I glanced over at Christina while her father talked on screen. Although she held her body rigid, tears streamed down her face. David offered her his handkerchief, his face wracked with concern.
Concern, or guilt?
The narrator spoke of Hathaway like some kind of intellectual freedom fighter who was disparaged and outright censored by the ‘academic establishment’ in an attempt to silence his ideas. In reality, he was clearly a manipulative bully with a lot of fringe theories who loved using Jane’s own words to advocate for the same misogynist worldview he’d forced onto Christina, who he held up as a shining example of true womanhood. What a dick. If I’d been indifferent to him before, I was now abhorred.
Press clippings and old photographs flickered on the screen as the narrator explained how Hathaway’s reclusive wife was struck down by a hereditary bone disease, leaving him distraught and heartbroken. All around me, Janeites sniffed into their handkerchiefs, touched at the sad story.
Next, the narrator spoke about how Hathaway tried to take down the academic establishment ‘at their own game’, whatever that meant. Cut to a scene inside a packed lecture hall. Professor Carmichael stood at the lectern, delivering a prestigious lecture series. Surprised, I looked around the orangery for her, but couldn’t see her anywhere. Maybe she’d left in disgust? Back on the screen, Carmichael was in the middle of a point about Austen’s hidden feminism when Hathaway leaped up and started arguing over one of her points. He wouldn’t let her get a word in. When she ordered security to escort him from the building, he accused her of being unable to participate in debate, stopping just short of accusing her of censorship. She yelled, “You’ll pay for this, Julius! I swear to you that you will suffer for what you’ve done.”
According to the narrator, that event caused Carmichael to be lampooned by Hathaway’s followers online, and memes of her red, flustered expression appeared all over the internet. Apparently, this was all part of Hathaway’s ‘cause’. Carmichael nearly lost her university position over his outburst, on what was supposed to beherplatform to shine.Wow, no wonder she hates him—
“Mina,” Morrie pointed to the time on his phone.
Yikes. Time to go. I skulled the rest of my chocolate, collected my phone and purse, and turned to leave. Morrie rose and offered his hand. “I shall help you back to the Hall so you don’t slip in your dainty shoes,” he said, slightly too loudly, for he was shushed by several women.
We ducked outside, and I raced down toward the wood, the wind biting at my skin. At my side, Morrie kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, his eyes trained on the trees, searching for a foe. As we moved under the canopy of trees, Quoth soared down and landed on my shoulder.
I plunged into the trees, casting my eyes in all directions. Branches snapped behind me as Morrie followed close behind. “Alice?” I called. Ahead of me, a grey statue rose out of the snow. Scantily-clad, nubile women danced in a circle, clutching tiny harps and amphorae where wine spilled into the mouths of bearded satyrs. I turned right and stumbled over the icy ground.
Morrie’s fingers dug into my arm. “Gotcha. Over there. I can see something.”
He helped me down the slope. I recognized Alice’s coat on the ground. “Alice, we’re here. Tell us quickly, please, we’ve got to get back before Morrie’s testicles retract into his body—”
“Shite,” Morrie stopped dead, his face grim.
“Croak.” Quoth’s voice cracked, as though he was in pain.
“What?” But then, I saw it, too. Alice’s coat covered something else – a white muslin gown, speckled with blood. Beside the body lay a croquet mallet, the flat end dyed with wet crimson.
“Oh, no.”
Morrie slid down the slope and rolled the shape over. Alice Yo stared up at us, her mouth wide with terror, and the side of her skull caved in. The coat slid off her shoulders, revealing four bloody letters scrawled across her chest. They spelled out one word.
LIAR.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Istaggered back. “No. Oh, no.”
The professor was one thing. He was a horrible person, and even with our suspicions, we could still end up chalking his death up to a robbery gone wrong. But I liked Alice. And this… this was cold-blooded murder.
Morrie tugged me out of the trees. “The manner of our courtship leaves something to be desired. We keep meeting over dead bodies.”
“No jokes, please.” Bile rose in my throat. I fought to keep down my breakfast.
“No jokes,” Morrie promised, his voice grave. “We need to raise the alarm. The killer could still be nearby.”
“Croak.” Quoth launched himself off my shoulder and soared into the air. He’d make a scan of the area faster than we could on the ground. If Alice’s killer was making a run for it, Quoth would catch them.
When we emerged from the wood, Lydia was outside playing croquet with her posse. “Mina? James? What are you doing in the forest? Mina, why do you have sauce stains on your dress?”
“It’s not sauce,” I cried, stumbling over the icy path. “Stop the memorial. Alice Yo has been murdered!”
Lydia screamed, clutching her hand to her forehead. Her cries drew people to the windows of the orangery. Security guards raced to the garden, surrounding us. One of them approached me, hand out, telling me to remain calm.
“I am calm,” I said, as people started to spill out of the orangery. “I’m telling you, Alice Yo has been murdered. You’ll find her just off the path. Turn right at the statue of the maenads. That’s the naked dancing girls. I have to sit down now.” I slumped in the snow, the cold no longer penetrating my numb body.
Alice was going to tell me who the murderer was. And then someone bashed her head in with a croquet mallet.
