During the week after Poppy’s death, the depths of my amateurhood began to sink in. Having handed in Alice’s shirt to the police, alienated Hafsah and royally pissed off Peter Frame, I’d burned through all of my leads. I wrote up everything that had happened in my notebook, which took most of the day after – I found myself scribbling throughout my first Chaucer seminar, barely listening to Professor Wang’s ruminations on symbolism inThe House of Fame.
But once I’d transcribed the events of that tumultuous day, I was at a loss for what to do next. I made conversation with countless other students, both on my course and at the Grandstand, but none of them had anything of interest to offer like Hafsah had. Almost everyone had been asleep at the moment Poppy died.
One thing my brain remained stuck on was how Poppy – and her possible killer – managed to get into the tower. The door was locked, as I knew from first-hand experience, but who else besides Mordue had a key? It seemed a futile avenue to go down when the police had likely already pursued it to its logical end, but it was one of the only avenues I had.
Making an appointment to see Mordue was easier than it would’ve been before Poppy died, because she had cleared her schedule for the week so she could talk one-on-one to any students who were considering leaving. By the time I talked to her secretary, I got one of the last remaining appointments.
Mordue’s office had a black Gothic fireplace – all columns and arches – and an antique mahogany desk in front of an enormous bay window. A grandfather clock stood in the corner, engraved with rows of peculiar symbols in an unfamiliar alphabet. Upon closer inspection, I realised it ticked backwards.
When I entered, Mordue rose from behind the desk, thanked and dismissed her secretary, and gestured for me to take a seat on a sofa. If she remembered me from the North Tower confrontation, she didn’t show it, but maybe she just had a good poker face. I adjusted the pashmina around my neck, hoping it covered the ruby that was throbbing like a wound.
‘Thank you for coming to see me, Ms Fitzwilliam,’ she said, smiling warmly. She had sharp feline flicks drawn on her eyes in black liner, smooth hair pulled back in a high ballerina bun.
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ I said, uncertain just how to play this. ‘I’ve been really scared, as I’m sure you can imagine. Especially living so close to the tower.’
‘Yes, now your file says you’d put in a dorm transfer request, but you withdrew it the day after Ms Kerr’s passing – is that right?’
I fluttered with nerves. She’d looked into me. Did she do that for every student? Or was it that she really did remember me from that night?
‘Yeah, I withdrew it because I think I’m going to leave,’ I improvised, praying to hell she didn’t call my bluff. The timing did look pretty odd. ‘This is all . . . it’s a bit too much.’
‘I understand.’ She nodded. ‘It’s been frightening for us all. Especially those of us who were here ten years ago. It brings back a lot of traumatic memories.’ Her delivery of this was slightly rehearsed, since she’d probably uttered the same words to countless students already, but I could tell there was real pain behind the practised lines. It was etched in the wincing crinkles of her eyes and the downward tilt of her mouth.
I looked down at my trembling hands. ‘I don’t really want to leave, it’s just . . . what if I’m next?’
She fixed her hazel eyes on mine. ‘Please rest assured we’re doing everything we can to make sure nothing like this ever happens again. For one thing, it looks like Ms Kerr tragically took her own life. But regardless, we know how terrifying this still is, given the history, so we’re upping security measures considerably. There will be a guard posted at the entrance to the tower twenty-four hours a day, and CCTV cameras installed both there and in the Observatory.’
I stared at the backwards grandfather clock; it had an almost hypnotic presence in the room, like a magnetic field.
‘But how did Poppy get into the tower in the first place?’ I asked, laying some of my cards on the table. ‘I thought it was locked.’
‘That’s something we’re still looking into.’ From her measured tone, I guessed this was something other students had asked too.
‘Okay, it’s just . . . who else had a key, besides you?’
This was crossing a line, and I knew it.
She tilted her jaw upwards ever so slightly. ‘Several other trusted staff members. Those keys have since been revoked. I’m now the only person with access, and the key is on my person at all times. Which is why I’m confident nothing like this can happen again.’
At least not in the North Tower, I thought, with a stab of genuine fear that seemed to originate in my throat.
‘Who were the staff members?’ I asked, chewing my lip. I’d have to play up the nervous student act if I were to coax any answers loose.
She pressed her mouth into a flat line. ‘I don’t think that’s appropriate for me to answer. Is there anything else you would like to talk to me about?’ I shook my head. ‘Very well. I do hope you decide to stay with us, but if you would like to leave, we’ll be happy to provide references for whatever institution you apply for next year.’
I left the meeting feeling defeated. I should’ve known she would never share that kind of information with me, but I was hoping she’d have let something slip; a gender, a department, even whether it was a caretaker or a cleaner. Unfortunately she’d been the picture of professionalism, and I was no further forward than I had been before I went in.
So now the only real lead I had left was the girl I shared a dorm with.