Page 3 of The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies

“Grab another mug,” Iris said. “I stole Rita away from her bones.”

“Only for a minute.” A tall woman sauntered in behind Iris, hands deep in her wide-legged trousers’ pockets. With warm brown skin, an elegant profile, and a loose chignon of inky hair, Sarita DeSilva had the regal self-possession of a movie star. “Dr. Claymore will scowl if I haven’t memorized these hand bones by tomorrow.”

“Then practice rattling them off in here and regale us with your brilliance.” Gin sank to the rug and busied herself pouring the tea before it cooled, Iris pulled a packet of biscuits from her pocket, and Sarita selected Roy Fox from Ginevra’s collection of records to serenade their impromptu picnic.

“Thank you,” Iris sighed, lounging in the floor beside Gin. “I had an awful morning with my tutor who spent most of our time searching for my misplaced paper, then had the audacity to say I was careless with my citations.”

“You are careless with citations,” Sarita said, perching by the open window with a cigarette in a delicate holder. “Your papers read like Virginia Woolf’s fever dreams.”

Iris beamed. “I choose to take that as a compliment.”

Sarita rolled her eyes and straightened the cardigan draped over her shoulders. “Well, I’m pleased to announce my mother finally departed this morning after I began to fear she would take up residence at the Randolph. Last fall, she complained incessantly about English tea and was eager to return to Panjim.”

“Your mum loves you, that’s all.” Iris tossed a biscuit, forcing Sarita to catch it before crumbs dusted the carpet. “At least she doesn’t complain about you wasting time and money on a degree like mine.”

“Only because she wishes I was studying in Lisbon.” Sarita pulled a face, tossing the biscuit out the window, and tapped her cigarette ash upon the sill. “But I told my parents I’d only consider transferring if they donated my Oxford tuition to the liberation movement, and that shut them right up.”

Ginevra and Iris exchanged a look of concern. The growing unrest between the people of Goa and the Portuguese administration for which Mr. DeSilva worked had become a consistent source of distraction for their friend.

“Don’t even think of moving,” Iris said, “or I’ll show up in Lisbon and embarrass you proper till you come back.” She rolled onto her side and nudged Gin’s knee. “How was the Bod? As busy as I warned you it would be?”

Gin snorted into her mug. “Yes, your psychic prowess is in top form today. When I finally landed a lovely spot to work in Duke Humfrey’s, a touchy second-year tried to steal it.”

“We are a notoriously self-centered lot,” Iris said, nodding solemnly. “But wait till you get tangled up with third-years. My editor at The Blue acts like he’s running The Times rather than a student rag. I finally badgered him into an advice column, and he puts outrageous limits on my word count.”

Sarita tsked. “How dare he limit your dire warnings about the fish paste sandwiches from St. M’s buttery?”

“They’re terrible!” Iris insisted. “It’s a crime against sandwiches and our stomachs.”

The trio devolved into laughter at this, and Gin rolled onto her back and closed her eyes, basking in the girls’ current of conversation. She had not expected to make such fast friends her first month at Oxford, being more accustomed to peers who gushed to her face one moment and gossiped behind her back the next. But when the two second-years on the landing took Gin under their wing, their refreshing candor became a balm to her soul. Iris was right about some students throwing around too much weight, and Gin resolved not to lose ground again—especially not to one with stormy eyes and a jawline made for rebuttal.

Perhaps she would venture to the Bod armed with a fish paste sandwich to disarm her next opponent.

The thought greatly amused Gin, but with it came the memory of Mr. Tolliver’s peculiar behavior before her departure and his excuse about indigestion. He had always seemed exceptionally alert for a man of his advanced years and had an excellent memory. Yet he had been momentarily transported somewhere far beyond the Bodley’s walls, and Ginevra could not shake the curious feeling conjured within her at the alarm upon his face.

Something had deeply unsettled him, and she did not think it was the number of books to be reshelved.

Chapter Two

OXFORD UNIVERSITY, MARCH 1951—HILARY TERM, WEEK 7

Sidney Braithwaite had suffered his fair share of hangovers over a toilet bowl, but never with a plunger in hand. He blinked at the mass of loo roll swirling inside the porcelain and willed his stomach not to worsen the situation. He knew better than to drink with his brother till the wee hours, but Felix got under his skin as no one else could. Five years ago, you could drink me under the table, Sid. Has Oxford softened thee that much?

But five years ago, Sidney had been easing back into life after the war, and liquor kept him from wallowing in memories. Now he avoided the stuff as much as possible, and lapsing with Felix reminded him why. Forgetting his cares for a little while was never worth the next morning’s price. And now he had a clogged toilet to compound his penance.

Gingerly, Sidney inserted the plunger and gave it a half-hearted shove, but the slosh of fetid water made his stomach heave in unison. He straightened and leaned against the wall, turning his clammy forehead into his shoulder. Other custodial jobs assigned to him around Swithun College had been easy enough: tighten a doorknob, replace a window latch, empty some bins. He should have known an evening call for help would only bring misery.

There was a dull pounding on the door. “Are you done yet?”

Sidney’s stomach gave a decisive lurch in the affirmative, and he opened the door. “You need a proper plumber.”

A red-faced young waiter in stiff black glared up at him. “I’ve got a full house about to swarm out of the debate hall. There must be something you can do.”

Sidney drew the dripping plunger out of the bowl, offering the handle, and the man leaped back. “I can call you that plumber.”

The waiter retreated, huffing under his breath, and Sidney closed the door. He turned to the sink, scrubbing his hands until the skin tingled, and splashed water on his face. Sidney grimaced at his reflection. He felt too tired to be only twenty-six, especially compared to Felix, who’d hummed all evening with energy about his new job in London at BBC Radio. He was glad his brother had been too young to fight, that combat hadn’t scraped away his enthusiasm for life. But Felix’s loquacious ease sometimes cast Sidney’s shortcomings in sharp relief.

When his stomach again protested the stench, Sidney dried his face on his sleeve and exited, locking the door behind him. Rising voices from the debate hall signaled the event’s end, and he strode quickly down the corridor to reach the exit before they swarmed upon him. In his haste, he nearly bowled over an elderly gentleman who veered down the hall with equal urgency.