, Miss Starling, just the opposite in fact. I was just thinking that it’s typical of the bursar to be able to spot a gem so easily. You’re clearly the perfect person for the job. I only wish I had the bursar’s knack for omniscience.’
‘Ah, one of those, is he?’ Jenny said with a knowing smile. But inside her heart was sinking just a little. It was clear that the little deputy felt inadequate and probably disliked his boss intensely. Which was none of her business, of course, unless she found herself somehow in the middle of a domestic spat and was pressed to choose a side.
Obviously a little buttering up was called for. ‘And please, call me Jenny. And you know, I can’t stand those people who always seem to get everything right all the time. As my granny used to say, the sort who could fall in a rubbish heap and come up smelling of roses.’
Arthur McIntyre’s muddy-brown eyes began to twinkle and his narrow shoulders relaxed just a little. ‘Please, call me Art. Nearly everyone around here does, either to my face or behind my back.’ He said it with just a shade too much bitterness for it to be comfortably funny, and Jenny smiled gently, deciding with her usual tact that a change of subject was in order.
‘Will we be seeing you at dinner tonight, Art? I wasn’t sure from the bursar whether or not many people from the college actually dined in hall when the conferences were on?’
‘Oh no. Most of the dons scatter as soon as Trinity term ends, and you won’t see them again until Michaelmas. The principal, I believe, is in Kuala Lumpur trying to secure a research fellowship sponsorship from someone big in coconuts. Or is it rubber?’
Jenny blinked. No doubt about it, they did things differently in Oxford.
‘So you won’t be dining with us?’ she pressed. She liked to be sure of her numbers.
‘Oh yes. I will. Well, most nights anyway. I’m not due to take my paltry three weeks until August. And there might be one or two others knocking about, of course. The emeritus professor in Classics is sure to be there. He’s ninety-two and sharp as a tack, and probably hasn’t left the college grounds for something like ten years or so. Come to think of it, he’ll probably find the taxidermists fascinating. He’ll be bending their ear on how Plato would have set about it. Or something along those lines.’
Jenny grinned. ‘I look forward to meeting him. I hope he likes lobster bisque.’
* * *
Like all the main dining rooms in Oxford colleges, the place where undergraduates and dons alike gathered to eat was known simply as ‘hall.’
And the hall at St Bede’s, Jenny thought, some four and a half hours later, was an amazing sight. Huge, with floor-to-ceiling windows stretching one length of it, it made you stop and stare. Beyond them, the college grounds, immaculately groomed and full of colour, provided an equally grandiose and formal setting.
Three massive chandeliers hung down from the ceiling at equal distances, spreading a scattered, crystal-reflected light onto a hard-wearing midnight-blue carpet. Long wooden tables so old, well polished and varnished that they looked nearly black were spread out along ‘high table’ on the raised dais at one end where the dons would normally eat, and in two parallel rows down the length of the hall where the students usually munched. Matching padded, ornate chairs — over a hundred of them? — lined the tables. On the walls were vast portraits of past principals and distinguished old boys and, towards the end of the last century, old girls.
