Page 32 of The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies

Chapter Eleven

As far as Ginevra was concerned, Sidney Braithwaite could take a flying leap into the Thames. If not, she was sorely tempted to lure him to the bank and shove him in along with his insolent reply.

If that were to happen, I would advise you to ask a direct question.

“The cheek,” Gin muttered, tossing the note into the bin. He hadn’t even bothered to encode his reply, as if he didn’t think the message worth the trouble. Did he think so little of her as an agent, or care even less about the success of their assignment? He had made his dislike for the Rook clear enough, but she’d thought a sense of duty would have compelled him to make a modicum of effort after agreeing to help. So far, it felt like she had assumed the lion’s share.

Gin hadn’t mentioned Neville’s letter in her usual reports because she wanted to have something undeniably impressive, something he would have to acknowledge was good work. She had painstakingly copied the Russian, a third of the illegible handwriting blacked out with redactions, and slipped the letter back between the book’s pages as best she could remember its location. When she’d returned everything to the don the next afternoon, the relief on Neville’s face did not escape her notice, nor the possessive way he tucked that particular book out of sight as he thanked her with a strained air.

What the letter might contain, however, remained a tedious mystery. Ginevra couldn’t take it to one of the Russian tutors and request a translation lest it contain anything that indicated to whom it belonged, and her dictionary and grammar book proved ineffectual. It was one thing to translate exercises or famous texts and another to translate a piece of colloquial language written in a sloppy hand with entire sentences missing.

For the hundredth time, Ginevra peered at the little letters she’d copied and wondered if she’d made a mistake. The dips and swoops of certain letters were far too similar in cursive, the nuance of which was completely lost upon her. The one, oft-repeated word she was most confident she’d found in the dictionary was … breadcrumb? Even the signature was nothing more than a single letter that may or may not have been the Cyrillic equivalent of L.

Ginevra released the page and rubbed her temples in disgust. Asking for Braithwaite’s assistance reaching the Rook had been worse than drinking curdled milk, but perhaps his insouciance was fortuitous. She would prefer the Rook not know how abysmally she was failing in an area where she usually excelled. With more time, she might produce a satisfactory translation—but anything would be better than the current drivel on her page.

Things looked up, however, when Iris banged into Gin’s room a few days later, whingeing about Marion leaving town unexpectedly to chase a story in Berkshire.

“She was supposed to give me an article to type up for her, and now heaven knows when I’ll get it. The last time she went off like this, she disappeared for days.”

Ginevra closed the German text on her index finger. “Perhaps she left it behind in her room? She’s an LMH girl, right?”

“Yes, but she lives in a boardinghouse.” Iris hummed, her eyes brightening. “It’s not a bad idea though. The landlady might let me nose about.”

“Why not now?” Gin rose off the bed with alacrity and grabbed her hat. “I’m dying for some exercise. I’ll come with you.”

Iris beamed. “You’re tops, Gin. Just tops.”

Though Ginevra felt slightly guilty using her friend’s goodwill in such a manner, the opportunity to nose about Marion’s flat was too perfect to ignore. It was a lovely day for a jaunt through Oxford, and they found Marion’s boardinghouse to be a quiet, respectable building of red brick and ivy. Only the landlady proved a formidable obstacle.

“I can’t let you into her room without permission.” The woman frowned down at them on her front steps as though they were urchins begging for scraps.

“It will only be a minute,” Iris begged. “I must get that article typed before the end of the day.”

The woman sniffed. “I’m sorry, miss, but that’s not my problem. If the girls can’t trust me to guard their things, then what good am I?”

“What if you came with us?” Gin suggested. “You could stand at the door and watch us?”

This, however, seemed to affront her even more. “I’ve my own things to attend to, miss, and it delays supper every time I have to mind Miss Kirk’s visitors.”

“Five minutes.” Iris clasped her hands under her chin. “You can time me, if you like. If I don’t find it within five minutes, then toss us out.”

The woman’s face turned stony. “In my day, young ladies knew how to accept a dismissal.” She shooed them aside to make room for a younger woman laden with groceries lumbering up the steps. “Go on then. You’re in the way.”

A loaf of bread slipped to the ground, and Gin retrieved it. The woman accepted it with a nod, eyes darting toward the landlady in sympathy, but then she did a double take at Ginevra. “Bishop? What are you doing in Oxford?”

It took Gin a moment to place the newcomer, and she gasped. “Audrey Tuttle! I hardly recognized you with brown hair. What are you doing in Oxford?”

“Withering away in libraries, of course. My hair color is the only real change since Honoria House.” Audrey smiled warmly. “Why don’t you come up?”

The landlady made an impatient huff.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. McKibbin, I’ll put the shopping in the kitchen first,” Audrey said breezily, scooting around her. “I’ve already hung the washing too.”

Mrs. McKibbin grunted, mollified, and Gin and Iris followed their guide down a dark hallway to a kitchen at the back of the house, and then up an even darker stairwell to the second floor, where Audrey ushered them into the first room on the right. It was exceptionally tidy, much like Gin remembered Audrey’s quarters at finishing school, only pictures of men in uniform had replaced caricatures of their old schoolmistresses.

Audrey removed her hat, fluffing her chestnut waves with a long exhale. “It’s good to see you, Gin, though I feel terrible not knowing you were here. Are you LMH?”

“St. M’s.”