Murder at St MargaretAn Oxford Key Mystery
Lynn Morrison
The Marketing Chair Press
Copyright © 2020 by Lynn Morrison
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This novel’s story and characters are fictitious. Certain long-standing institutions, agencies, and public offices are mentioned, but the characters involved are wholly imaginary. Some of the Eternal characters were inspired by actual historical figures, and abide by the generally known facts about these individuals and their relevant time periods. However, all names have been changed and their actions and conversations are strictly fiction. All characters and events are the product of my own imagination.
Cover design by Emilie Yane Lopes
Published by
The Marketing Chair Press
Oxford, England
LynnMorrisonWriter.com
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-8380391-0-3
To Alex, Adele, Giorgia, Leo and Stella
(And yes, I know those last two are cats.)
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Let others know what you think
Mince Pies and the Missing Santa
Burglary at Barnard
Sneak Preview
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Lynn Morrison
Chapter One
The stall door next to mine crashes open. Peeking underneath, I watch as a pair of practical black rubber clogs stomps their way to the basins. I freeze in place at the sound of an angry muttering.
The words, mumbled in a growly voice, are hard to understand. “Interrupting me… how dare she… right in the middle of dinner prep… won’t be on my shoulders if the roast chicken is burnt… ringing my phone and demanding I come straight over… I’ll show her straight over…”
My legs start to tingle, a sure sign I need to get out of this position before they go numb. I’m working up the courage to stand up when I hear her stomping resume, followed by another door slamming. I slide the latch and open a slight crack, peeking out to make sure the woman is gone. Crossing to the sinks, I wash my hands, scrubbing one finger at a time. The last thing I want is to run into whoever that was.
Stopping for a last glance in the bathroom mirror, I fluff my blonde curls with my damp hands. The full day of moving combined with the humid air of the packed train compartment did me no favours. The stylist took my request for a serious cut to heart; I can barely get it up into a ponytail. I straighten my collar, smiling at the pair of cherries embroidered on my jumper. A touch of vintage felt proper for my welcome to one of the UK’s oldest institutions.
Having successfully exited the bathroom undetected, I make my way towards the lit doorway further along the hall. The sign next to it says ‘College Principal’. I tap a gentle knock before stepping into the cosy reception room. The older woman sitting behind the desk smiles a welcome. “Have a seat over there, hun. Dr Radcliffe is finishing up a quick chat and will be right with you.”
Her white hair is cut in a cute pageboy style, her jewel-tone dress accessorised by a vibrant floral scarf and an oversized golden broach. Her desk is in perfect order, not even a stray post-it note out of alignment. The tidy desk has one laptop, one phone, and a framed photo of an older man. Despite the regimental order of her workspace, the woman exudes an air of friendliness. Her blue eyes sparkle with merriment as she leans over the desk as though inviting me into her home for a chat.
I cross the room to perch on the upholstered chair the woman indicates, setting my flowery bag by my cherry red flats. Everything is as I imagined it would be. The mahogany walls offer a rich backdrop for gilt-framed Cotswold landscapes painted by a master. A shelf-lined wall showcases leather-bound books, priceless antiques and commemorative photos of rowing regattas.
The woman opens a desk drawer and lifts out a small cut-glass bowl. She places it on the corner of her desk and nudges it in my direction. “Go on, take one. I find a little sugar helps settle the nerves. Is this your first time in Oxford?”
I shake my head as I unwrap a bright red sweet. “Other than a quick trip for the interview, I visited once before as a child on a school tour of the museum. All I can remember is a long room with lots of sculptures of naked men.”
She chuckles in response to my honest, if somewhat ribald, response. “That’d be the Ashmolean. It’s the tip of the iceberg, plenty more places to explore. I guess you’ll have opportunities enough to do so in your new role. Lillian rang me up as soon as you accepted the job, asking if we could put you up in our faculty housing until you find your feet. Given our Autumn Gala is the first event on your To Do list, I could hardly say no.”
“I really appreciate your help, Mrs… um, sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“It’s my fault for not introducing myself. There’s no need to be so formal, you can call me Harry. Short for Harriet. I’m the Principal’s executive assistant.”
“I imagine I’ll be spending a lot of time with you. As you’ve likely guessed, I’m Natalie Payne. Please call me Nat, most people do once they get to know me.”
Harry’s warm welcome has put me at ease, but based on the seniority of her role and the glint in her eye, I’m guessing she has a core of steel inside her.
A flurry of raised voices coming from behind the closed inner door interrupts any further conversation. When we hear the crash of glass breaking, Harry winces and offers me a weak
