She takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Poor you, Nat. All this stress and pressure associated with planning the gala, and then someone gives you reason to worry about me.”
Harry passes me one of her biscuits and I take it gratefully. I need all the sugar-fuelled energy I can get today. “I’m sorry to have dredged up bad memories, but I am glad to hear that everything is okay now. I am feeling a lot better about the gala plans after meeting with Dr Radcliffe this morning. But I didn’t have the nerve to tell her we’re coming up dry in our search for another chef or caterer. I’m afraid we’re out of luck unless someone identifies the murderer.”
Harry nods sagely, “I must speak with Edward, get him to prod the Detective Inspector to speed up his interviews. That reminds me, I wonder if they’ve interviewed the veg man?”
I stop, biscuit halfway to my mouth. “The who?”
Sipping her latte, Harry explains, “The veg vendor. We try to source the bulk of our produce locally and we have a veg delivery service that brings us a daily delivery. That’s why Chef Smythe was in the office on your first day. She’d had some run in with the veg vendor and emailed every chef in Oxford to let them know. The veg man was livid and complained to Dr Radcliffe, not that I can blame him.”
“Hmmm, sounds like a promising avenue of investigation. It’s good you remembered it.”
“That it is. Now, speaking of mysteries, what’s this gala theme you’ve got in your mind?”
Chapter Twelve
The prefect group normally meets up twice a month, but given our current predicament, we’ve increased the frequency. To balance out the stress, Mathilde and Kate put together a meeting schedule designed to take us to seemingly every pub and wine bar in Oxford.
Back in my flat after a long day of work, I stare down at H as I pull on my coat. “I can see you’re comfortably ensconced on the sofa, so don’t worry about it, I’ll go on my own.”
H’s only response is a yawn.
“Any last-minute directions? Says the address is on Cowley Road?” I expect H to offer some advice, but he leaps off the couch and does a perfect downward dog in front of me. “Does this mean you are coming? What did I say to convince you? Not that I’m saying no to a personal tour guide.”
“Cowley Road? Ya gotta take two buses and walk through the centre of town. Even iffen ya keep yer loaf outta the clouds, ya’ll still struggle ta find it. I’m comin’ along wiff ya ta keep ya outta trouble.”
With H leading the way, I’m free to let my gaze wander as we take our first bus into the city centre. The university buildings and colleges lining the road are flooded with light, subtly inviting scholars to come in from the nighttime cold. We step off at the end of the line, close to the Bodleian Library - or at least that’s what H says. Nothing looks familiar to me.
We slip down a narrow lane called Turl Street, walking past still more college entrances. The tiny shopfronts catch my eye as we pass, each one different from the next, yet somehow equally at home in Oxford. A hipster cafe shares a wall with a charity shop. Two windows advertise student discounts on their high-end wine and beer while the next sells souvenirs for both the University of Oxford and Hogwarts, in equal measure.
We emerge onto a high street, wide lanes separating one side from another. Bus stops line the pavement, tiny paper displays listing out the number and destination. I’m glad H is along, saving me from spending minutes trying to find the right one. People pack into the bus like sardines, but H uses two well-placed swipes with his claws to carve us out a space. By the time we get to the bar, I’m ready to pour my own pint. We’re the first to arrive, so I send H over to reserve a table while I order drinks.
Standing at the bar, I wave my hand to attract the bartender’s attention, scanning the taps to decide what I want. “What did H say he wanted again? Stout? Why does that sound familiar?” I wrack my brain but can’t come up with anything. He’s older than the legal limit. Who am I to refuse him a drink after he came all this way with me?
Kate and Mathilde soon join me at the bar and we all head towards the table with our drinks in hand.
As usual, I’ve come prepared with all the note-taking necessities. This time I skipped out on bringing multiples of everything, having recognised that I was the only one likely to write anything down. I flip open my notepad, tuck my pen behind my ear, take a sip of my ale and launch into my update.
“You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve made significant headway in my gala planning and I can assure you both that it will be beyond all imagination.”
“That’s great news, Nat. What’s the theme?” asks Kate.
“Top secret.” I mime zipping my lips and throwing away the key.
Kate frowns at my unexpected response. “Top secret? Like Mission Impossible? Definitely an unusual choice, but…”
Shaking my head, I interrupt her before she goes any further with that thought. “Not mission impossible! No, I’m keeping the theme a secret from everyone outside of my Ceremonies team.”
Mathilde eyes me over the top of her pint glass, “Fess up. How did you get it approved? I have to prepare a PowerPoint presentation just to get permission to swap out
