Poppy was becoming quite familiar now with the twists and turns of the route from her hotel to the centre of Oxford – with or without a bicycle. She clutched the piece of paper that the laboratory assistant had given her that morning with Sophie Blackburn’s address. She had consulted her map and discovered that it was on the same street as the Ashmolean Museum, equidistant from Balliol College and Somerville College. She had a lot to tell Sophie about what she’d found out since they last spoke two days earlier in the churchyard of St Giles. Why, Poppy wondered, hadn’t she kept their appointment last evening? And why hadn’t she gone into work today? Had she heard about the attack on Gertrude Fuller? Did she too believe that Bill Raines and his student, Miles Mackintosh, might have been responsible? Was Sophie staying away out of fear? Poppy thought of the strongly built, strongly willed woman that she knew and dismissed that idea immediately. Poppy crossed the road from the Martyrs’ Memorial and walked past the luxurious Randolph Hotel with its top-hatted doormen and ostentatious red carpet, and onto Beaumont Street. She continued past the impressive classical frontage of the Ashmolean Museum until she reached the residential end, lined on both sides by splendid Regency townhouses. On closer inspection, some of the townhouses had been turned into flats with multiple bells on panels at the front door. Just before she reached the end of the street, and the entrance to Worcester College, she found Sophie’s address: a basement flat.
She walked down the short flight of steps and knocked on the door. She waited. There was no answer. She knocked again. After a couple more tries, she called through the letter box: “Sophie, if you’re in there, it’s Poppy. I need to talk to you!” Again, no answer. Poppy cupped her hands around her face and peered through the window next to the door. She looked into a small entrance hall with a hat and coat stand and a couple of pairs of shoes and boots. There was only one hat and one coat on the stand, and Poppy recognised them as what Sophie had worn to the St Giles meeting. Sophie, Poppy knew, was a woman of frugal taste in fashion. She was the type of person who would wear one coat until it wore out, then get another. She might have a summer and a winter coat, but as it was a mild spring, Poppy doubted she’d be out wearing a heavy winter coat. So, did that mean Sophie was still in the flat? She knocked again, this time on the window. Then, she saw the door from the hall to the rest of the flat quickly open and close. She did not see Sophie, but it was enough to tell Poppy there was definitely someone there. Why wasn’t she answering? Poppy tried the door handle: it was locked.
Convinced now that Sophie was inside but for some reason didn’t want to speak to her, Poppy decided to pretend she was leaving. She made a show of turning and climbing back up the stairs; then, she turned back down Beaumont Street. As soon as she was out of eyeshot she whipped into a side road, which she assumed would lead to the service alley running down the back of Sophie’s terrace. Sure enough, there was an alley with a row of enclosed yards and small gardens. She counted her way down until she came to the back of Sophie’s building. There was a wooden doorway in the high stone wall. Poppy tried the latch: it opened.
She took a deep breath and entered the yard. It was paved, with a garden bench and a cluster of pot plants, beyond which was a line of four bins. Looking up to check that no one in the flats above Sophie was looking down, she approached the basement back entrance. She tried the doorknob and it was open. What should she do? Should she call out to let Sophie know she was there? But if Sophie were hiding from her – or whoever the woman thought she was – then would she answer? Or should she just sneak in and hope to catch Sophie unawares? She decided on the latter, although she reminded herself that Sophie had the potential to be a dangerous woman. She just hoped – and prayed – that she could calm Sophie before she lashed out at her.
Poppy stepped into a kitchen. It was small and neat, just as Poppy had expected it to be. There were no unwashed utensils, so it was hard to tell what Sophie’s last meal had been. Today’s lunch? Breakfast? Last night’s dinner? Poppy pushed open the kitchen door into a short corridor. There were four doors. She pushed open the one next to the kitchen: the bathroom. Clean and tidy with towels dry and hung up. The soap on the sink was completely dry. No one had washed their hands here recently. Poppy heard a creak of a door. Her heart jumped into her mouth. Was that inside the flat or the sound of a door opening upstairs?
She stuck her head out of the bathroom: “Sophie?” she whispered. Again, there was no reply. Had she just imagined that door opening and closing to the hallway earlier? If there was no one here, why was the back door unlocked, and why were Sophie’s hat and coat still hanging in the hall? Perhaps she was overthinking things. Why on earth could Sophie not have a second or even a third hat or coat? And perhaps Sophie simply forgot to lock the back door. Poppy knew that she did, sometimes. But she was not Sophie …
She pushed open two more doors to reveal two bedrooms – both with beds neatly made. One contained a dresser of personal items, so was probably Sophie’s own room; the second, clear of any personal clutter, was the guest room (which Sophie had previously claimed not to have). Sophie was in neither. There was one door left: Poppy pushed it open to reveal a living-cum-dining room in complete disarray. There were books and papers strewn everywhere. All the drawers and cupboards of a dresser were open with their contents spewed across the floor. A writing desk had been ransacked … and then Poppy saw the shoes. A woman’s shoes sticking out from behind a sofa. Poppy rushed over to find Sophie sprawled on the floor, her clothes in disarray, her skirt hitched up around her waist, her underwear pulled down over her thighs. Her face – with her cheek to the floor – was bloodied and bruised. Her eyes were swollen shut. “Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! Sophie!”
Poppy kneeled down, fearing the worst. She gently touched Sophie’s face, expecting it to be ice cold, but was relieved to feel some warmth. And then she saw other signs of life: a twitch, a moan. Sophie was alive. But just.
Poppy found herself, once again, at the Radcliffe Infirmary. She had been there for half an hour, anxiously waiting for the medical staff to tell her that Sophie was going to be all right, when WPC Rosie Winter and a senior male police officer arrived. He was a powerfully built man in a chief constable’s uniform. Poppy watched them as they spoke to the doctor in charge. The doctor pointed to Poppy.
“Miss Denby,” said the senior officer, “I am Chief Constable Fenchurch. And I believe you already know WPC Winter.”
Poppy nodded.
“May we join you?”
“Of course.” Fenchurch and Rosie pulled two chairs into a huddle facing Poppy. Rosie would not meet her eyes.
“So, Miss Denby. This is your second breaking and entering of the day, I believe,” said Fenchurch, as if talking to a naughty six-year-old.
“I did not break in. On either occasion. Both times the doors were unlocked. And both times I was looking for Sophie.”
“How convenient for you that the doors just happened to be unlocked.”
“Yes, it was just a coincidence. And in the second instance, a very lucky one, or Sophie might have died.”
“She might still,” said Fenchurch, but this time he lost his patronising tone.
“Oh Lord, no! Is that what the doctor said?”
Fenchurch nodded and Rosie slumped even lower in her chair. “They’re trying their best, Miss Denby,” said Fenchurch, “but Miss Blackburn has serious injuries. Do you know if she has any family?”
Poppy shook her head. “I don’t think she does, but I’m not entirely sure. My editor knows her better than I do.”
“Your editor – Rollo Rolandson?”
“That’s correct.”
“Are you here on his behest?”
Poppy looked at Fenchurch, trying to read his expression. He was impassive. “If you mean, am I here in a professional capacity, then yes. I have made no secret of my reason for being in Oxford. I am here to write an article on the late June Leighton.”
“So I’ve been told,” said Fenchurch, casting a quick glance at the WPC beside him. Rosie winced. “But what I haven’t been told,” he continued, “is what Sophie Blackburn has to do with it. Professor Sinclair tells me that he questioned Sophie after your first visit, and she claimed she didn’t know you. But that’s not the case, is it?”
Poppy realised that she could not deny it any longer. She had already mentioned that her editor knew Sophie – a slip of the tongue in fraught circumstances – so she decided to come clean. She sighed. “Sophie and I do know each other. We are not close, but her fiancé used to work for the same newspaper I do.”
Fenchurch nodded. “So I believe. And you witnessed his death, didn’t you?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“That was five years ago, wasn’t it? Have you and Miss Blackburn been in touch since?”
Poppy shook her head. “No. Not until recently. I met her at a lecture at the Royal Institution in London last week and she told me about June Leighton’s death.”
“And she asked you to come?”
“Yes.”
“Then why all the secrecy? Why weren’t you and Miss Blackburn above board with this?”
Poppy looked towards the emergency room where the ambulance men had taken Sophie. A nurse came out and another went in. “Because she asked me not to be. Have you ever met Sophie?”
“I have not spoken to her personally,” said Fenchurch.
“Well, if you had you would understand that she is an unusual person. She can be very brusque and – what’s the term psychiatrists use these days – paranoid? Yes, paranoid.”
“I believe she spent some time in a mental institution.”
“She did. But she was released. And was well enough to get a job at a top laboratory. I don’t think Professor Sinclair would have hired her if he didn’t think she was mentally up to the job.”
Fenchurch nodded. “True enough. So why did she invite you here to write an article on her former colleague? There were obituaries in the press after Miss Leighton died. Why did Miss Blackburn believe there needed to be another one, and why were you – from a newspaper that doesn’t even distribute to Oxford – the person to ask?”
Poppy could have shrugged and given an excuse that Sophie thought she might be interested to write something for her Women in the Workplace column, but it was sounding hollower every time she said it. And besides, this investigation was becoming increasingly dangerous. It might be time to finally bring in a police officer who – unlike Rosie – had the power to do something. But she was still reluctant to use the word “murder”. “Because,” she said eventually, “Sophie believed that June Leighton’s death might not have been an accident.”
Chief Constable Fenchurch sat bolt upright. “Oh, did she now? And why, pray tell, didn’t she report her suspicions to the police? She was interviewed after Miss Leighton’s death – as was everyone who worked at the laboratory – and she had nothing to contribute. I can assure you, Miss Denby, if there was any hint that June Leighton’s death had been anything other than an accident it would have been investigated thoroughly. But everyone we spoke to – including our own medical examiner – said there were no suspicious circumstances.”
Poppy shrugged. “Yes, I believe that’s what you were told.”
Fenchurch leaned towards her, and Poppy became aware for the first time of the bulk of the man. “If you are insinuating, Miss Denby, that we did not do a proper job, then you are sadly mistaken.”
“I’m not insinuating anything, Chief Constable; I’m only telling you what Sophie Blackburn told me and why she asked me to come to Oxford. She was concerned that the hypothesis of how June was electrocuted – the clumsiness of it – did not fit her character; neither personal nor professional. So, she asked me to look into it. I did come here prepared to just write an article on a remarkable young female scientist, but I was open to the possibility that there might indeed be more to the story.”
Fenchurch leaned back, easing the degree of physical intimidation. “And is there more to the story?”
For the first time, Rosie glanced up. Poppy tried to catch her eyes, but the WPC averted her gaze.
“Yes, there is,” said Poppy, turning back to Fenchurch, “in terms of the chauvinistic conditions in which June worked, plagiarism of her work and possible ties to—” She almost said, “possible ties to some kind of weapons research” but stopped herself. She had no idea what significance, if any, June’s refusal to work on the weapons research had. She hadn’t yet had time to think that one through. She gave herself a quick internal shake: Pull yourself together, old girl. But Fenchurch’s eyes had narrowed. He leaned in again.
“Possible ties to …?”
“Possible ties to an old boys’ network that covered up the most shocking bullying,” said Poppy, her eyes narrowing in reply.
A flicker of a smile played at the corner of Fenchurch’s mouth. “But no murder.”
“No evidence of murder, no.” Yet, she wanted to add, but didn’t. “However, the attack on Sophie and on Gertrude Fuller last night – just a block away from one another – as well as the tampering with my bicycle, suggests that someone is trying to stop me from finding out the truth. And that someone has a very violent streak.”
Fenchurch leaned back again. “Yes, WPC Winter told me about the bicycle. She also told me that she’d been doing some detective work of her own and discovered that both Miles Mackintosh and Bill Raines were unaccounted for after the Balliol dinner.”
Poppy flashed a look at Rosie, but the policewoman’s eyes remained firmly focused on the floor.
“Yes,” said Poppy. “WPC Winter mentioned that to me.”
“She should not have divulged any information to a civilian. WPC Winter is now on suspension. She is only here now due to the – delicate – nature of Miss Blackburn’s injuries.”
You mean the rape, thought Poppy. “WPC Winter did not divulge anything to me. I tricked her into giving me the information,” said Poppy. “It was not her fault.” This was not in the least bit true, but Poppy felt she had to at least try to help Rosie.
“Well, tricked or not, she should not have told you. However, she has now told me and we are opening a formal investigation.”
Poppy raised an eyebrow. “You are formally investigating Mackintosh and Raines for the attacks?”
“Don’t put words into my mouth, Miss Denby; that’s a foul journalistic habit. We are formally opening an investigation into the attacks. We are keeping an open mind at this stage and interviewing as many people as we can. Up until the discovery of Miss Blackburn, there was no corroborating evidence that Dr Fuller had in fact been attacked. We had witnesses saying they’d seen her tipsy and unsteady on her feet.”
“She told you she was attacked. Isn’t that enough?”
“Not in itself, no. She was drunk. She’d had a blow to her head. Corroboration was needed.”
“And you think you have that now with Sophie’s attack?”
“We have enough to suggest there might be a link. And that link, Miss Denby, is you.”
At this, Rosie did look up. She was as pale as a ghost. “You’re not suggesting that Poppy is a suspect in these attacks, are you, sir?”
Fenchurch snorted. “Well, I might have been if it hadn’t been for the personal nature of the assault on Miss Blackburn. No, Winter, we’ll be looking for a man. But Miss Denby is the obvious link between both the victims.”
Poppy shook her head. “No, Chief Constable Fenchurch; I am not the obvious link. The obvious link is June Leighton. You have one dead woman and two seriously injured ones. I am just the person who poked the hornet’s nest. I think you should seriously consider reopening your investigation into that so-called ‘accident’ in the Crystal Crypt.”
The chief constable raised himself again to his full, seated height. “Do not tell me how to do my job, Miss Denby.”
“I would never dream of it,” said Poppy sweetly, but her eyes were cold.
“Good,” said Fenchurch. “For now, though, I will have one of my men look after you while you are in Oxford. I do not want anything happening to you.”
Oh no, thought Poppy, that’s all I need, someone watching my every move. “That won’t be necessary, thank you.”
“I insist.”
“And I insist that you do not.”
Poppy and Fenchurch stared at one another, neither of them giving an inch. The stalemate was broken by a doctor approaching them. “Just to let you know, we’ve stabilised Miss Blackburn, but she’s still unconscious. She won’t be able to talk to anyone just yet.”
“Thank you, doctor,” said Fenchurch. “I’ll leave WPC Winter here. If Miss Blackburn wakes up, Winter, call me immediately. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir,” said Rosie quietly.
“Good. Now, Miss Denby, I shall escort you out.”
“No thank you, Chief Constable. I can make my own way.” She stood up.
He stood too, towering over her. She turned and walked away. She dared not turn around to see if he followed her, but she sensed that he hadn’t. And she was right.
She then decided to pop into Gertrude Fuller’s room.
However, Gertrude was asleep. One of the graduate students who had been there that morning was sitting at her bedside. She saw Poppy, stood and came to the door.
“Miss Denby, isn’t it?”
“It is. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
The girl smiled. “It’s Annabel. Annabel Seymour. I’m one of Dr Fuller’s PhD students – and her assistant. I’m so glad you came. I went to your hotel earlier to see you, but you weren’t there. I have some information …” Annabel looked over Poppy’s shoulder to see that they were not about to be interrupted, then lowered her voice. “Dr Fuller said I should tell you rather than the police.”
“Oh?” said Poppy, “and why’s that?”
“Because Dr Fuller doesn’t think the police believed her about being attacked last night. She thinks they just think she fell down. But she said that you believe her. Do you?”
Poppy nodded. “I do. But first, tell me how she is doing.”
Annabel looked over at her mentor. “She seems to be all right. She’s asleep now, but that’s just because she’s tired from working on the edits – the ones she asked me to bring her this morning. But you see, that’s what I want to tell you. When I went into Dr Fuller’s rooms, they were in chaos. As if they’d been ransacked. There were books and papers everywhere. Now, Dr Fuller is not the tidiest of people, but this was like a whirlwind had been through the place. I had a jolly old time trying to find the proofs she wanted. Fortunately, they were still intact in a file. But there were other pages strewn all over the place.”
“Goodness,” said Poppy. “That is worrying. Did you ask anyone if they’d seen anything? The fellow on the gate, for instance?”
Annabel shook her head. “I didn’t, no. I was so shocked I just ran straight here and told Dr Fuller. And then she asked me to tell you.”
Poppy nodded sagely. Gertrude Fuller’s rooms had been ransacked. Sophie Blackburn’s sitting room had been ransacked. If this was just random violence, why had he – and Poppy was now sure it was a he – attacked Dr Fuller and then taken the trouble to go to her rooms and ransack the place? It seemed very likely that he was looking for something. But what? In both cases it was papers that were scattered around. Was the attacker looking for papers? The only thing that connected Sophie and Gertrude – as far as Poppy knew – was an association with June Leighton.
Papers … June Leighton’s papers …
“Annabel, do you by any chance know if June Leighton left any notebooks or papers with Dr Fuller? And if she did, whether Dr Fuller kept any of her papers after she died?”
Annabel thought for a moment and said, “I don’t think so. I helped Dr Fuller pack up June’s things from her room and sent them off to her family in London. There were papers in there. Scientific papers, if I recall. But I don’t remember Dr Fuller keeping any of them. I mean, why would she? She’s not a scientist.” Indeed, thought Poppy, why would she? Sophie, on the other hand, might very well have kept any papers she found at the lab … but if she did, why didn’t she tell me?
Poppy smiled at the student. “Thank you, Annabel. Will you please ask Dr Fuller about it when she wakes up again? And then come to the hotel and tell me? If I’m not there, then leave a note in a sealed envelope at the front desk. Can you do that for me?”
The girl’s eyes were wide with intrigue. “Of course, Miss Denby. Goodness, do you think someone attacked Dr Fuller on purpose? That it wasn’t just a mugging?”
“I do, Annabel, I’m afraid. So do be careful yourself. I don’t want to scare you, but try not to walk around on your own. Bring a friend with you to the hotel. Promise me?”
The girl paled. “Yes, Miss Denby, I think that would be wise.”