Page 54 of The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies

“What’s wrong, Susan?” Iris asked.

“I found this while cleaning out Marion’s desk!” Susan pulled back her red cardigan to reveal a copy of Professor Leland’s new memoir. “I’m trying to hide it from Whitby. I don’t want him to see anything that reminds him of Marion’s protest, or he’s sure to lecture us all for another hour!”

Iris grimaced. “God, I wonder if she stole that from the party? Yes, let’s get it out of here quick—” She grabbed Gin’s arm. “Would you drop it by her flat? Do you remember where it is?”

“Yes,” Gin said. “I can do that.” It was bitterly ironic that the perfect excuse to snoop on Marion should present itself when the investigation was leading elsewhere. But it would be good to see Audrey again at the very least. Reminiscing about their escapades at finishing school would always brighten her day.

“And if she’s already left town,” Susan said, “I have her forwarding address.” She shoved the book into Gin’s hands and scampered back to her desk, returning with an index card. “Thank you,” she whispered fervently. “I shall have a breakdown if Whitby yells at us again.”

“If Whitby yells at us again, I’m quitting,” Iris muttered.

“Consider the book vanished.” Gin took the index card and departed, turning down the road toward Mrs. McKibbin’s. But when she scanned the forwarding address, she lurched to a stop on the pavement.

Marion Kirk

c/o Patricia Crowne

Telford Avenue, Ellesmere, Shropshire

Ginevra blinked at the address in disbelief. The Rook had said Robert Crowne came from Shropshire, she was sure of it. If this Patricia Crowne was possibly the same family of Crownes …

Her mind spinning, Gin wheeled about on the pavement and strode in the opposite direction as quickly as her pumps allowed.

If Marion was related to Robert Crowne, then Mr. Tolliver’s whispered die Krone before he died might very well have been a reference to his murderer’s infamous relative.

Chapter Eighteen

Sidney leaned against the bursar’s desk with the phone cradled between his shoulder and jaw, waiting for the operator to connect his call. He still had a touch of adrenaline churning his blood from their escapade in Neville’s office the night before, and revision had felt impossible. Instead of staring out the window, pencil tapping the page, he’d decided to take Felix’s advice and call their parents.

Mr. Jarrod had directed Sidney inside when he requested to use his phone, the old man kindly absenting himself for an afternoon constitutional. Sidney had assumed the bursar took pity on him as a fellow injured ex-serviceman when he’d first asked to earn pocket money with odd jobs. But the accumulation of work requests on Jarrod’s noticeboard since Sidney had stopped helping that term surprised him. Perhaps he was of more use around the college than he realized.

On the third ring, there was an answer. “Hallo, Braithwaite residence.”

“Hi, Mum.”

“Sidney!” Warmth flooded her soft voice. “So good to hear from you, dearie.”

“How is everything?”

“Fine, dearie, just fine. I found yet another box I didn’t unpack last year, and I’ve half a mind to donate it to the charity shop. Surely, I won’t miss whatever’s in there that much.” There was a slight hesitation. “How’s it gan?”

“Fine.” It was the same pattern of pleasant mimicry for all conversations with his parents, and Sidney cleared his throat. “I mean, I’m tired. Busy revising.”

“Of course you are, poor lamb. Mary Beth’s boy is also at Oxford, and she told me—” His mother launched into a winding tale about some hapless youth in Balliol who had been rusticated, but it had impressed upon her how strenuous Sidney’s workload must be. “I understand now, love, why you canna spend much time at home. You do what you must, and know your father and I are proud of thee.”

Sidney twisted the phone cord round his finger until it hurt. “I know, Mum.” He hesitated, struggling to form the words: Home wasn’t the problem; it was him. Only every time he tried to apologize for all the nightmares that had woken up his parents, any explanation threatened to ruin the delicate peace he’d found at Oxford. The less he thought about the years right after the war, the better.

But his mother’s lilting voice pressed on in her cheery manner. “Do you want to speak to your father? He’s in the garden, let me fetch him.”

Without waiting for Sidney’s reply, there was the soft plunk of the receiver dropping onto the kitchen counter, the creak of the back door, and a muffled shout of, “Jim, Sidney’s called.”

Sidney counted down the seconds: his father easing up from the wicker chair he’d set in the front garden to watch birds, the stiff walk along the shell-lined path, changing his shoes for slippers at the door, then shuffling across the faded yellow linoleum. There was a gravelly cough, and his father’s voice said, “Sidney, lad. Good of thee to call.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine, lad, just fine.”

Sidney sent up a silent prayer for patience. James Braithwaite had given up the Cumberland mines only after the doctor said his lungs wouldn’t carry on another five years in such conditions, but Devon had been a hard adjustment for a man as craggy as the northeast coastline. Sidney’s mother, however, was flourishing in the change of scenery. Felix was like her in that regard, a greenhouse plant happy anywhere with food and sunshine.