The Medieval Murderers - The First Murder

Thankfully, these half-dozen regular academic publications had annual index lists, which indicated the titles and authors of each new paper published during that year. In her document case she had her own draft thesis with all the references she had culled from the journals and now she systematically revisited each one in the indices. Though the article she sought was nothing to do with her own particular field of expertise, she recalled that it had immediately followed one of them, and that it had caught her eye and she had read it out of curiosity.

It took her forty-five minutes to find it again, but her methodical mind was used to such literary dredging exercises and with a quiet whoop of triumph, she moved along the stacks to find the correct book, the 1936 volume of the Transactions of the British Society for Medieval Studies. Taking it to a nearby table, Christina sat down and read the article again. Then she took a pad from her case and started making some notes.

‘Now then, Hieronymus,’ she murmured to herself, ‘let’s see if I can put the wind up you with this message from the past!’

The next meeting of ‘ The Play of Adam Steering Committee’, as the pompous Dr Drabble insisted on calling it, was held a few days before the performance. They quickly went over the relatively straightforward arrangements, as everyone claimed that they were already word-perfect in their short parts. The costumes were simple, mostly cloak-like drapes made from odd lengths of fabric, Peter Partridge’s stock of blackout curtain material being prominent. Loftus’s scenery was primitive in the extreme, but he claimed this was quite authentic: a few cardboard trees straight out of the Bayeux Tapestry, as well as a plywood mountain and part of a castle left over from a pantomime put on for local children the previous year. After they had hammered out the few glitches with only a mild degree of the bickering traditionally associated with all academic committees, Harry Drabble shuffled his papers together as a signal that he had had enough.

‘I think I can safely say that I have guided us all to a satisfactory conclusion on all matters that will ensure our venture is a success,’ he said, in his best Winstonian impression.

‘All he needs now is a bloody cigar,’ muttered Peter to Blanche, who was sitting next to him before the magisterial desk. As Harry began to rise in his seat, Christina Ullswater put up a finger and smiled sweetly at him.

‘Excuse me, Dr Drabble, but before we break up, I think there is one matter that should be brought to your attention.’

Hieronymus sank back into his chair and stared suspiciously at her.

‘And what might that be, Miss Ullswater?’ he grunted.

‘Did you know that The Play of Adam is alleged by some to be cursed?’

‘Nonsense! Where on earth did you get that idea?’ rumbled Harry.

‘From the Transactions of the BSMS . It discusses, amongst other plays, this one you found in the Bodleian.’

The other four members, whom Christina had briefed beforehand, sat back to enjoy Drabble’s discomfiture.

‘There was nothing about this in the article I showed you,’ he said dismissively.

‘No, but that was only based on a copy of the seventeenth-century translation.’ Christina handed across a short transcript she had typed up from her study of the article in the London Library. ‘The original parchment still exists and that has a postscript by the author that warns of the perils of performing the play.’

Drabble put his half-glasses back on his nose and scanned the brief extract, before handing it back.

‘Very interesting, Miss Ullswater. You are to be complimented on digging up such an obscure gloss on the Oseney play,’ he said patronisingly. ‘In fact, I might mention it to the audience in my introduction before the actual performance, just to lighten the proceedings.’

‘Do we know what sort of ill fortune followed exhibitions of this drama?’ asked Agatha Wood-Turner, being deliberately provocative.

When Christina admitted that there was no information on this point, Harry Drabble snorted his derision. ‘Interesting, of course – but a lot of nonsense! Like the old chestnut about it being unlucky to mention Macbeth , and having to call it “The Scottish Play” instead.’

‘I never understood the origin of that,’ ventured Blanche Fitzwilliam. ‘But I know several actors who are very serious about sticking to the tradition.’

‘No mystery about it,’ advised Loftus. ‘When a lousy play nose-dived at first night or was pulled after a short run, it was common for the theatre management to rustle up a quick Macbeth to fill in, as every actor worth his salt knew it off by heart, so to mention the play when something else was running was held to be a bad omen.’

Peter Partridge immediately contradicted Loftus with a rival Macbeth theory and their difference of opinion was soon in danger of becoming quite acrimonious, until Drabble loudly declared the meeting over and cleared them from his room.

As Christina Ullswater and Dr Wood-Turner walked together to the bus stop opposite the college gates, the younger woman sought to delve into Agatha’s long-standing knowledge of their colleagues.

‘Why do Peter and Loftus always seem to be at each other’s throats?’ she asked, turning her innocent blue eyes on the older woman. ‘They never seem to be easy in each other’s company. Sometimes it gets a little embarrassing to be with them, when they are busy putting each other down.’

They reached the bus stop, alongside which was a red postbox, its top painted dull green, which Christina knew would allegedly change colour if poison gas was around. Ignoring the reminder that they were permanently in a war zone, Agatha’s sharp face turned to look quizzically at the blonde.

‘I think you’re rather taken by young Peter, my girl! Yes, there is some friction between them, but it’s not that serious. All I can tell you is that Peter feels resentful that he was beholden to Loftus Maltravers over a matter some years in the past. I can’t say more, as it would be betraying a trust.’

With that, Christina had to be satisfied, as the single-decker bus came towards them, looking oddly blind with its headlights blanked off by slitted metal masks, which at night reduced their illumination to a point where the poor driver would have been better off leaning out of his cab with a white stick!

As the two women climbed aboard, the kindly young academic decided that she would somehow find a way of trying to heal the breach between the two men. But perhaps Fate already had the same idea.

The morning of the Open Day started bright and sunny, and remained so as the dozen visitors from the parent establishment in Lambeth arrived on the 11.37 train. Much to Dr Drabble’s contentment, this year these included the vice principal, the dean of the Arts Faculty and the bursar, all influential people when it came to bucking for a Chair. As Waverley College also housed the Theology and the Language Departments, History had to share the glory of displaying the talents available in deepest Surrey. By noon, spectator numbers were swollen to about thirty by families, non-teaching staff, some curious local residents and a few waif-like students who had projects to complete or examinations to resit during the summer.

The academic staff went through the ritual of parading the visitors through each department to show them the mediocre facilities worsened by the privations of wartime. Unlike Faculties of Engineering, Science or Medicine, there was little of visual interest to show visitors and it was with relief that they adjourned at one thirty to the lecture theatre, where some meagre refreshments were laid out on two trestle tables.