Page 19 of The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies

Braithwaite rubbed his eyes as though very tired already but nodded. “I can work with that. “I met Lewis Hughes at a party earlier this year, and we had a long chat about New York. He might remember me enough to pick back up a conversation. And Dr. Watkins has a seminar I can join.” He looked down at her, his face suddenly quite serious. “Don’t go around talking about Tolliver’s death, you don’t want the idea connected to you. Ideally, you want someone else to bring it up and then watch for a reaction. You need to be discreet and leave no mental footprint.”

“Wear drab colors and no red lipstick, you mean.”

Braithwaite’s eyes scraped down to her lips and back up again as though already regretting his decision. “I think that’s the least of your concerns,” he said. “Try not to pull another stunt like Olenev’s, all right?”

But Gin had no need to climb through windows for her first foray into detection. Iris and Marion Kirk, the female student on the Rook’s suspect list, were trapped in an editorial meeting at the student paper’s offices that evening, and Iris had sent an SOS for food via the paper’s delivery boy. Armed with sandwiches, biscuits, and a thermos of tea, Gin left a note for Braithwaite under the bench and sallied forth into the dusk.

The student paper, The Blue, had been an esteemed part of Oxford life for over a century and touted itself as the only student-funded, -organized, and -edited publication at the university. Many famous novelists had written for the paper during their undergraduate careers, though Iris complained this legacy was an albatross for those who wished to report on current issues rather than write navel-gazing essays. Undeterred, she had elbowed her way into a small advice column, and Gin and Sarita always assured her it was their favorite part (omitting it was the only part they actually read).

It was, however, Gin’s first visit to the paper’s subterranean office. She picked her way down the dim stairwell and entered a large room with desks crammed into little groups. At one end, a circle of chairs sat in smoky lamplight where heated voices rose in argument. Iris perched on a desk, nibbling on a pencil, but her face lit up when Gin entered. She sidled around the room and tugged Gin away from the group, sinking down at an empty desk.

“Bless you,” she whispered, taking the refreshments. “Oliver’s never going to release us tonight. I was a fool and told them I would type up the edits with Julia, only they can’t agree on anything.”

Gin leaned against the desk, taking a sip from Iris’s offered mug. “Do you like the other girls here?”

“Oh, yeah, heaps,” Iris said, tearing into a mouthful of sandwich. “Julia always has my back, and Susan and I proofread for each other. Marion though…” Iris waggled her eyebrows. “Whitby had this grand idea for a column in Latin and makes her write it every week since she’s cracking with the dead languages, like you, dear. But I don’t think she likes it much. She runs after every other story she can catch.”

A dark-haired young woman swiveled her head toward them. Her eyes narrowed.

“Is that her?” Gin whispered, pretending to read a piece of paper on the desk. “You might need to lower your voice.”

Iris glanced at the circle and snorted. “Kirk can’t hear hold the door when I’m carrying my typewriter, but of course she can hear her name at fifty paces.”

Marion Kirk was tall and slim with a blunt crop of dark waves, as angular and elegant as an artist’s rough sketch before the final softening touches. Her thick eyebrows, however, were knit at Ginevra rather than Iris. Perhaps it was only the mistrust toward a stranger intruding into sacred space, but when Gin offered a pleasant smile, Kirk looked away.

“This hit the spot, truly.” Iris made a humming sound of delight. “You’re a lamb. An absolute lamb.”

“Anything for you, dear.”

There was a smattering of cheers from the circle across the room, and the group broke apart. Iris gulped down the last of the tea and returned the thermos. “Thanks, love. I’d best get to work.” She patted a kiss to the top of Gin’s head and whisked across the room.

With far too much care, Gin packed up the remains of Iris’s meal while keeping one eye on Marion Kirk, who was jabbing her finger at a young man’s paper bleeding red through the margins. Gin tossed the discarded sandwich paper in a bin by the wall and weaved between the desks, taking a circuitous route that ended near the pair.

“—and if you can’t tell passive voice from active, then I don’t know why we keep you on—” Kirk caught sight of Gin and frowned. “Do you need something?”

“Care for a sandwich? Had one left over.”

The young man’s eyes lit up, and he reached for it. “Thanks.”

But Kirk swatted him down. “Go revise that first, Jenkins.”

Jenkins slunk away with a dejected air, and Kirk’s intensity turned full-force upon Ginevra. “You’re not supposed to be in here. This is a private meeting.”

“I was just leaving.” Gin held out the sandwich again. “Do you want it?”

“Food dulls the mind at this hour, and I’ve still got my work cut out for me.” Her dark eyes darted across the room toward a group of men jostling and laughing.

“Hard work in the boys’ club?” Gin asked lightly.

Kirk grunted, shoving closed an open filing cabinet drawer. “They’re not all bad, but it’s the damn Damocles Club influence. They turn to rot everything they touch. Oliver Whitby bought us out last year, and now he controls what we can and can’t write.”

“And what do you want to write?”

“Things that matter—not these pretty little fluff pieces reminiscing about the good old days. Whitby and his cronies fancy themselves the next generation of great writers, but they churn out codswallop.” She grabbed a newspaper from the closest desk and shoved it into Gin’s hand. “‘Musings upon the Isis,’ ‘The Enduring Greatness of Greats’—who bloody cares?” she scoffed. “We’re supposed to be a news source of the students and for the students—educating them, not feeding them this drivel.”

“Hear, hear,” Gin said.

Kirk’s face softened as she leaned on the filing cabinet, and she regarded Ginevra with more charity. “There are real stories to report on, right under our very noses.” Her eyes snaked toward the group of men clapping each other’s backs. “One day, I’m going to write those stories. Then we’ll see who has the last laugh.”