“That’s the spirit!” I quickly jot down the plans. Looking over my notes, I realise that the only person left without an assignment is me. “Ok, so ceremonies. We know they’re important, but they can’t go missing.”
H flaps again to get my attention. “Ceremonies can’t go missin’, but they can get cancelled. Iffen we ain’t careful, tha gala might not take place. It’s ‘ard to feel like partyin’ with a murderer on tha loose.”
Gripping my pen, I write mine and H’s names and our assignment, reading it aloud when the ink is dry. “Nat and H - Find the murderer.”
Chapter Six
Although I felt positive when we left the library, the long walk home gives me plenty of time to think about how much responsibility I’m taking on. As my feet pound on the cobblestones, I focus my brain on organising all my tasks into some kind of list.
The autumn gala has to take the top spot. It has to be a success. But H is right. If the police don’t quickly identify the culprit, Dr Radcliffe could be forced to delay the event, or even cancel it. I need to nose around and find out what I can.
“One step at a time,” I remind myself, waving at the security guard as H and I enter the college gates.
I open the door to the main building to find Harry wearing a path in the front vestibule. The stress lines fade from her face, her eyes lighting up when she sees me come inside.
“Nat, where have you been? I was worried when you didn’t show up this morning, and then when Robert in security told me you’d left on a walk, I didn’t know what to think. How are you doing today?”
I give her arm a quick squeeze to thank her for her concern. “Thanks for worrying about me, Harry. I came in this morning but felt like I needed some fresh air.”
“Oh hun, you should have called me if you wanted to go for a walk. You didn’t need to go on your own.”
I wave towards H who has sauntered ahead in the hallway. “I had a little friend along with me. I’m okay now, other than feeling terrible for everyone here. It must be difficult for all of you who knew Chef Smythe for so long.”
Harry matches her steps to mine as we walk down the hallways towards my office. There are enough students and professors milling around the halls to make conversation challenging, so she waits until we’re inside my office to respond. H heads straight for the cat bed, circling around several times before flopping onto his side. He plays his cat role to perfection, making me wish I could see him as a fluffy black puffball again. I’m envious of Harry, Dr Radcliffe and everyone else here who can’t see him for the wyvern he really is.
After Harry and I settle into the chairs around my small meeting table, I lean forward, laying my open arms on the top in an invitation for her to continue.
“I’m not sure Chef Smythe’s demeanour was conducive to building deep friendships. She wasn’t exactly loved, but murder? I can’t believe it! It is so awful.” Fishing a tissue out of her pocket, Harry adds, “She was the absolute best chef in all the college circuit, second to none. How will we ever replace her? And the autumn gala!” She blots away a few wayward tears, the stress lines reappearing on her forehead, “It’s less than a month away. Who is going to cater it? Where will we find someone on such short notice?”
A caterer? I’ve been so caught up in all the magic I hadn’t even given a thought to the practical implications of a dead head chef. “Surely the sous-chef must be capable…” I suggest.
“She would be, except she handed in her notice as soon as she heard the news. Said she was finally getting out of here. I guess she didn’t want to stay working where her former mentor had died.”
I lean back in my chair. “She might have a point there. However, I will not let a staff shortage stand in the way of my first event being a roaring success.” Casting my eyes upwards, I search for another idea. “Could we borrow a chef from another college?”
That idea gets an immediate no from Harry. “Too much poaching between colleges. The other college principals would never allow it, particularly since we’ll be looking for a full-time replacement.”
Shifting in my seat, my eyes wander around the room, hoping to find inspiration. H gives a little huff of hot air on my ankles, motioning towards a framed picture hanging on the wall. Rising from my chair, I quirk up an eyebrow, trying to interpret H’s message. The painting isn’t particularly special, a watercolour showing Oxford’s high street, lined with shops. I stare for a few seconds until, finally, it hits me. “Harry, I wonder, is there anyone I could approach outside the university? Maybe a chef in town?”
“That’s a brilliant idea, Nat!” A hint of a smile wipes some worry from her face. “You could start with the chef at La Maison Oxford. He is the second-best…” her voice trailing off as she blots another tear. “Well now, I guess he’s the best chef in Oxford.”
Snagging a stack of post-it notes and a pen, I jot down the restaurant name. “I’ll track him down immediately. Surely he’ll jump at the chance to showcase his talents and claim the dominant spot.”
“That’s a nice thought, dear, but he’s a wild card. He and Chef Smythe had what can only be described as an unhealthy competitive relationship.
