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  “In the—?” Bridget sounded blank for a moment. “Oh yes, in the Bodleian . . . Anyway, it’s dark, it’s raining, they’ve been reading ghost stories and they’re all pissed off. Byron because his wife’s left him and he’s congenitally gloomy anyway, Polidori because he’s jealous of Byron, and Mary—Mary’s had all these babies and miscarriages and she’s getting fed up with Shelley and his progressive ideas. She was very conservative in her old age, you know. This particular summer, though, she’s obsessed with Byron—”

  “You’ve written this for what?”

  “Praeternatura. They’re a bunch of Gothic groupies at the University of Western Wisconsin who publish their own quarterly journal—glossy cover, personal ads from English professors who want house swaps with counts in Transylvania. Only kidding,” she added, seeing Loretta’s face. “Actually, I’ve always promised myself I’ll go to their annual convention one summer, they go to wonderful places like Romania. Anyway, as I was saying, there’s all this frustrated passion, jealousy, intrigue . . .”

  “Sounds more like Mills and Boon.”

  “Loretta.”

  “Sorry.”

  “. . . with Byron the absolute center, and the result is—Frankenstein’s monster.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  Bridget made an impatient sound. “What I’m saying is, Byron is Frankenstein’s monster. I know the usual theory is that it’s Shelley, but you think about it for a minute. They’re both physically deformed—just about the most famous thing about Byron is his club foot—and they both have this extraordinary charisma. You know the way from here, Loretta?” They were now on the other side of Kidlington, heading north on the road to Banbury.

  “Mmm.”

  “Slow down then—it’s the next right.”

  Loretta was already braking and she did a fast right turn, just missing a big red Citroën traveling in the opposite direction. The driver hooted furiously as his car sped past the side road.

  “Christ, Loretta.”

  “Sorry. I was thinking about your theory.”

  “I’d better shut up if that’s the effect it’s going to have. I wasn’t intending to die for it.”

  “No, go on, we’re nearly there.”

  “OK, if you promise not to fling us in a ditch. Where’s Frankenstein the first time he sees the monster? In bed. It’s practically a seduction scene.” She sounded outraged. “There’s this powerful mixture of attraction and repulsion, and you can argue—I do, in fact—that Mary’s unconscious sexual guilt has transformed the person she loves into a monstrous aberration.”

  “I’ll park round the back, shall I?”

  “I should think so. Uh-oh—what are those cars doing here?” Bridget swiveled her head as they passed several empty saloons parked in a line next to the garden wall of Thebes Farm.

  “Police?” suggested Loretta, signaling right and driving slowly round into the farmyard on the other side of the house. A little group of people turned to stare incuriously as she parked the car, their blank expressions reminding Loretta of deer at a water hole in a wildlife film; seconds later a ripple of recognition went through them and they surged towards the car, dispelling any doubt as to which was the hunter and which the prey.

  “Oh, God,” Bridget gasped, “let’s get out of here,” but a middle-aged man was already pulling open the passenger door, his colleagues pressing in on him from behind so he almost fell into her lap. Loretta flung open her own door and discovered her escape route blocked by an excited reporter who thrust a tabloid newspaper in her face and shouted questions which she was quite unable to hear. To her left Bridget burst into tears and Loretta panicked, jamming her finger on the horn and keeping it there as the startled rat pack fell back from the car. Bridget, with greater presence of mind than Loretta had expected, pulled the passenger door shut and locked it, a maneuver Loretta was unable to imitate because she was afraid to take her finger off the horn.

  “Can you close mine?” she shouted above the racket, but at that moment help appeared in the shape of a uniformed policeman who hurried round the corner of the house followed by a man in jeans and a bomber jacket.

  “Thank God,” cried Loretta, cutting off the noise as the two men ducked under the blue-and-white tape and shooed the reporters out of the yard.

  “Must be the first time in history they’re actually here when you want them,” Bridget observed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand as she began to get out of the car. Her breathing slightly labored, she faced the two men and demanded: “Who’s in charge here?”

  The man in the bomber jacket glanced down at her stomach. “Mrs.—Dr. Bennett? Sorry about that. We weren’t expecting you.”

  Bridget frowned. “No reason why you should have been. What are they all doing here, anyway? I thought there might be one or two but nothing like this.” She waved towards the journalists who had withdrawn to the road.

  “You haven’t seen this morning’s papers?”

  “Only the Guardian” Loretta walked round the car to join them. “I’m Loretta Lawson, by the way. Bridget’s staying with me.”

  “Oh, yes.” He nodded, looking and sounding distinctly jumpy. “Sergeant Crisp. We’re just tying up a few loose ends—”

  Bridget said abruptly: “Where’s my car?”

  “Your car?”

  “Yes, a maroon Astra. It was parked over there, where that car is.” She indicated an empty police car on the other side of the yard.

  “I believe the, er, the forensic team are having a look at it this morning.”

  “They’ve taken my car? Without my permission?”

  “Mr. Becker said—”

  “What? You mean Sam—” Bridget shot a bewildered look at Loretta, who merely shrugged.

  “We did speak to Mr. Becker about both cars,” the detective was saying diplomatically.

  “Both cars? You mean you’ve got his as well?”

  “Mr. Becker’s car has been examined, yes.”

  “This is—this is outrageous. I’m going to complain to—” She turned and appealed to Loretta. “Who do I complain to?”

  “There is a standard procedure involving the Police Complaints Authority. But I think you’ll find—”

  “Jesus. The garden—what’ve you done to the garden?” She took a few steps towards the blue-and-white tape, surveying the scene beyond it. “Was it”—she turned back to the Sergeant—“was it really necessary to destroy the garden?”

  Loretta went to stand beside her, gazing in astonishment at the trampled turf, the mounds of soil where the herbaceous borders had been uprooted, the trees and shrubs thrown into careless heaps. “God,” she breathed, awed by the scale of the destruction. She turned to the detective, who was now looking as though he would like to crawl under one of the mounds of earth and hide. “What’s the point—what were you hoping to find?”

  He mumbled something about the murder weapon but Bridget ignored him. “Are you coming, Loretta?” she demanded.

  “Where?”

  “Into the house.” Bridget spoke in a loud voice, casting a contemptuous look at the embarrassed policemen. “We’d better find out what else these—these Nazis have been up to. See how large the compensation claim’s going to be.” She lifted the scene-of-crime tape and stepped under it, letting out a little gasp of distress or pain. Loretta trailed after her, preoccupied with her sudden realization that this was the real reason Sam had wanted to delay Bridget’s return to Thebes Farm and wishing he had had the sense to confide in her.

  “Loretta!” Bridget stuck her head out of the open front door, and gestured fiercely for her to enter the house.

  “Coming.” She got as far as the porch, a hollow feeling in her chest which she diagnosed as mild shock, and turned to check that the damage really was as bad as it seemed. From this angle it looked even worse—as though, she thought with a shudder, someone had made a clumsy attempt to clean up after a natural disaster, a hurricane or a tidal wave. A movement on the periphe
ry of her vision made her turn and she saw the uniformed policeman come to an abrupt halt on the path, looking up at the sky as though he was unaware of her presence. It dawned on her that he had been sent to spy on them, that Bridget wasn’t even allowed to visit her own house without being kept under discreet surveillance, a suspicion which was confirmed when she turned on her heel and he immediately made to follow. Nudging away the brick which served as a makeshift doorstop with her undamaged foot, Loretta moved smartly into the hall and took intense pleasure in slamming the door in the PC’s astonished face.

  7

  “Well, That’s One Mystery Solved,” LO-retta announced, dumping a couple of newspapers on the table in front of Bridget. “Wait a minute,” she added as Bridget read a headline and opened her mouth to exclaim. “First things first. Have you ordered?”

  “He’s bringing some mineral water. I don’t really feel like eating.”

  “I do.” Loretta, who was suddenly ravenous, picked up the menu and went to the bar. She nodded to the barman, whom she knew by sight, and ordered ham, eggs and chips, then turned over the menu to look at the list of beers: “And a Corona.”

  She returned to the table, pleased that she had suggested coming here instead of the more crowded Browns, and took off her jacket. The tables were large, easily accommodating six, and as often as not Loretta and Bridget had to share, usually with people who worked in the OUP building round the corner in Walton Street. Today, though, the bar was quiet.

  “This”—Bridget held up a paper as Loretta slid onto the seat beside her—“this is unbelievable. I mean, does she look like a bank robber?” She turned to an inside page and indicated a small photograph.

  “Hang on, I haven’t had a proper look.” Loretta leaned sideways to get a better view. “She certainly doesn’t. I mean—plaits?”

  “And that blouse.”

  “What she looks like,” said Loretta, studying the picture over Bridget’s shoulder, “is a member of the Hitler Youth. You know, all those pictures of German womanhood greeting the Fiihrer circa 1936. I mean, it’s fifty years out of date.” She was silent for a moment, then exclaimed with increasing confidence: “And there’s something fishy about it. If they’re so sure it’s her, why not put it on the front page?”

  “They’ve got Geena Davis on the front page,” said Bridget, glancing back for a moment.

  “So I noticed—any excuse for a sexy picture. I suppose it could be from a school play or something,” she went on, thinking aloud about the photograph on page five, “since she only looks about twelve.”

  “It says here it was taken by the police when they arrested her.”

  “No—I don’t believe it. Have you ever heard of someone dressing up like Hansel and Gretel and ram-raiding their local Nat West?”

  “It says here she chucked a brick through the window.”

  “Weirder and weirder. I thought banks had reinforced glass these days—you know, the sort where you throw the brick and it comes flying back at you.”

  “Maybe not in Ohio. I mean, it’s hardly Chicago. Maybe she comes from some folksy little town where everyone knows everyone else and they all go to barn dances on Saturday nights.”

  “Then how come she robs banks?”

  “A bank.”

  Loretta tugged gently at the paper. “Let’s see, I only skimmed it in the shop.”

  The waiter placed an open bottle of Corona with a chunk of lime wedged in its rim on the table. He was also carrying a glass which he held up before Loretta in a silent question.

  “Yes, please,” she said, not wanting to drink straight from the bottle. “And I think my friend ordered some mineral water.”

  He was immediately contrite. “Sorry. But no food, right?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Go on. It’ll make you feel better.”

  “All right.” Bridget picked up the menu. “I’ll have the—the hot chicken salad.” As the waiter returned to the bar, she admitted: “I did promise Audrey yesterday—regular meals, afternoon naps. I’m supposed to be the perfect patient.”

  Loretta reflected that the perfect patient would now be in hospital, tucked up in bed, but she said nothing and tugged at the paper again. “Come on, let’s have a look.”

  Bridget relinquished it. “Murder Girl Was Bank Job Grass,” Loretta read, and, in smaller letters, “Dead Blonde’s Amazing Secret.” The report accompanying these slightly delphic announcements was tagged “World Exclusive” even though Loretta could think of large areas of the globe where the story would arouse as much interest as the color of John Major’s underpants. Holding the paper slightly away from her, she began, with some skepticism, to read the breathless tabloidese:

  The attractive blonde found murdered near Oxford on Sunday may have been on the run from a gang of bank robbers, we can reveal today.

  The victim, named last night as American Paula Wolf, 20, was a member of a daring gang which included members of her own family, sources have revealed.

  In an amazing parallel with the hit film Thelma & Louise, in which glamorous actresses Susan Sarandon and Geena Davis (left) go on a crime spree, three members of the gang were women.

  Wolf, whose naked body was found by partygoers in the garden of an Oxford don, may (cont. on page five, column three) have fled to England to escape a revenge attack from members of the gang, who call themselves the Copycats.

  Her evidence helped put other gang members, including her elder sister, behind bars. Two members of the gang were recently released from prison.

  The gang’s daring daylight raid shocked inhabitants of the small town of Oak Falls, Ohio, population 6,802. Terrified cashiers and customers dived for cover as the five-strong gang smashed windows at the Flatlands Savings & Loan Bank and stormed inside.

  British detectives were tight-lipped about these sensational developments last night. They have no idea how Wolf, who arrived in England on July 25 on a flight from New York’s Kennedy airport, got to Oxford or how her body came to be concealed in the garden of the secluded £250,000 house.

  A post-mortem carried out on Monday showed that Wolf died of head injuries. Police have still not revealed whether she had been sexually assaulted.

  The owner of the murder house, English don Mrs. Bridget Bennett, who is married but uses her maiden name, is expecting her first child in November. She has not been seen at home since Sunday and is believed to be staying at a secret address in Oxford.

  Her husband, Mr. Sam Becker, who is also American, appeared without her at a press conference in Oxford yesterday. “My wife and I are deeply shocked,” he said. “Whoever did this must be caught before he strikes again.”

  Loretta lowered the paper. “Doesn’t sound like Sam,” she observed, “this my-wife-and-I stuff.”

  Bridget shrugged. “They probably made it up.” She had been reading the second paper bought by Loretta on her way to the wine bar and now she remarked: “They’re amazing, these psychics—the Contessa, I mean.” She pointed at a front-page picture of their glamorous visitor of the previous afternoon, her eyes half closed in what might equally be a state of sexual ecstasy or a trance. “First she says the murderer has a beard, then she hedges her bets and says he may have shaved it off. The only other clue she comes up with is the letter 5—I mean, how many people have an S in their names?”

  “Everyone called Smith, for a start. I read somewhere there are 600,000 of them.”

  “Brilliant. How much do you think she gets paid for all this?”

  “Hi, sorry I’m late.” Sam appeared at their table, leaning forward to kiss first Bridget and then Loretta on the cheek before unbuttoning his mackintosh and folding it neatly on the far side of the horseshoe-shaped seat. He pulled out a stool and sat down, giving his head a slight shake. “Jesus, what a morning.” He breathed out heavily and said by way of explanation: “You wouldn’t believe how persistent these guys are, they call every few minutes.” He picked up the menu. “Have you ordered?”

  “Yes,
but I’m still waiting for my mineral water.” Bridget waved to attract the barman’s attention and made a pouring motion with her hand. His mouth dropped open and he made a pantomime apology before seizing an empty glass and heaping ice into it.

  Sam said: “OK, what’s good?”

  “I’m having ham and eggs”—Loretta pointed to it on the menu—“but I can recommend the kedgeree.”

  “Niçoise salad, I guess that’ll do,” he murmured as though she had not spoken. The barman brought Bridget’s mineral water and he repeated the order, adding: “And one of those—a Corona.” He waited until the barman moved away, then went on: “They all want to know my reaction to this stuff’—he indicated the MURDER GIRL WAS BANK JOB GRASS headline—“and they don’t like what I’ve got to say. Which is, I thought the National Enquirer was bad enough—”

  “Hold on,” Bridget said impatiently, “I want to know about the garden. Have you spoken to Jim?”

  “No, I told you, he’s doing a job down in Essex. But I left another message with his wife.”

  “She does realize it’s urgent?”

  “Hon, don’t give me a hard time. I’m doing my best. When they told me they were going to dig I asked them to make sure to cover the roots with earth, it isn’t as bad as it looks.”

  “And the lawn? What about the lawn?”

  “OK, so it’ll have to be turfed. For Christ’s sake, Bridget, if you hadn’t gone over there without telling me you wouldn’t ever have known. I was trying to protect you.”

  “I’m not a child.”

  “Let’s change places,” Loretta interjected, anticipating a full-scale row. “Come on, I’ll have the stool.”

  Sam said: “OK.” He moved out of her way while she slid out, then flopped on the seat next to Bridget.

  “I’m sorry,” they said together, and reached for each other’s hands. Loretta averted her eyes, shifting her stool and pretending to have spotted something under the table. There was a kissing noise and a moment later she heard Sam say: “Hey, Loretta, I almost forgot. I had a call from your husband.”

  She forgot her embarrassment and turned to him in astonishment. “My husband?”