University Secrets
Gossip spreads quickly on campus ...
UNIVERSITY SECRETS
Also by Jack Sheffield
The Teacher Series
Teacher, Teacher!
Mister Teacher
Dear Teacher
Village Teacher Please Sir!
Educating Jack School’s Out!
Silent Night Star Teacher Happiest Days Starting Over Changing Times Back to School School Days
Last Day of School
The University Series
University Tales
University Challenges
University Secrets
Short Story
An Angel Called Harold
UNIVERSITY SECRETS
1990/91
Jack Sheffield
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Acknowledgements
In the late eighties I moved from my headship into higher education. It gave me the opportunity to teach again and encourage the next generation of teachers. I remember this time in my life well and have recounted it in this, the third novel in the University series, through the eyes of my hero character, Tom Frith.
It was a wrench to leave behind my Teacher series of fifteen novels but refreshing to have this new impetus to my writing. The University series became the new project and for that I have to thank my hardworking editor at Penguin Random House, the ever-patient Imogen Nelson.
I have been fortunate over the years to have had the support of the excellent team at Transworld. Special thanks must go to Viv Thompson, who puts up with the fact I am a frustrated copy-editor at heart. Her cheerful and understanding correspondence keeps me grounded and, along with copy-editor Richenda Todd and proofreader Debs Warner, she continues to improve my novels.
There is a terrific literary agent out there who usually phones me when he is walking his dog. I refer to Phil Patterson of Marjacq Scripts. It was a partnership that began with a chicken and lettuce sandwich at the Winchester Writers’ Conference in 2006. Bribery was never this cheap! In return he promised to read my first novel, Teacher, Teacher, and we’ve never looked back since. If you’re ever interested in Airfix Modelling Kits circa 1980, he’s the man for you.
My main supporter is, of course, my wife Elisabeth. Her patience is remarkable. The discussions we have about developing plots while enjoying her latest culinary creation are always eventful. Writing novels is a way of life for me now. With the support I have around me, may it long continue.
There are a host of wonderful booksellers and events managers out there. Particular thanks must go to Steph at Waterstones Milton Keynes, Nick at Waterstones York, Fiona at Waterstones Alton and Sam at Waterstones Basingstoke.
Finally, if you’ve borrowed this book from your local library, keep in mind they are the cornerstone of a cultural society. The eight-year-old Jack who visited Compton Road Library in Leeds began a journey that is now well travelled.
Prologue
Conversations . . . countless words. They fill our waking days, yet most are soon forgotten. Everyday chatter can drift away like ripples in a pond, but there are times when words are spoken – and secrets shared – that are remembered and may change lives forever. Where dreams are either fulfilled or cast aside and shattered.
Such a day was dawning for Tom Frith, a thirty-fouryear-old lecturer at the University of Eboracum in the City of York. It was Monday, 10 September 1990, and an eventful academic year stretched out before him.
On this sunlit autumn morning he strode confidently into the reception hall, an old leather satchel over his shoulder. He walked hand-in-hand with his new fiancée, Inger Larson. Back in July, at the end of term after the staff dinner dance, the Norwegian music lecturer had happily accepted Tom’s proposal of marriage and he was content with his good fortune. Since then it had been a whirlwind summer, with a visit to Oslo to meet up with
University
Inger’s family, a holiday in France and the selection of an engagement ring.
Peter Perkins, the cheerful head porter, immaculate as always in his blazer and regimental tie, looked up from behind his desk. ‘Congratulations, Dr Frith, Dr Larson. Everyone is thrilled at the news.’
‘Thanks, Perkins,’ said Tom. ‘I’m a lucky man.’ He looked into Inger’s blue eyes. ‘I still can’t believe she said yes.’
Perkins smiled at the tall, broad-shouldered lecturer. ‘You make a fine couple.’ Then he glanced up again at this imposing yet gentle woman. She looked tanned and healthy after their holiday in the Dordogne. ‘Dr Larson is a special lady.’
‘Oh, Perkins,’ said Inger with a twinkle in her eyes, ‘you say the nicest things.’
‘I’m just so pleased for you both,’ he said.
‘Anyway, I must rush,’ said Inger. ‘I’ve arranged to meet up in the music room with some of my first years who arrived over the weekend.’ She smiled at Tom as she hurried away. ‘See you at the staff meeting.’
The music room was empty when Inger walked in, and as she began to unpack her shoulder bag, she reflected on the words of the friendly head porter. Yes, she and Tom made a fine couple. It had taken time but she had realized that not only was he a good man whom she had grown to love, but he would keep her safe.
For too long she had lain awake at nights recalling the terror of that terrible time in Norway. Four years had passed since Kai Pedersen had come briefly into her life.
The suave engineer had impressed her with his work on Norway’s Atlanterhavsveien, the Atlantic Ocean Road, built on several small islands and connected with viaducts and eight bridges. She and Kai had been enjoying a drive out to the largest of them, the Storseisundet Bridge, when it happened. At first he had kissed her gently but then had lost control. ‘Jeg vil ha deg nå,’ he had muttered. ‘I want you now.’ She had ripped his cheek with her nails in the struggle, but it was to no avail. What had followed had been brutal.
She had told no one, not her parents and definitely not her younger brother, Andreas. He would have sought retribution. Applying for the teaching post in York had been an opportunity to move on and dedicate her life to music. It was only when she had finally come to trust Tom that she shared her story and made him promise never to reveal it. Since then, it was rare for her to relive those moments in the still of the night. The memory that had seared her soul was distant now and she had found a kind of peace with the man she loved.
Back in reception, Perkins put a large carrier bag on the counter. ‘This is your mail. Lots of cards from your colleagues in the faculty. Your pigeonhole would have been overflowing if I’d stuffed all these in.’
‘Thanks,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll take them to my study and open them there.’
‘So when’s the big day?’ asked Perkins. ‘Undecided. Probably sometime next year.’ He pushed his long brown wavy hair from his eyes and smiled. ‘There’s a lot to do before then.’
The telephone on the counter rang and Perkins answered it. ‘Yes, Professor. Dr Frith is here now,’ and he passed the receiver over to Tom. ‘Professor Grammaticus, for you.’
‘Good morning,’ said Tom, slightly surprised to receive a call at the reception desk.
‘Tom . . . glad I’ve caught you. Spotted you both coming in from my window. Can you call in for a chat?’
‘Of course,’ said Tom. ‘Shall I collect the teachingpractice file from my study? I’ve completed the work we discussed.’
‘No, just bring yourself.’ There was a pause.
‘What is it, Victor?’
‘Tom . . . the police are here.’
Chapter One
A Day of Letters
Perkins grinned and stared after the young lecturer in his baggy oatmeal cord suit. ‘Young love,’ he murmured to himself. ‘I remember it well.’
Tom wondered why the police were in Victor’s study and hoped there hadn’t been an accident or a problem with one of the new students. He strode quickly through a dramatic Victorian archway and down a flight of Yorkshire stone steps. Before him was the familiar sight of the ancient quadrangle, which seemed frozen in time. A verdant lawn was bordered by a path of worn cobblestones and surrounded by walls of weathered brick. There were high sash windows beneath the steep rooftops of grey slate tiles. This was where the original teacher-training college had opened its doors over one hundred and fifty years ago.
Beyond the quadrangle was another archway that led to the buildings of the latter part of the twentieth century. There were impressive lecture halls alongside tall, pebble-dashed blocks for student accommodation, but
Tom’s attention was elsewhere. He walked around the quad, opened the door marked ‘Alcuin’ and climbed the metal stairs to the top floor. There was an imposing study door on which a brass plate read:
Professor Victor Grammaticus Head of Faculty of Education
He knocked twice and walked in.
‘Morning Tom,’ said Victor with a welcoming smile. ‘Thanks for calling in.’
The professor was beginning his second year as the Faculty Head. He cut a distinctive figure: stick-thin with long grey hair tied back in an incongruous ponytail. Over his crisp white shirt and blue bow tie he wore a black waistcoat. He gestured to a balding, heavy-set man in a well-worn suit standing beside him. ‘Tom, this is Detective Chief Inspector Greybourne from York Police. He has some news for us.’
The chief inspector looked impassive and stared at Tom for a moment. ‘You’re Dr Thomas Frith.’
‘Yes, I am. How can I help?’
‘That’s to be decided,’ he murmured. There was a pause while the inspector took out a notebook and riffled through the pages.
Victor broke what was becoming an awkward silence. ‘Tom, the chief inspector had a meeting this morning with the Vice Chancellor. It concerns a letter that was delivered to York Police Station.’
‘Really, what about?’ asked Tom.
‘Dr Wallop,’ said Victor.
A Day of Letters
The chief inspector studied his notebook. ‘Dr Frith . . . you will recall that on Friday, the ninth of June 1989, Dr Edna Wallop’ – he glanced at Victor – ‘your predecessor as Head of Faculty, suffered fatal injuries following a fall.’
‘That’s correct,’ said Victor. ‘The verdict was accidental death. We were informed that Dr Wallop had tripped at the top of the stairs.’
‘A dreadful day,’ said Tom.
The chief inspector studied Tom carefully. ‘We’ve received a letter indicating it may not have been an accident.’
‘Really!’ exclaimed Tom. ‘Who sent it?’
Chief Inspector Greybourne remained impassive. ‘It was anonymous. So we’re obliged to look into it once again. It’s the way we work.’
‘I see,’ said Tom.
The chief inspector closed his notebook. ‘One of my colleagues will be back this week to talk to you and other interested parties. I’ll make the arrangements with the Vice Chancellor’s PA. Thank you for your time. That’s all for now.’ He departed quickly, leaving both Victor and Tom looking bemused.
‘Strange,’ murmured Victor.
‘Exactly,’ said Tom. ‘Who on earth would want to reopen the case?’
‘I guess they’re just doing their job,’ mused Victor. He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Well, not quite the start to the new academic year I imagined.’ He smiled at Tom. ‘Faculty meeting at ten. We’ll catch up later with your teaching-practice file.’
‘Fine,’ said Tom.
‘And congratulations,’ said Victor. ‘You and Inger will make a great team.’
Tom grinned and set off for his study.
On the winding tree-lined path out of the university the detective paused. Before him was Lord Mayor’s Walk with its busy morning traffic and, beyond that, the ancient city walls, mellow in the morning sunlight. He took a folded photocopied sheet of paper from his pocket, opened it and stared at the typed letter.
It read:
The death of Dr Edna Wallop at Eboracum University on the evening of Friday, 9 June 1989 needs reinvestigating.
It was no accident.
In particular, Professor Victor Grammaticus and Dr Thomas Frith both benefitted from her demise.
Greybourne replaced it in his pocket and looked up suddenly as a parliament of rooks in the high elms screamed a warning. As he drove back to York Police Station he wondered about the sheltered world of academia.
Tom walked along Cloisters corridor to Room 7. The label on the door read ‘O. Llewellyn/T. Frith’.
When he walked in, a stocky, suntanned Welshman looked up from his desk. ‘Welcome back, boyo,’ said Owen. ‘Thought we could celebrate tonight with a pint.’
Tom had shared a study with Owen for the past two years and they had become firm friends. The superbly fit son of the valleys taught physical education and coached the university’s rugby team. ‘Good idea,’ said Tom, but his mind was elsewhere.
Owen picked up on Tom’s subdued mood. ‘What’s wrong? You look like one o’clock half struck.’
Tom shook his head in dismay and dumped the carrier bag of greetings cards on the coffee table and his satchel on one of the armchairs. Two wooden desks butted up against each other in front of the latticed dormer window and he sat down at the empty one. ‘I’ve just been in Victor’s study. A policeman was there. He said they’re reopening the investigation into Edna’s death.’
‘Whatever for?’ Owen stroked his unshaven chin and shook his head. ‘The evil cow fell down the friggin’ stairs. End of story.’ Edna Wallop had been deeply unpopular and the fiery Welshman had no problem speaking ill of the dead.
‘Apparently someone has sent an anonymous letter to the police,’ said Tom, ‘and they’re obliged to follow it up.’
‘Waste of bloody time,’ muttered Owen. ‘Have you told Miss Norway?’
‘No, she’s in the music room meeting up with some of her first years.’
Owen stood up, muscles rippling under his T-shirt. ‘In that case, forget it. There’s always a screwball out there stirring things up.’ He patted Tom on the shoulder. ‘Come on, you sad Englishman, let’s get downstairs for the meeting.’
University Secrets
In the staff common room, Dr Elizabeth Peacock had arranged chairs into an approximate semi-circle facing a large table covered in folders and photocopied lists. The flame-haired Dance and Drama tutor, known as Zeb, was the Deputy Head of Faculty. A lively, popular and outspoken thirty-something, she was the perfect foil for the studious, academic Victor Grammaticus. When all appeared ready she walked outside into the quad, lit up a cigarette and sat down on one of the benches. In a blue leotard, Fame leg warmers and a baggy off-the-shoulder sweatshirt she cut a striking figure. There was a call from the other side of the quad and she looked up.
‘Hi, Zeb, how are you?’
Zeb smiled and waved at the tall, elegant woman who had suddenly appeared. ‘Rosie, come and join me. You look great.’
Rosie Tremaine had arrived at Eboracum from Cornwall a year ago and taught English Literature alongside Tom. Suntanned and smiling, Rosie had auburn hair in a short-cropped boyish hairstyle and her stylish green linen trouser suit matched the colour of her eyes. She sat down next to Zeb.
‘So how was your summer?’ asked Zeb.
Rosie smiled. ‘Great. I spent most of August in the Lake District with Sam. Fresh air and fun.’
‘Perfect,’ said Zeb. ‘He’s a good man and obviously crazy about you.’
Sam Greenwood had also arrived a year ago and taught in the science department. A ruddy-faced, sandy-haired Mancunian, it had taken him almost a year to pluck up the courage to ask Rosie to join him on a walking holiday.
‘So, how was New York?’ asked Rosie with a mischievous grin. ‘And more to the point, how did you get on with the dishy Indian doctor?’
Zeb grinned. ‘Vijay was the perfect partner. When he wasn’t attending his conventions we explored the city and enjoyed the best restaurants.’ Zeb looked guiltily at her cigarette and stubbed it out. ‘He wants me to cut down on smoking and I’m trying hard.’
Vijay Kapoor was a neighbour of Zeb’s in Crayke village on the outskirts of York. An eminent consultant surgeon at York Hospital, he had become captivated by the dynamic dance teacher and a whirlwind romance had ensued.
‘I haven’t caught up with Inger yet,’ said Rosie. ‘How about you?’
‘Only briefly. She’s getting to know some of her first years this morning. I’ve seen her engagement ring. It’s lovely. A solitaire from Barbara Cattle’s jeweller’s in Stonegate. She looks really happy. Sounded like she and Tom had a busy summer.’
‘It’s great news. I’m really pleased for her,’ said Rosie. Then she paused and the hint of a frown crossed her face. ‘She was so good to me last term . . . helped me through a difficult time.’
Zeb nodded knowingly. ‘That’s all in the past now and time for a fresh start.’ She waved her hand dismissively. ‘You just picked the wrong man. It happens. He was a manipulative bastard. You’re well rid of him.’ Rosie’s affair earlier in the year with a local solicitor had ended badly: it had turned out he was married. ‘And . . . speaking of odd couples . . . look who’s here, the man of
the moment and his little friend, the two amigos, Starsky and Hutch. They stick together like glue, those two.’
Tom and Owen had appeared outside Cloisters doorway deep in conversation. At six feet two, Tom was six inches taller than Owen.
‘Over here,’ called Rosie.
The two men grinned and hurried round the cobbled path where Zeb and Rosie both leapt up and gave Tom a hug and a kiss on the cheek. ‘Congratulations,’ said Rosie.
‘Great news, handsome,’ said Zeb. ‘You’re a lucky man to capture the Norwegian goddess.’
‘What about me?’ pleaded Owen with affected disappointment.
Zeb rubbed Owen’s black curly hair playfully and stood back to assess him. ‘You’re just a scruffy Welsh degenerate. How about tidying yourself up a bit? Maybe having a shave now and then? Even a new T-shirt would help.’
‘It’s my rugged look,’ said Owen and flexed his muscles. ‘Women love it.’
‘It’s a good job Sue does,’ said Zeb with a grin. ‘I don’t know how she puts up with you.’
Sue was Owen’s wife, a physical education teacher at a local school. Their son, Gareth, was now sixteen months old.
Tom smiled at the friendly banter. Their mutual respect was obvious and it was good to be back among friends and colleagues.
‘Anyway, come on, you lot,’ said Zeb. ‘Meeting time.’
The staff common room was a hive of activity and full of chatter as over forty members of the Faculty of
A Day of Letters
Education gathered together, shared holiday news and found a seat. Inger was one of the last to appear. She waved at Tom and hurried to join him on the back row. ‘Busy morning,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a terrific bunch of first years . . . some real talent.’
Tom smiled and squeezed her hand just as Victor got to his feet and surveyed the rows of faces. ‘Welcome back, everyone, to another year of opportunities, and many challenges ahead with the National Curriculum gathering momentum. I hope you’ve all had a restful holiday and are ready for the new academic year. Almost all the first years have registered over the weekend and the rest of our students will be arriving towards the end of this week.’ He gestured to the noticeboard behind him. It was covered in squared paper, divided into colour-coded sections. ‘As you can see, the timetable is complete so please do a careful check to ensure all is as it should be.’ He held up a sheaf of papers. ‘Term commences next Monday and copies of student lists have been prepared for each department.’
Victor scanned the room. ‘We have one new member of staff to introduce. Following the departure of Royce Channing, our new Head of Art is Ben Laverick and I know you will make him welcome.’ Victor smiled towards a tall man with shoulder-length hair and a camera bag over his shoulder. In his blue jeans, Doc Marten boots and psychedelic shirt he looked as though he had just stepped out of the Glastonbury Festival. He gave Victor a nod of acknowledgement. Sam Greenwood, sitting behind him, noticed the handsome newcomer give Rosie Tremaine a direct look and a gentle wave.
‘Also,’ continued Victor, ‘I should like to thank Tom for all his work regarding school placements. With our increasing numbers we are now having to go far and wide to ensure all our students have the opportunity to work in suitable schools. The list is now complete and displayed on the new noticeboard next to your mail in the pigeonholes. So, once again, be mindful of all these dates when planning off-campus experiences, particularly when next year’s field week comes around.’ Victor glanced to his left, where Zeb looked relaxed. ‘That’s enough from me for now but, before I pass over to Zeb, I need to see representatives of all departments this afternoon for a brief meeting in the science block at two o’clock. Thank you for your time, everybody.’ He sat down calmly, although still troubled by the unexpected police visit. Life is never simple, he thought.
Zeb rose to her feet. ‘Good morning, everyone, and welcome back. You’ve only got to see how busy the car park was over the weekend and early this morning to realize a new group of young people, most of them fresh from sixth form, have arrived with anxious parents. I’ve arranged for some of our second-, third- and fourthyear students to return early and give them guided tours tomorrow after they’ve settled into their accommodation and found the refectory. It’s hard to imagine but think ahead for a moment. This cohort of students may well be approaching senior management positions in their schools at the end of this decade when the new millennium comes round. So remember . . . we’re faced with launching futures and this is their special time. Let’s do our very best for them.’
A Day of Letters
She paused and nodded. She could see the message had struck home. ‘With that in mind, I’m hoping many of you will be around this week to support the various social activities we’ve organized for Freshers’ Week. In particular, I expect you all to come along to the Friday-evening disco in the student common room.’ She smiled knowingly. ‘I’m happy to introduce you to some of the new dance steps.’ There was laughter and the sound of the clatter of crockery at the far end of the room. ‘Meanwhile, good luck, everybody, and see me if you have any queries. Coffee and cake is now being served.’
Inger was checking a list on her spiral notepad. ‘How did it go?’ asked Tom.
‘Better than I could have hoped,’ she said. ‘Some great voices and an especially talented violinist, Adam Kite. One to look out for. What about you?’
Tom stared out of the window and shook his head. ‘Actually, something unexpected cropped up on my way in while you headed off to your music room.’
Inger could see that Tom was troubled. ‘Come on. Let’s get a coffee and you can tell me about it.’
Owen, Rosie and Zeb were sitting by the far window that looked out on the quad and waved them over. Zeb glanced up at Tom. ‘Victor told me about your meeting this morning. Don’t give it another thought.’
‘Meeting?’ queried Inger.
‘That’s what I wanted to tell you,’ said Tom. ‘A policeman was here. He said they’re reopening the case about Edna.’
‘Whatever for?’ said Inger in surprise. ‘She fell down the stairs. It was an accident.’
‘Some vindictive bastard has sent an anonymous letter to the police,’ muttered Owen.
Zeb nodded. ‘Victor said they’re obliged to check it out again.’
Rosie looked around the room at the throng of lecturers. ‘Well, no one here would have written a letter like that. It’s got to be an outsider with a grudge.’
‘I’d like to have five minutes with him,’ growled Owen.
‘Or her,’ added Zeb.
They all sipped their coffee in silence, each with their own thoughts.
In York Police Station, Chief Inspector Greybourne tossed a manila folder across the desk to his colleague, DI Montgomery. ‘It’s that woman who fell down the stairs at the university just over a year ago. Verdict, accidental death.’ He reached in his pocket. ‘This is a copy of the letter that arrived at the front desk last week. Have a read . . . see what you think. We’ve no choice but to follow it up.’
DI Montgomery was a tough-looking man brought up in County Durham and known as an ‘old-school copper’. He didn’t suffer fools gladly. After scanning the letter quickly he placed it back on the desk. ‘Precise, well written, grammatically correct.’ He smiled. ‘An academic?’
DCI Greybourne nodded. ‘That’s what I thought . . . plus a rather distinctive typeface. Give this to your mate, Sergeant Porterfield, to check out. There might be something in it. There won’t be any forensic evidence left at the scene. There were no blood stains on the carpet at
A Day of Letters
the top of the stairs, so nothing to indicate an attack with a blunt instrument. But it’s possible someone gave her a gentle push. To begin with, tell Porterfield to hone in on the two mentioned in the letter. They both came out smelling of roses.’
DI Montgomery picked up the folder and paused by the door. ‘It’s DS Porterfield’s birthday today. He won’t be thrilled to get this job.’
The chief inspector gave a sinister smile. ‘In that case buy the ginger sod a pint before you tell him to get his arse in gear. We need this sorted.’
Later on that morning Tom, accompanied by Inger, returned to Room 7 to open the bag of mail and congratulations cards that Perkins had passed on to him.
Owen was sitting at his desk, reading a letter. He looked a little sad.
‘What is it?’ asked Tom.
‘It’s a letter from Chris Scully.’
‘What’s the latest with him?’
Owen sighed and shook his head. ‘He could have played rugby for England one day. By far my best prospect.’
The room went quiet as they all recalled that fateful day last summer. The daredevil nineteen-year-old, after a night of drinking with his rugby friends, had dived off the Ouse Bridge and broken his spine on the stone buttress below. Now he was destined to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair.
Owen folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. ‘He’s not coming back. His parents have decided he’s staying down in Hampshire and receiving specialist help.
I’ve kept in touch with them and we’ve got him interested in wheelchair rugby.’
‘That’s good,’ said Tom. ‘He could excel at that.’
Owen placed the envelope carefully in his top drawer. ‘I hope he does,’ he said quietly and glanced at his watch. ‘I’m meeting up with some of my first years in the refectory so I’ll catch you later.’ He got up and closed the door behind him.
‘It broke his heart,’ said Tom.
‘I know,’ said Inger. ‘It shows.’ She emptied the bag of cards and letters on to the coffee table. ‘Come on, let’s open these.’
A few minutes and a dozen cards later Tom picked up an envelope and stared at handwriting he knew so well.
‘What is it?’ asked Inger.
He opened it. ‘As I thought. It’s from Ellie MacBride.’
For a moment Inger frowned. The enigmatic Yorkshirewoman had been the topic of many discussions over the past two years. Attractive and dynamic, Ellie had been in her late twenties, a mature student, when she had started her teacher-training course at Eboracum. Her main academic subject was English and she had quickly been identified by Tom as an outstanding student. The concern for Inger was that Tom appeared oblivious to the fact that Ellie clearly wanted more than a tutor–student relationship.
‘Oh no!’ exclaimed Tom.
‘What’s wrong?’ said Inger.
‘She says she’s not returning to complete her course.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘Her parents need her to take over their market stall in Barnsley.’
‘But surely that’s an insubstantial reason,’ said Inger. ‘There must be something else.’
Tom looked dismayed. ‘I guess so . . . but what? She had the potential to be a great teacher. Rosie will be sad. She was due to supervise Ellie’s special study on Victorian literature this year.’ Inger gave Tom that special look he had come to know so well. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Tom, think about it. We got engaged at the end of last term and she goes home knowing she’s lost any chance with you. That could be the reason.’
‘I hope that’s not the case,’ said Tom. ‘I thought I had made it clear to her I didn’t want a relationship.’
Inger had her own thoughts. Tom’s occasional naivety was both endearing and frustrating. ‘Either way,’ she said, ‘it’s sad and I agree: she was a great student. There was even talk about her being elected President of the Students’ Union in a year’s time.’
They continued to open the various cards, including a few with Norwegian postmarks. There was a cheerful one from her brother Andreas and his girlfriend Annika. ‘Display them in your study,’ said Tom. ‘Owen’s stuff is all over the place in here.’
Then the telephone rang. It was the Vice Chancellor’s personal assistant, Miss Hermione Frensham. ‘Hello, Dr Frith. The Vice Chancellor wondered if you were free to call in. There’s something he wishes to discuss.’
‘Of course. What time?’
‘Now, if convenient.’
‘Of course. I’m on my way.’ He replaced the receiver
and looked at Inger. ‘The VC wants a word. We can catch up over lunch if you’re free.’
Inger stood up and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Cheer up. It will be fine.’
Tom went down to the quad and out past reception, where Perkins gave him a friendly wave. He walked along the winding tree-lined path that led to the Vice Chancellor’s residence, known as the Lodge. It was a distinctive building with churchlike rooftop finials and a pair of octagonal towers. Miss Frensham could be seen at her desk beyond one of the canted bay windows. He rang the bell and she ushered him through a world of mahogany bookshelves and watercolour paintings towards the Vice Chancellor’s study.
When he walked in, he found the cherubic figure of the Vice Chancellor, Canon Edward Chartridge, talking to a pensive Victor Grammaticus.
‘Good morning, Thomas,’ said Edward. ‘Do take a seat and thank you for your prompt attendance.’
Tom sat down in one of the comfortable armchairs. ‘Good morning, Vice Chancellor.’
Edward made a steeple of his hands and stared thoughtfully at Victor and Tom. ‘I’m aware you have met Chief Inspector Greybourne. His concerns could well be routine but, as I explained to him, the reputation of Eboracum is of the utmost importance. With this in mind, it was important to share with you the fact that both your names were included in the anonymous letter.’
‘Whatever for?’ asked Tom, shocked.
Both Edward and Victor smiled and shared a knowing glance.
‘Thomas,’ said the Vice Chancellor gently. ‘It’s a fact that you both benefitted from her departure.’
‘Surely that is very tenuous,’ said Tom.
‘Quite so,’ said Edward.
‘Were there any clues as to who might have sent the letter?’ asked Victor.
Edward shook his head. ‘None were shared with me. I’m told initial police inquiries will begin shortly and, Victor, I shall need to know what transpires. So please keep me up to date.’
‘Of course,’ said Victor. ‘So what next?’
Edward leaned forward in his chair and looked thoughtful: ‘Virtus et labor.’
‘Virtue and hard work,’ said Tom.
‘Well done,’ said the Vice Chancellor. ‘I recall you, too, are a Latin scholar.’ He stood up. ‘That will be all for now, Thomas. Miss Frensham will show you out. Perhaps you could stay a little longer, Victor.’
Tom smiled at the efficient Miss Frensham as he left. It was well known that she was the eyes and ears of the Vice Chancellor.
As he walked back towards reception he was unaware he was being watched.
Chapter Two
The Thief of Time
‘Does it always have to be this loud?’ shouted Tom. ‘That’s how they like it!’ replied Inger with a smile. It was Friday evening, the Freshers’ Ball was in full swing, and Tom and Inger were taking their turn behind the bar. Bombalurina’s ‘Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini’ was blaring out on full volume in the student common room and eighteen- and nineteen-yearolds were bouncing up and down and singing along to the music.
It had been a busy week for them, as they settled into their hostels, made new friends, collected timetables and discovered the city of York. The ball was the final event before lectures began next week and the second-, third- and final-year students would arrive. Tonight, however, was a chance to dress up, drink alcohol and dance till they dropped.
Among the tutors, it was only Zeb who had managed to match the energy levels of the students on the dance floor.
The Thief of Time
Owen was propping up the bar drinking a pint when she appeared beside him. ‘A gin and tonic please, Inger . . . and go easy on the tonic.’
‘Impressive moves, Dancing Queen,’ said Owen. ‘You’ve still got it.’
‘Cheeky bugger!’ said Zeb. ‘I can still show these teenagers a thing or two.’
Owen pointed towards Ben Laverick, the new Head of Art, who was photographing groups of students. ‘He’s busy,’ he said.
‘Never seems to go anywhere without his camera,’ said Tom.
Zeb sipped her drink and looked thoughtful as Rosie walked towards them. ‘He’s got his eye on Rosie. Sam had better watch out.’
Rosie ordered an orange juice and gave Inger a meaningful look. ‘Can we have a word? I’ve got an idea.’
‘Sure,’ said Inger. She looked at Tom. ‘Just taking a break with Rosie.’
Tom nodded and Owen walked behind the bar to take her place. Inger picked up her glass of wine and followed Rosie out into the last of the evening sunshine. They walked towards the quad, found an empty bench and sat down.
‘This is mysterious,’ said Inger with a smile.
‘It might seem a strange request,’ said Rosie, ‘but are you free tomorrow? Sam and Tom are going with Owen on their rugby trip.’
‘Yes, I’ve nothing planned. What’s on your mind?’
‘I’m driving to Barnsley market,’ said Rosie. ‘We can be there in an hour.’
Inger was curious. ‘Barnsley?’
‘Yes . . . and I think you know why.’
Inger looked thoughtful. ‘Ellie MacBride,’ she said quietly.
‘Exactly,’ said Rosie. ‘She’s halfway through her degree and one of our best students. Tom told me about her letter. It makes no sense. Why would she give it all up to run a market stall?’
Inger looked down at her drink. ‘There is the possibility she realized she and Tom wouldn’t get together.’
‘We need to put that to one side,’ said Rosie. ‘I should just like to talk to her about her studies. So, will you join me?’
Inger nodded. ‘Why not? Let’s do it.’
‘Fine.’ They clinked glasses. ‘I’ll pick you up at ten.’
Early on Saturday morning the eastern sky was amber gold with backlit clouds like rose petals. Morning light caressed the distant land with its mantle of mist while Gideon Chalk, the university bursar, parked his Audi 100 outside the Lodge. The Vice Chancellor had requested a meeting, and Gideon was soon settled in an armchair and wondering why he had been summoned on a Saturday morning.
‘Thank you for calling in, Gideon. I thought this would provide a quiet moment before term begins on Monday.’
‘Of course, Edward. Happy to meet up whenever you wish.’
Gideon was a diminutive man in a dark three-piece suit who had arrived at Eboracum a year ago with an excellent reputation for his accountancy skills. Columns of