Page 35 of Apt to be Suspicious
“Huh.” It came out of her as a huff of breath. “Thank you. I didn’t realise you were. I didn’t realise I needed to be— I’m not one for those sorts of dances, usually.”
“That is a pity. You’re a delight to dance with. For some people, every step is an argument about who’s going where. You were willing enough to follow my lead in the moment.” Then he made a point of leaning forward a little, elbows on his knees. “It's your turn to lead now. Do you want to start with the papers or Miss Styles?”
“They’re linked. Or rather, the paper is relevant to both. I woke up early— I don’t know why. But when I was looking at those odd advertisements, I started experimenting with the letters. I think it was someone terrible at writing a code.” She pulled something from the pocket of her skirt. “Here.” There was a folded piece of paper. “Do you see it, or do you want a hint?”
He took the slip, which had two lines written out. He read them out, “Driver, Oxford. Well-trained, handy, and tidy. In service, available in December. Driver, Oxford. Ideal terms. Need ongoing work.” Two of the shorter ones, though he’d noticed that many of them started with that same odd ‘Driver, Oxford’. That gave him just enough of an idea, but he said, “Tell me, why don’t you?”
“First letters.” He’d been wondering about that, but now he spelled them out under his breath, then made them into words. “Do w— is that what? Yes. ‘Do what I said’. And then ‘Do it now’. Those certainly seem clear enough if the reader knows what the task is.”
“Why Islip? I’m assuming that part is to keep the framing, and also a reminder of where to report. And the numbers are the same, maybe just to make the ad look right.” Edmund grimaced. It wasn’t quite adding up.
“I don’t know how much you’ve been around the countryside. Thirty-five minutes by bicycle, maybe fifteen or twenty by train. I didn’t check the timetables.”
“So, a reasonable distance for someone here, without the risks of running into someone they knew the same way Oxford would imply.” Edmund said. “Also, the post office and shop clerks here can spot a student yards and yards away.”
“Do we think this is a student? There are other people in the world.” Pen leaned forward now, glancing at the paper. “Though I suppose it’s a somewhat sophomoric effort.”
“Not a trained professional on several fronts, no,” Edmund said, before thinking that perhaps betrayed more of his own background than he ought. But his oaths hadn’t caught at him, and drawing attention to it now would be worse. “What was the other thing?”
“I went back through— you know they have photographers at these sorts of dances. The fancier ones. I went back through this year’s. Miss Styles has been with three other men, the sort of visible public way. I couldn’t go back before Trinity last year. They keep only the last three full terms handy for the Cherwell. I’d have to put in a request not on a Sunday for the older ones. I made note of the issues if you want to have a look yourself.”
Edmund leaned back. “That was an excellent thought.” It was what Mama would do in that situation. Edmund had not yet worked around to it being useful or necessary to ask her. “Did you write down the names?”
Pen passed another neat list over to him, and Edmund frowned over it. “I know one of these has had some troubles. Possibly two. I only heard it by nickname, and there are at least three people getting called Iggers right now for some reason. What do we think about Walter Darcy?”
“I think that Miss Styles had an entirely predatory sort of look about her. Was she using magic, do you think?” Pen asked it cheerfully now, as if she had her teeth properly into the puzzle, and Edmund very much found himself enjoying that in her. When she was not defensively on edge, and instead letting her brains shine, she was far more interesting.
“As you pointed out, she was doing her best to make sure I didn’t see what she was doing. What makes you say predatory? I’m not arguing with the description.” Edmund held up his fingers before she could rightfully protest. “I didn’t see it, so I’m relying on your terms. Something in that might indicate what she was doing. If anything.” Then he added, “Let me pour the coffee, you talk.”
Pen Stirling had an excellent eye, it turned out. She had been hampered by the crowds, which had not let her get a clear look at any given moment. Some part of Miss Styles and Mr Darcy had been obscured every time she’d seen them. But she had a solid commentary on some of the gestures, the angles of their bodies, how Miss Styles would murmur something and Darcy would lean into her, or change course.
Nothing in it was certain, nothing that could be taken to the Guard if it were magic or the authorities at the University if it weren’t. But it was telling. Edmund pushed the cup of coffee toward Pen, and took his own, giving her a moment to appreciate it.
She let out a little pleased sound, another sign she was more relaxed with him now. “How did you make it?”
“A thing called a French press. Much handier if you have a kettle but not a stove. Uncle Alexander burns a candle at every imaginable end. We have a much better time if I can provide coffee as needed.” Edmund hesitated, then said, “I’d be glad to provide both a press and some coffee for your use, if you’d like, and wouldn’t think it overstepping.”
That brought her up short, then she swallowed. “Let me think about that. Before I answer you, what did you see?”
“Besides the people trying to force other people’s fun, and a number of people eyeing you hopefully.” He was certain she hadn’t particularly noticed that one either, and the way her eyes widened made him certain. “Several pieces of jewellery that ought to be stone and were in fact paste or glass. Well-made copies, with magic to hide it, but it’s simple to spot if you know to look.”
“You had those rumours of pieces going missing. From non-magical folks?” Pen was following the thread now, the brief disruption of the offer of coffee smoothed over. He nodded. “How did you know how to spot it? Or who to look at?”
“Mama makes a study of that kind of thing. These weren’t major pieces, but they were pieces that women from those families would wear in this sort of setting. All women with brothers at Oxford or recently, or seeing Oxford men.”
“Huh.” Pen sipped the coffee again, looked at the cup, and sighed. “I’m going to say yes to your offer. I oughtn’t. But this really does taste lovely. Just the thing for late-night studies.”
“I find it so,” Edmund said agreeably. “It will take me a day or three, probably, but I shall have something for you soon.”
There was a short pause. “And the frock? They were— Mistress Castalia was terrifyingly thorough and efficient.”
“She is excellent.” Edmund hesitated before adding, “I call her Aunt Cassie. She’s married to Master Benton, who’s been the estate steward since before I was born, and in Papa’s service for years before that. It was why I could beg the favour. Aunt Cassie really adores helping someone dress for a specific occasion. Especially right now, the clothes rationing has made it a bit more complex.”
“She was, would you tell her, please, then, that I was overwhelmed but also delighted? And surprisingly comfortable for a party frock. Whatever of that she’d find pleasant to hear?” Pen met his eyes then, cautiously, and Edmund beamed at her.
“Of course. I will also give a glowing description of how well it suited you. And how it suited you in a way that meant you glowed, rather than being someone wearing a fancy frock and the frock getting all the notice. They’re two quite different things.”
It got him another of those dubious expressions, but she followed this one with something of a smile, so he did not press the matter. Instead, she said, “What do we do now?”
