“Another drink, Miss Aubrey Havelock?” said Beatrice, proffering a tray full of sherry.
“Mhm, they look delicious, but I’d better not. Thank you, Beatrice. How are you getting on?” Fina enquired.
“Just fine, miss. Quite the party, isn’t it?” Beatrice said, looking admiringly out over the din. The crowd had thinned a bit. “Which one of the guests is Mr Gasthorpe?”
Fina waved a shaking hand in the direction of a doughy man in a blue serge suit near the doorway. His choice of clothing was infuriating – not because of the clothing itself, but because it was supposed to indicate Gasthorpe was a “man of the people”, although his suit was clearly Savile Row.
“That man does like his pipe,” said Beatrice. “He’s constantly topping it up.” She shook her head in disapproval. Perhaps she was afraid of the mess created by constantly filling one’s pipe.
Wanting to steer the conversation away from the Gasbag, Fina said, “I woke up early this morning. I thought I saw you in the quad. You must be quite a diligent scout to get up that early.”
Beatrice’s curls began to tremble and the tray cocked itself at a rather dangerous angle as she still stared at Gasthorpe. Fina raised the tray, almost imperceptibly, to avoid disaster.
“Oh, it wasn’t me, miss. That must have been someone else you saw,” she said hurriedly. She licked her lips. “I see Dean Ossington is waving to me by the fireplace. Excuse me, miss, I must find out what she wants.”
She scuttled off toward the fireplace. Her white cap escaped and fell to the floor. Fina retrieved it and joined the dean by the fireplace. After she had returned the cap to its rightful owner – who immediately rushed off to another corner of the room – she turned to Dean Ossington.
“Lovely party, isn’t it?” said the dean.
Resplendent in navy lace, contrasting nicely with her pearls, the dean sipped her glass of sherry. She seemed to be one of the few who partook of the sherry.
“Mhm,” was all Fina could manage to reply. She looked over at the corner where her friends were still lounging. Ruby was clearly half listening to Pixley and half watching Fina. James Matua had joined the party and had cornered Gayatri with grand hand gestures.
“You know, Miss Aubrey-Havelock, this party is going so well that I do believe Mr Gasthorpe might give the college some of the funding we so sorely need. You know he fully supports women’s equality.”
“Really?” Fina knew her one-word replies were not what was expected of the rarefied intellectual atmosphere of Oxford, but it was all she could manage at the moment.
Dean Ossington leaned over with a conspiratorial glance around the room. “I’ve decided to take Miss Dove’s advice … about a trap,” she said in a hushed voice.
Fina leaned in closer. “What made you change your mind?”
The dean smiled and nodded out at the crowd as if they were chatting about a light and relatively vapid subject. “A very valuable silver cow creamer was stolen from one of the common rooms. We keep it in a glass case, but never worried about anyone taking it. It’s worth a great deal, but you wouldn’t necessarily know just by looking at it. Its value derives not only from the silver, but from the fact it is a rare antique.”
“A cow creamer?” asked Fina to no one in particular. “Ah, now I remember. It was in a curio case in the corner of the largest common study room, correct?”
“Exactly. I decided Miss Dove’s supposition about the increasing bravery – or hopefully carelessness – of our college pilferer demanded more decisive action. Observe the fireplace mantel, Miss Aubrey-Havelock. There are a number of worthless knick-knacks on it, but there is one item of real value. Can you identify it?”
Fina squinted at the mantel. She saw a photograph framed in what looked to be wood, a bronze carriage clock, a porcelain figurine, and another wood-framed picture, though this appeared to be some sort of certificate. “I don’t know, Dean Ossington. Perhaps the carriage clock?”
Another voice chimed in. “What carriage clock? The carriage clock of time, what?”
Fina turned back toward the dean to see the new arrival. She was surprised she could manage even that at the sound of that voice. Gasbag.
“Dear Miss Ossington—” he said rather unctuously.
“It’s Dean Ossington, if you don’t mind, Mr Gasthorpe,” she said firmly.
He gave her a look of mock surprise. Then he chomped on his pipe. This man was simply the end. The end.
“So sorry, Dean Ossington. Have you met my personal secretary, Jack Devenish?” he said, placing one hand casually on his secretary’s shoulder. Fina had seen the man during the lecture, but couldn’t quite figure out what role he played in the Gasbag show. Tall, with thinning sandy hair, he had the appearance of a man who had gone to seed before his time. He wore a loud checked suit which Fina could have appreciated as edgy if worn in another context, along with a rather garish tie which appeared to have little racing cars speckling the front of it.
He stuck out a hand to Dean Ossington as if he were ready to sell her some rather dubious housecleaning products. “Pleased to meet you, Dean Ossington,” he said with an affable grin. He said “Dean” as if it were her first name, rather than a title. Must stop judging, Fina admonished herself. But she couldn’t help it – anyone associated with Harold Baden Gasthorpe was bound to receive rather poor marks from Fina. There was something odd about the man, aside from that, however. His overly forward, affable manner. It was rather … American. At least in her head it was American. Fina hadn’t met too many Americans in person, and so most of her images came from films.
“And who is this lovely lady?” asked Devenish of Dean Ossington as if he were enquiring about the name of a child’s favourite toy. Definitely a tinge of an American accent.
“I’m Fina Aubrey-Havelock,” she said simply, offering her hand to him out of forced politeness. She reminded herself she was being kind for the dean as well as the college.
She turned slightly on her heel to observe Gasthorpe’s face. He had puffy eyelids and slightly bloodshot eyes. Little wonder given his immense productivity – too bad he couldn’t be a little less prolific.
He stopped in the middle of inserting more tobacco into his pipe from a small tin he had taken from his pocket.
“Well, Miss Aubrey-Havelock. Pleased to meet you face-to-face. I’ve heard a lot about you. Or I ought to say, I’ve heard it mostly secondhand when I was researching your brother’s case,” he said, gently taking her hand from her side. He had a slightly adenoidal tinge to his voice that made him even more irritating. “Yes, I’ve found out some very interesting information about your family.”
“Mr Gasthorpe, I—” intervened Jack.
“Calm yourself, Jack, I can handle this,” he retorted.
Fina snatched her hand away. She blurted out, “May the devil make a ladder of your backbone and pluck apples in the garden of hell!” Seizing one of the nearby half-full sherry glasses, she splattered the contents in his face. His bulging eyes and blotchy face prompted her to take further action.
She socked him in the jaw.
He tipped over backwards like a set of dominos.