I nod hello, mindful of the stacks of papers in his arms. “I’m pleased to meet you, Bartholomew. I still can’t believe those fairy tales my grandfather told me all those years ago were real.”
“Please call me Bartie, like your grandda did. I’m not surprised to hear he told you about us. He desperately hoped your dad would follow in his footsteps, but it wasn’t meant to be. Sounds like he made a head start on planting the seed in your mind.”
Laughing, I agree, “That he did, although he was canny about it. I never had a clue what he was doing, but here I am. H has promised to take me on a tour of the magic. I hate to ask because you look like you’re in the middle of something, but would you have a minute to tell me what you do here?”
“I do!” Bartie flags down one of the ghostly women, passing the papers over to her with a quick set of instructions to deliver them to one professor. “I’m the Head of Eternal Affairs here at St Margaret. Besides H, I will be your primary contact at the college.”
“What does the Head of Eternal Affairs do?”
Bartie chuckles, “What don’t I do might be the easier question. As you’ve seen, I’ve got a small team of ghosts to help with the administration. We monitor all the research our living professors and students are undertaking, matching them up with right magical support.” Seeing the next question on my lips, he continues on, “We have over a hundred years of history within these walls, plus the wider resources of the university. Mankind has a tendency to forget history. We don’t. That’s why we refer to ourselves as Eternal. When the living need help, I call in an Eternal expert to give them a nudge or locate a book with the missing piece of information.”
My eyes widen as I grasp the size of his task. “Keeping up with that much information, knowing how to find it, and for so many students and professors. That seems impossible!”
Still hovering beside me, H elbows me. “Not impossible, Nat. It’s magic.”
Bartie clears his throat, capturing our attention. “All of us Eternals are terribly sorry about your experience yesterday. A murder at St Margaret! I never thought I’d see anything like that.”
Since he’s brought up the murder, perhaps he has some ghostly file indicating whodunnit. From what I overheard yesterday, it didn’t sound as though the police had identified any immediate suspects. With a bit of magical luck, maybe I can point them in the right direction. “Speaking of the murder, Bartie, you don’t know who the culprit might be?”
“I’m afraid not, Ms Nat. Much like live human beings, we can only see what happens directly in front of us. There are no ghosts in the kitchen and the portraits of the old principals which hang in the dining hall face each other. They can’t see beyond the high table… of course, I could say that about all the professors,” Bartie chuckles. “Whatever happened was limited to the kitchen itself. We didn’t see or hear anyone out of the ordinary enter or exit the dining hall between Chef Smythe’s arrival early yesterday and that of yourself and Dr Radcliffe.”
Not the answer I hoped to get, but I hadn’t really given any thought into how I’d explain my knowledge to the local police. H said they see and hear what they expect, but I don’t think anyone expects you to say that a ghost told you.
“Thanks anyway, Bartie.” Stepping to the side, I wave Bartie off. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you. I don’t want to keep you from your work any longer, so I’ll trust that we’ll see each other again soon.”
Bartie gives me a polite nod and a friendly smile before continuing on his way.
❖
I follow H as he passes the security guard standing in the porter’s lodge doorway but stall on the pavement before we exit the front gate. “I thought you said there are portraits and books and, well, other magical things at St Margaret. How come we’re leaving?”
H reaches out a hand and tugs me along. “I’m taking ya ta tha Bodleian. It’s tha best place ta start iffen ya really want to understand yer job. Ya can meet one of tha other prefects.” Happy that I’m following along, he flaps his wings, flying above the pavement.
Speeding up my pace, I catch up to walk alongside him. “Will you at least tell me what we’re passing on the way? I came straight into the college yesterday and didn’t exactly get a tour.”
“Sure thing, missie. There ain’t a secret in this town I don’t know… well exceptin’ who killed Chef Smythe.”
The memory of yesterday hangs over us as we wait for the crosswalk light to change. Finally, the traffic slows, letting us head deeper into a neighbourhood. Lining the shaded streets are well-appointed homes tucked away behind elaborate iron gates, luxury cars parked in every drive. All signs point to these homes being well beyond anything I could afford. I sigh, picking up my pace to once again catch H.
After two blocks we hit a large circular drive with a tiny, gated park in the middle. One of those like you see in the movies, where only the people in the neighbourhood have a key to get in. Wonder if my magical key works there? I make a mental note to check one weekend.
A block of stately cream-coloured buildings line the crescent, reminding me somewhat of the famous street in Bath. “These houses are gorgeous. And big. Are they owned by university faculty?”
“Nah, nowadays, these Victorian behemoths cost a fair penny more than a professor makes. But they are part of tha ‘istory of St Margaret.”
Looking around, I spot no obvious clues. “How’s that, H?”
“When tha professors moved into these ‘omes, they brought their wives and their wee ones. And iffen there’s one thing a
