Page 34 of The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies

Despite this lead, the rest of the desk was a chaotic nightmare of half-edited papers. Only the articles on the wall showed any sign of organization, and Gin grew distracted trying to skim the nearest handful as she sorted through the desk’s contents. She paused, frowning as realization dawned. “These are all about the Damocles Club.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.” Iris banged a drawer shut and wrenched open another. “Kirk’s always nattering on about them.”

“But why?”

Audrey shrugged. “I asked about the articles once, and she raved about corruption and collusion before I excused myself. I can’t stand the DC boys either, but she had the manic gleam of someone out for revenge. I wondered if she’d been jilted in love.”

Gin lingered over a black-and-white photo of the Damocles Club members participating in a comedic steeplechase, each dressed in a ridiculous costume as they pretended to ride imaginary horses. It was innocent, juvenile entertainment, but that seemed the measure of the Damocles members’ interests. Any philanthropy on their part was usually taken at the behest of school authorities, often as a recompense for frivolity taken too far.

In a way, the Damocles Club represented the very worst parts of the waning British aristocracy: They were idle, excessive, and elitist—the antithesis of Communism’s ideal citizens—and it was no wonder Marion Kirk disliked them so much if her politics leaned red. But the amount of particular interest leveled at the Damocles Club, versus any other drinking society of the university, was rather peculiar, and Gin considered Audrey’s speculation of a jilting. If Marion was the Kremlin’s informant, could an incident with a club member have motivated her to commit treason?

“Got it!” Iris shook a handful of papers over her head. “I’ll leave Marion a note so she doesn’t think someone ransacked her room.”

“I doubt she’d notice,” Audrey said.

As Iris jotted on a scrap of paper, Gin took one last desperate survey of Marion’s quarters. She backed toward the door, trying to absorb as much as possible, and noticed there was a distinct pattern to the connected pieces on the wall: They spiraled to an epicenter, a single headline that had spawned the madness:

CHRIST CHURCH IN MOURNING

“That’s McKibbin’s step on the stairs,” Audrey hissed.

Gin cursed under her breath as Iris yanked her into the hall.

Audrey relocked the door and bustled them back into her room before the landlady appeared. She leaned against her closed door and beamed. “I haven’t enjoyed such a refreshing bit of mischief since convincing Judith Coxley-Moore that a pack of wolves had her scent. We howled under her window every night, for what, a week?”

“Don’t remind me.” Gin grimaced. “My legs still burn at the memory of those stinging nettles.”

“It taught a bully a lesson, so it was worth it in the end.” Audrey threw her arms around Ginevra. “I’ve certainly missed you! Now that I know you’re domiciled in St. M’s, I’ll haunt your doorstep.” She turned, pressing one ear to the door. “I think you’re safe to depart now. Best of luck with the article, Miss Finchley.”

Iris clasped Audrey’s hand in gratitude, and the girls escaped. Though vexed with herself for not noticing the apparent logic of the articles on the wall sooner, Gin was overall quite pleased with the outing, especially since she’d found Mr. Tolliver’s own trail. It gave her redoubled purpose for digging further into Marion Kirk, for something was most certainly amiss there. Perhaps engaging her with a mutual dislike of the Damocles Club was the way to work deeper into her good graces.

“Is that who I think it is?” Iris stopped walking, and Gin halted beside her. Ahead of them, a woman was emerging from another residence—a woman with dark hair knotted beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat and posture to rival Queen Mary’s.

“Sarita?” Gin called.

Their friend whirled, a hand pressed to her chest. Her shoulders sank. “Heavens, don’t creep up on a person.” She smoothed a loose tendril of hair behind her ear and adjusted her hatpin. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” Iris retorted. “You’re supposed to be studying at the Bod.”

“Oh.” Sarita shifted her handbag. “Not today. The group canceled.”

“Visiting someone then?” Gin asked. The building was more dilapidated than Mrs. McKibbin’s, the brick and paint in bad need of repair. Two men smoked by the servants’ entrance, eyeing them with distrust.

“An errand.” Sarita cleared her throat and backed away. “I really must be going, though. Ms. Hollis is expecting me. I’ll find you at supper!” she called over her shoulder, hastening down the pavement.

“That was odd,” Gin murmured.

“She lied,” Iris said. “She always twitches her nose when she lies—like the time she said my rag curls were flattering, and I looked like a poodle.”

“But why lie about an errand?”

Iris snorted. “Did you not notice her hair? It’s never out of place. And her buttons were done wrong. I think she met a lover.”

“A lover? It didn’t seem like one of the university’s properties.”

“Maybe she met someone outside of school. Only it’s not like her to keep secrets.” Iris pursed her lips, riffling through the handful of papers, and groaned. “I suppose she’ll tell us when she’s ready. And I don’t blame her. I want a lover, not this disaster to type up.”

“Come on,” Gin said, squeezing Iris’s shoulders. “I’ll make you a nice cup of tea and see what biscuits I have squirreled away.”