Sabotage at Somerset: A charmingly fun paranormal cozy mystery (Oxford Key Mysteries Book 4) Read online

  Sabotage at Somerset

  An Oxford Key Mystery

  Lynn Morrison

  The Marketing Chair

  Copyright © 2021 by Lynn Morrison

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This novel’s story and characters are fictitious. Certain long-standing institutions, agencies, and public offices are mentioned, but the characters involved are wholly imaginary. Some of the Eternal characters were inspired by actual historical figures, and abide by the generally known facts about these individuals and their relevant time periods. In some cases the names have been changed. In all cases their actions and conversations are strictly fiction. All characters and events are the product of my own imagination.

  Cover design by Emilie Yane Lopes

  Published by:

  The Marketing Chair Press, Oxford, England

  LynnMorrisonWriter.com

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-8380391-3-4

  Per le mie bimbe - siete stupende!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Post Mortem at Padua

  The Eternal Investigator

  Leave a review

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Lynn Morrison

  Chapter One

  I pull open one drawer after another, but none of them hold the item I’m desperately hoping to find. Instead, a cluttered jumble of items is all I see.

  “Has anyone seen my mobile?” I shout, but the only answer I get is the sound of the shower running upstairs. I mutter under my breath, “This is the problem with living in a remodel project. Nothing is where it should be.”

  That sentence sums up my life right now. Ever since I found out I, Nat Payne, inherited my grandfather Alfred’s house here in Oxford, my life has been a mess of moving boxes, sawdust and missing items. Moving out of my flat at St Margaret College and trying to oversee a monstrous remodel project while doing my day job would be crazy enough. Spending time organising a plan to catch a master thief on top of that… it is possible I took on a bit too much at one time.

  The chaos cluttering my kitchen agrees. I scan the room, struggling to look past the half-emptied boxes of dishes and pans and the sink full of dirty breakfast dishes. Underneath the mess, there is a new oak table and chairs sitting near the back window. The smattering of breadcrumbs can't hide the warm blue and grey tones of the upgraded kitchen countertops. The bright white paint lightens the room, giving me hope that the rest will come together as soon as I finish putting things away.

  But unpacking boxes will have to wait for now. As the Head of Ceremonies at Oxford, I've been assigned to act as the liaison between the university and a TV period drama which is coming here to film scenes for their programme. For the next two weeks, I'll be spending my days acting as an advisor to the show. Since my Uncle Harold happens to be the producer, I'm not viewing the assignment as a hardship.

  The truth is my assignment is no accident. It is one part of the plan my friends and I put together, aiming to stop Oswald Beadle and Thomas Hobbes from stealing the magic of Oxford. And that is why I am in such a rush to get out the door.

  I check the clock on the nearby stove, distraught to see another five minutes have gone by. I do not want to be late for the first day of filming, but if I don’t find my phone in the next two minutes, I may not have a choice. Thankfully, my best mate and cheeky wyvern H pushes his head through the cat flap, offering a hand before I completely lose the plot.

  “Oi, Nat! What’s wiff all tha shouting? I can 'ear ya all tha way out in my garden 'ouse."

  "I can't find my mobile anywhere and I really need to get out of here if I want to make it to the set before my uncle and his film crew show up," I explain, still searching through the cupboards.

  "Did ya check yer 'andbag?" H asks as he crosses the room. He passes behind me, pausing mid-step. "Wait, did ya say yer looking fer yer mobile? Tha one wiff the bright red ladybirds dotted all over the case?"

  I stop and spin around, a hopeful expression on my face. "Yes, that's the one! Do you see it?"

  H snorts out a fiery laugh, setting a nearby box of crumbled wrapping paper alight. "It's in yer back pocket, Nat."

  A flush rushes up my neck and onto my face as I reach around to my trouser pocket and find the item in question half sticking out of it. After stamping out the fire, H takes pity on me and uses his wings to blow some cool air across my flaming cheeks.

  I slump against the kitchen counter. "Thanks, H. You're a lifesaver. Are you ready to go? And where is Edward? What's taking him so long?" I push off to dash upstairs, but H loops a talon through my waistband, pulling me to a stop.

  "Lor luv a duck, Nat. Look at yerself." H arches an eyebrow, taking my measure. "Why don't I stay 'ere and keep Edward on track? We shouldn't be long behind ya."

  I take a deep breath, exhale, and then reward H with a smile. "Good idea, mate. I'm working myself into a flurry this morning, and it isn't doing me any favours."

  H looks at me in surprise. "Are ya that excited to meet the famous actors on yer uncle's show? I wouldn't 'ave put ya down as someone who'd get starstruck."

  "The actors? Definitely not." I shake my head. "I met plenty of famous people when I worked on Disney events. Without the fancy costumes, hairdressers, and make-up, they are just like any other bloke on the street. No, I'm nervous about Oswald Beadle and Thomas Hobbes. This is our best chance to catch them in the act of committing a crime, and I don't want to risk missing a minute of it."

  H nods, his expression serious. "I get that, but I don't think they'll show up at eight in tha morning, Nat. 'Owever, I can see yer convinced, so maybe ya'd better go on ahead. Ya can look around, reassure yerself everything is okay."

  H flutters off to check on Edward, waving me on my way. I grab my handbag and bicycle keys off the kitchen table and rush out the door.

  Just as H predicted, the fresh summer morning air does me a world of good. The sun beams above, balancing the cool edge to the breeze. I can feel the nervous energy flowing off me, replaced with my normal sense of calm and levelheadedness. I cut through quiet side streets and alleyways, moving quickly enough to feel confident I'll have plenty of time to check my To Do list before the crew shows up.

  Setting my worries aside, I take a moment to reflect on the last six weeks. The exhibition grand opening event at the Ashmolean was barely finished before we began working on our plans for luring Oswald Beadle and Thomas Hobbes — the two men responsible for the problems with the magic of Oxford — back to town where they can be stopped, once and for all.

  Our plan seems simple. My Uncle Harold, a film director, is working on a historical period drama, with none other than Sir Christopher Wren as its main character. With the help of the Eternals, we convinced my uncle to bring his c
rew to Oxford for two weeks of filming in the very halls where Sir Christopher used to walk. In her role as the Director of the Ashmolean, Kate arranged for them to borrow priceless antiques, portraits, and artefacts, to make the film set as historically accurate as possible. Our hope is that Beadle and Hobbes will take the bait, turning up in Oxford and trying to make off with these priceless treasures.

  If catching a pair of dangerous criminals wasn't task enough, I also had a tonne of work to do to help the scriptwriters and set designers depict Oxford's ceremonies exactly as they would have been in the 1660s. If I hadn't had the aid of Mathilde and the Bodleian's Eternals, I'd probably still be buried under a pile of books.

  Finally, in my spare moments, I've had a house to remodel.

  Edward had suggested holding off on starting the renovations until after we caught our criminals. While I knew that logically such a decision made sense, my heart was shouting to get a move on it. After my whirlwind first year in Oxford, I want nothing more than to settle down with Edward in our new home. Given how great I am at juggling complex tasks and organising a variety of moving parts, surely a home remodel would be a piece of cake. Right?

  Wrong!

  First, we found mould under the wooden floors, then a pipe burst in the kitchen. One thing after another threw my construction timeline straight out of the window. But we're halfway through now, and the downstairs, with its new kitchen and polished hardwood floors, gives me hope that we'll make it to the other side.

  As the signs for the University Botanic Gardens come into view, my thoughts shift from my moving boxes over to the movie set. The filming schedule spans the next two weeks, with the first few days here in the gardens and the rest of the time at Somerset College.

  I've got a pretty good idea of what to expect. After all, staging a scene and organising an event aren't that far removed from one another. You need a clear vision, the right backdrop and capable people filling all the key roles. The only difference is that filming runs for days and uses a lot more cameras.

  After I lock my bicycle to one of the racks near the garden entrance, I turn around to find Harry waving at me from inside the gates. I am not at all surprised to see she has beaten me here. No one, and I do mean no one, is more excited about the film crew coming to town than Harry is.

  "Morning, Nat. Today's the big day!" she squeals as I make my way over. "What time do you think Caleb Farrow will get here?" She pauses to pat her hair, her brow wrinkling in concern. "Do I look okay?"

  I struggle to hide the grin stretching across my face. On any other day, Harry is an extraordinarily capable executive assistant who doesn't take nonsense from anyone, regardless of how lofty their title might be. But apparently handsome male television stars are her weakness. Caleb Farrow, with his windswept dark locks and muscled form, is practically kryptonite.

  Harry's husband Rob, completely comfortable in their relationship, volunteered to drop Harry off at the gardens this morning. I guess he figures it is easier to let her get the excitement out of her system than to try to convince her that the man she sees on screen might not be the same in person. Having met my fair share of stars, I suspect he is right.

  I link arms with Harry, directing us towards the back of the gardens where the film crew is due to set up the morning shots. "You look absolutely fabulous, darling," I drawl and give her a wink. My outrageous tone does the trick, jostling a laugh out of her and easing her nerves. "And no, I don't imagine Mr Farrow will turn up anytime soon. The actors are typically the last to arrive on set, having little interest in standing around while the lighting and camera crews do their work."

  "I don't know how you can be so cool and collected, Nat," Harry murmurs.

  Now it is my turn to laugh. "If you'd seen me turning my kitchen upside down this morning in an effort to find my mobile, you wouldn't say that. But my nerves have less to do with Hollywood and everything to do with Hobbes and Beadle. I'll leave it to you to ask for autographs. I want to keep my eyes peeled for any signs of trouble."

  Harry's enthusiasm diminishes at the reminder of why we are really here. "We'll catch them, hun. Now that we know who is responsible, it will be impossible for them to slip past us again."

  I straighten my shoulders and lift my head, looking determined. "You're right, Harry. Now let's go find our friends."

  ❖

  Edward and H turn up soon enough, both relieved to find me in a more placid mental state. They are quickly followed by the first of the film crew lorries. As the set team descends, pulling metal fixtures and oversized lights from their vehicles, we decide to get out of their way.

  "Why don't we have a walk around and familiarise ourselves with the layout of the gardens?" I propose. "We can identify the best places to station ourselves and the Eternals to keep a watch out for Hobbes and Beadle."

  Edward, Harry and H voice their agreement, falling into step beside me on the dusty yellow pathway.

  Fortunately, the garden space is well-contained and offers limited access points. The Cherwell River borders one side, with stone benches dotted along it calling for visitors to rest and watch the punts float by. The back corner of the garden juts up against Christ Church Meadow, blocked by a fence and shrubbery.

  The other side of the garden is our area of most concern, where a small access road provides a means of approach to Christ Church Meadow. Despite its small size, the road will be nearly impossible to monitor as it is used by a constant stream of locals and tourists alike, all wanting to take advantage of the scenic shortcut between Christ Church and Magdalen Colleges.

  But for the moment, we turn our attention to the rest of the gardens. Under the glow of the warm summer day, the garden is a riot of colours. Everywhere the eye can see, flowers blossom, perfuming the air with their soft scent. A stone fountain tinkles away, providing the perfect soundtrack for this idyllic scene. It is no wonder my uncle decided to film the exterior shots here.

  As she flips through a garden guide, Harry comments, "I had no idea the Botanic Garden was so old."

  "Oh yes, this part of the garden dates back to the 1600s. Likely, Wilkins and Wren would have come here to gather medicinal herbs for some of their experiments," I reply. "Those trees over there testify to the age of the garden — the oldest was planted in 1645, if you can believe it."

  "And the greenhouses?" Edward asks, pointing towards the gleaming glass roof in the distance. "Will they be filming there?"

  I shake my head. "Thankfully, no. They are filled with plants and small ponds. It would be nearly impossible to film there without the greenery blocking the shot. I think we can safely leave them off our list."

  We stroll ahead, crossing under the leafy shadows of the wooded area and emerging on the riverside path. The greenhouses sprawl along our right, their glass windows providing only brief glimpses into the interior.

  "I see what you mean," Edward comments as he rises on his toes to try to peek inside.

  My mobile pings with a message. "Kate has arrived. Hold on, let me tell her to wait for us at the events lawn." I dash off a short message and then pocket my phone again. Hopefully, this time I'll remember where I put it.

  Our riverside path curves, leading us toward the lower garden. Here, the flowers run riot, growing in dense, colourful shrubs which line the paths. We spy several nooks which look ideal for picnics. I make a mental note to come back with Edward as soon as our lives calm down. When we can finally put all of this chaos behind us, we'll certainly be due for some quality time together.

  Harry makes notes on the map in her guide, indicating the best locations for us to take up our watch for the next few days while the film crew uses this as their location. H volunteers to rotate around amongst the treetops, taking a wyvern's eye view of the surrounding area.

  "Iffen that crow from tha Torture Museum dares ta show its face, I'll be 'ere waiting fer it," he declares, shadowboxing around in a circle.

  Finally, the main fountain comes into view. The events lawn isn't far away
, sitting near the front with a side street gate at its edge. The film crew have planned to utilise the open space, setting up their trailers for food, hair and makeup, costumes, and the crew.

  Kate looks like the picture of relaxation in her wide-leg linen trousers, eyelet top and espadrilles, a far cry from her typical suit and pearls she wears as the Director of the Ashmolean. She pauses her conversation with another woman to wave us over. It isn't until we get close that we figure out who the other individual is.

  "Mathilde?" I ask, confusion heavy in my voice. Harry looks as flummoxed as I do when the short-haired woman in the flowing skirt turns around.

  "You cut your hair!" I squeal. Mathilde's cheeks flush as she bites her lip, waiting for our judgment.

  I look closely, noting it is more than her hair that has changed. Gone are her worn jeans and trainers, tossed out with her ever-present messy hair bun. Instead, she is sporting shoulder-length waves, held back from her face by a pair of turquoise sunglasses, a summery skirt, and a light blue denim jacket. She looks great, but I can't help wonder why the sudden change.

  Harry arrives at the same question. "I love it, but why didn't you tell any of us you were planning a makeover?"

  "Honestly, I wasn't sure I would go through with it until I sat down in the salon chair," Mathilde responds.

  "I cannot believe you cut your hair. Where are you going to store your spare pens now," I ask, ribbing her for her habit of tucking items into her bun.

  "I had been contemplating a change for a while now. The tipping point happened at the Bodleian last week, when three different professors in a row took me for a student instead of a staff member. I can hardly blame them, given how much of my wardrobe dates back to my uni days. I decided it might be time for a refresh." Mathilde twirls around in a small circle, letting us take in the full extent of her new clothing and hair.