An Oxford Scandal Read online

  Laurel sniffed. She didn’t want to think about the flirtatious Martha Doyle. It was true, she hadn’t seemed bothered by Gideon’s questions — the way those hungry eyes had been roving over him, Martha’s mind had been on other things entirely, Laurel thought with a sneer.

  But she saw Gideon had a point about the other two. ‘Right. We can’t just waltz in and demand to know what they did when they left the party.’

  Gideon suspected that’s precisely what she’d like to do, given half the chance, but he was glad she was thinking sensibly about it. He looked across at her with a funny kind of smile on his face. ‘I daresay you could come in quite useful after all.’

  Laurel flushed. ‘Gee, thanks.’

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘About my being useful?’ she asked archly.

  ‘No. About telling people that the chalice is gone. After all, it can only be Dr Ollenbach or Dr Ngabe, can’t it? We know Sir Laurence never left the room, and I know I didn’t take it. And it can only be someone who knew about the alarm being faulty — no one else would take the risk.’

  ‘You’re leaving out your precious Martha.’

  ‘Hell,’ Gideon said. He had too. ‘OK. So it’s Martha or one of the other two. The thing is, what do we tell them?’

  As he spoke, he indicated and pulled up outside a large white-fronted villa.

  Laurel sighed. ‘You’re right. We’ve got to tell them about the missing chalice, otherwise they’re not going to answer any questions. And it’s not as if we’ll be telling the guilty party something they don’t already know. In fact, I guess they’ll be wondering why it isn’t in all the papers by now.’

  Gideon smiled. ‘I doubt it. They’d know the college would instantly go into “damage limitation” mode.’

  Laurel nodded. ‘So we tell them we’re investigating the theft. On the quiet, before the police are called in.’

  Gideon noticed that she didn’t hold out much hope that the guilty party would have a fit of remorse and offer to give the chalice back.

  ‘But will they keep quiet about it? The innocent ones, I mean,’ she asked curiously.

  ‘I expect so,’ Gideon said. ‘They won’t want to be associated with it in any way at all. In Oxford, your reputation is all that matters. How many books you’ve written, and how well the critics received them. What lecture tours you get invited on. Who you know. What you know. And never having a breath of scandal breathed on you. That’s all that matters. Not money, not looks, not personality. Your whole life depends on your academic performance and personal reputation. Divorce can still damage a person here if it’s messy or scandalous. And a college like St Bede’s, with a big Theology school, is even more concerned about its staff’s behaviour than most. If people get so much as a whiff of things not being quite right, students suddenly stop wanting to attend your tutorials, your lectures, your college. People begin to talk. The rumour mill gets going. People — important people — begin to feel embarrassed by being associated with you, and when that happens, principals look for ways to get rid of you. Then it’s down the drain time. Oh yes. Everyone will keep quiet all right — guilty and innocent alike.’

  Laurel, listening to him, had gone pale. ‘I had no idea you lived such a precarious lifestyle. I thought you had it pretty cosy, in fact.’

  Gideon, who had it very cosy indeed, felt himself flushing. Then wondered why he should feel so guilty. It was hardly his fault if he was a blameless high-flyer!

  Grumpily, he got out of the car, unaware that Laurel was watching his unfolding, swinging out and rising, all in one graceful movement, with open-jawed admiration and envy. She herself had to struggle to get up and clamber out, feeling a bit like a cannon ball trying to squeeze through the mouth of a milk bottle.

  She shut the car door, grumbling under her breath. The Morgan would have to go! Why couldn’t he drive a Rolls-Royce like anyone else with any sense? But as she looked down at the crouching green car, she couldn’t help but admire the rounded look of it, the old, utterly British elegance of the thing. And Gideon did look so spectacular in it.

  Well, perhaps the Morgan could stay.

  She suddenly laughed at herself. Who was she kidding? Hell, she’d give him anything, promise him anything, if only he’d take her in his arms and kiss her again.

  How silly, how ludicrous, to be so utterly in love with a man who’d only kissed her once. No. Correction. She’d kissed him, as she recalled. And he hadn’t been too pleased about it.

  She suddenly snapped out of it as she realised he was looking at her quizzically.

  ‘Are you going to stand there daydreaming all day or are you coming inside?’ he asked, with definite condescension in his voice now.

  Laurel smiled. ‘Bah! I’d like to see you question the good Felicity Ollenbach all by yourself. She’d have you tied in knots in ten seconds flat.’

  Gideon watched her march past him, head in the air, plait tossing pertly against her rump, and took a deep breath.

  Laurel pressed the doorbell aggressively and took a step back.

  The house was set in a large expanse of ground, neatly tended by a professional gardener by the looks of it. The window frames had been recently painted. ‘Very nice.’ she murmured. ‘This place must be worth at least—’

  The door opened abruptly. Laurel, who had been planning to use a hearty, all-American-girls-together approach, found herself unexpectedly thwarted.

  For on the doorstep stood a young, very handsome man, with a shapely but petulant-looking mouth, a head of curly brown hair and deep-set, appealing grey eyes.

  ‘Oh,’ she said blankly.

  ‘You must be Mr Ollenbach?’ Gideon, sensing her sudden confusion, put in smoothly.

  ‘No. Yes. I mean, I am Felicity’s husband, but my name is Westlake. So is hers, if she thought it was good enough to use. Which she obviously doesn’t.’

  There was a short, appalled silence.

  What a louse, Laurel thought. Bad-mouthing his wife in front of complete strangers. If I were Felicity, I’d soon tell this clown where to get off.

  Gideon, however, had a far more professional reaction to the sneering statements.

  There was obviously some deep-rooted resentment towards his wife’s success, he thought clinically. Which meant that he must be insecure in his own professional life. He wondered if the man was a manual labourer, but a quick look at his hands showed him this was not the case.

  He’d also been drinking, Gideon noticed, recognising all the tell-tale signs. ‘Is your wife at home?’ he asked politely, carefully not calling her by the name of Ollenbach. No point antagonising him any further.

  ‘Sure she is. Though she’s off to the brain mill before long.’

  Gideon, who knew Dr Ollenbach’s college fairly well, wondered what the dean of that august house would think of his establishment being referred to as a ‘brain mill’.

  Gideon stepped inside, barely glancing around. He was too busy studying the handsome young man who, with obvious ill grace, was leading them to the rear of the house.

  Laurel, however, took a good look at her surroundings. Nice chandelier, definitely authentic. A few good paintings, a Venetian mirror. All in all, a sophisticated hallway. Certainly one to impress guests.

  Just as they were rounding a corner, she spotted a letter that appeared to have been hastily tossed onto an antique occasional table. The large block letters in aggressive red type at the top caused her to slow her pace: a debt collection notice. Laurel tried to see who it was from, but there wasn’t much she could glean without picking it up, and there was no way she could do that without having to answer a lot of uncomfortable questions.

  Gideon turned to glare at her and she hurried along, entering a charming library-cum-den just behind him. The one big window overlooked a large garden, and a high wall surrounded the property.

  ‘Flick. Visitors.’

  Dr Felicity Ollenbach was sitting on a large leather sofa and she rose slowly, a pu
zzled look on her face.

  ‘Professor Welles. Miss Van Gilder. How nice.’

  ‘Welles?’ the sharp, ugly-toned voice came from Clive Westlake.

  Gideon, looking from his colleague to her spouse, suddenly realised the large age difference that existed between them. He felt an unexpected shaft of pity for Felicity. Then he felt an equally nasty jolt of shame.

  Who was he to instantly jump to conclusions?

  ‘So you’re the jammy creep who won the chair,’ Clive said, swaggering over to the sofa and flopping down into it. Something in the boneless way he did it made Laurel blink. It was barely nine o’clock in the morning, but the man was already drunk!

  The atmosphere in the room was as ugly as a pea-soup fog in an industrial complex.

  ‘Yes, I won the Van Gilder chair,’ Gideon admitted levelly. He looked in apology at his colleague.

  He could see the agony and apprehension shining in her eyes, although she was using every trick in the book to hide it. She was carefully monitoring her body language, forcing herself to sit back down, imitating a woman at ease with herself and the world.

  Once again, he felt a shaft of pity assail him. ‘I’m sorry, this is obviously a bad time to call,’ he said, and made backward shuffling movements towards the door.

  For the first time since he started this crusade, he began to realise what investigating a sensitive theft actually entailed. It wasn’t all going to be clues and deduction. It meant grubbing around in people’s lives.

  Laurel shot him a half-angry, half-loving look. Just as she thought. Putty in a woman’s hands.

  ‘Hello, Mr Westlake, we haven’t been properly introduced,’ Laurel attacked the obvious weak link in the chain with one of her brightest smiles. ‘I’m Laurel Van Gilder.’

  She walked forward and held out her hand. Clive smiled nastily and deigned to take it.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he drawled, and held on to her fingers, insolently rubbing them suggestively with his own. Laurel kept her smile firmly in place, even as her flesh crawled. ‘You’re the woman who gave him the chair. How nice of you.’

  Laurel slowly withdrew her hand. ‘Actually, Mr Westlake, I didn’t give him anything,’ she said sweetly. ‘An independent board of academics voted on who was to be awarded the chair and then informed me of their decision. I merely handed over the prize.’

  ‘And all that money,’ Clive added. But there was a bitter tone of angst in his voice now, overriding that of sneering loathing. Felicity cast him an agonised look.

  Gideon, in that moment, understood it all. It was not the loss of prestige that mattered here. It was the loss of the money that went with it.

  An academic could make a lot of money or very little. And he knew from experience that even those who earned huge fees very often invested it badly. How many of his friends, brilliant in their own fields, were hopeless at handling money?

  ‘Of course, the fact that you and Professor Welles obviously get on so well together has nothing to do with it, hm?’ Clive drawled suggestively.

  Laurel laughed. It cut Clive down to size like nothing else could. ‘I first met Professor Welles at the prize-giving,’ she lied superbly. ‘But I must say, Dr Ollenbach, that after meeting you, I was rather hoping that it was your name in the envelope after all. I was feeling a bit surrounded by all those Englishmen.’

  Felicity managed a smile. ‘Oh, we Americans can hold our own.’

  ‘Come to gloat then, have you, Professor Welles?’ Clive once more turned the atmosphere nasty.

  ‘Clive!’ Felicity cried.

  ‘No,’ Gideon said quietly. ‘We came to ask you, Felicity, if you saw anything at the party that might help explain a rather unfortunate incident that occurred some time that night.’

  ‘Eh? What’s this?’ Clive demanded, before his wife could say a word.

  ‘I’m afraid the Augentine chalice that comes with the chair for the duration was stolen,’ Laurel said. ‘The same night of the party. In fact, while the party was going on.’

  She was looking at Clive, Gideon at Felicity. Both of them went pale and looked bewildered.

  But whereas Felicity looked apprehensive, her husband began to bluster.

  ‘Is that how you eggheads describe theft, is it? An unfortunate incident?’

  ‘Were you at the party, Mr Westlake?’ Laurel put in sweetly. ‘I’m sure I would have remembered seeing you there.’

  ‘No,’ Felicity said quickly. ‘Clive had an audition. He had to go to the playhouse to read for a part.’

  So he was an actor, Gideon and Laurel thought simultaneously. That, perhaps, explained quite a lot.

  ‘Did you get it?’ Laurel couldn’t resist asking, because she’d already guessed the answer. Clive’s unlovely flush confirmed her suspicions.

  ‘No,’ he said shortly.

  ‘And I’m afraid I can’t help you either,’ Felicity said, with a touch of asperity. ‘I saw nothing unusual. And why should I? A thief was hardly likely to gatecrash the party, was he?’

  Laurel recognised Felicity’s loyalty to her man, and felt a bit guilty for taking potshots at him. She gave herself a stern reminder to stick to the facts.

  ‘We were wondering if you saw anything unusual when you left the party. You were gone for a little while, weren’t you?’ she said calmly.

  Felicity started. ‘How did you . . . well, I . . . no.’

  ‘What on earth is this?’ Clive broke in. ‘What are you implying?’

  ‘We’re not implying anything,’ Gideon cut in. ‘We’re just trying to get to the bottom of this before calling in the police.’

  Felicity paled even further. But that meant nothing, Gideon realised. Hadn’t he just explained to Laurel how being mixed up in a police matter, even if you were innocent, would be something for any don to fear?

  Clive looked uneasily from the two visitors to his wife. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said slowly. ‘I think you two ought to leave.’

  ‘Where did you go, Dr Ollenbach?’ Laurel said quietly but firmly.

  ‘Outside for some air. I walked around the Fellows’ Garden for a bit. Those weeping silver birches are quite something to see in the moonlight. I had a drink with me. To be quite honest, I was rather disappointed at not winning the chair. I just wanted a few minutes to myself. I didn’t notice anything wrong. The last time I saw the chalice, it was when we were coming back from Hall . . .’ her voice trailed off.

  She looked at Gideon with blank eyes. ‘I didn’t take it.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who might have done?’ he asked softly. He was hating this. Hating it.

  But Felicity shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘And you didn’t see anything suspicious?’ Gideon asked.

  ‘Nothing at all out of the ordinary?’ Laurel pressed relentlessly.

  Dr Ollenbach smiled grimly. ‘I wasn’t in a “noticing” sort of mood.’

  Clive shifted restlessly on his seat and thrust out his chin belligerently. ‘Here, who do you think you are? Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot?’ he sneered, laughing at his own joke of comparing a huge man like Welles with the diminutive Agatha Christie detective.

  ‘No, but let’s hope we’re as successful as they are. Or else it’s the police, I’m afraid,’ Gideon said, looking at Clive, who flushed. ‘Well, if you think of anything . . .’ he said, preparing to leave, then, ‘Oh, by the way, I don’t suppose you took any pictures of the party?’

  ‘No, I didn’t have a camera,’ Dr Ollenbach said.

  ‘But someone did,’ Laurel said, suddenly remembering a man dressed in a dinner suit who’d been happily snapping away. She described him to Gideon, who thought he might be a Philosophy don invited by the principal.

  ‘We’ll call on him, see if he’s got them developed yet,’ Gideon said as Felicity, obviously relieved to be able to show them to the door, accompanied them out.

  Her husband, mercifully for all concerned, stayed seated. Probably too drunk to get up, Laurel thought waspishly
.

  At the front door, they said somewhat stilted goodbyes and Dr Ollenbach closed the door after them.

  Once back in the car, Laurel glanced across at Gideon. ‘My house is just up a few hundred yards here. Do you want to stop for elevenses?’

  ‘Why not?’ he agreed tiredly.

  He was not surprised to discover that her house was a plush villa, even bigger and better than the Ollenbach residence.

  This time Laurel got out of the car with a little more dignity. Practice, they said, made perfect.

  Inside, she led him straight to the kitchen, watching him pull out a chair and lean his elbows on the table. She liked his presence, here in her own ‘space’. He seemed to fill it just right.

  She made him tea and cut him a slice of store-bought cake. She was no pastry chef.

  ‘Well, what do you make of them?’ she asked, when they were finally sitting opposite each other in the cosy kitchen.

  ‘I think they might be in financial trouble,’ he said.

  ‘And you’d be right,’ Laurel confirmed, with just the slightest note of smugness to her voice.

  Gideon raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh yes? What makes you so certain? Feminine intuition, is it?’ he demanded, with a wicked glint in his eye.

  ‘Hah! More like hard evidence. I saw a debt collection notice on the table in their hallway. Why do you think I was hanging back when you turned to glare at me? Which was charming, by the way.’

  ‘I thought you were loitering to size up their antiques,’ he said, then heaved a long sigh. ‘So they are in trouble.’

  ‘And she was gone from the party — she admitted as much,’ Laurel pointed out.

  His eyes flashed blue electricity at her. ‘Well? So was I. That doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘You just don’t want it to be her, or any of them. Admit it.’

  Gideon sighed and shook his head. ‘You’re right,’ he admitted simply. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘But the Ollenbach house isn’t far away from the college, is it? If she had her car with her, it would only have taken her a few minutes to drive home, drop the chalice off, and nip back. That way, even if someone noticed the chalice was gone right away and instigated a search, it wouldn’t be found.’