Moth to the Flame (2 page)

Davina knew, of course, that she would receive the red carpet treatment the moment her presence was public knowledge, but she was not quite ready for that yet. She wanted to explore. Get her bearings. Gird her loins.

She walked into the first of the quads, and reached into her shoulder bag for the copy of
the
College Prospectus she'd sent away for. This glossy brochure, complete with artistic photographs and modem blurb, informed her that she was currently standing in St Agatha's Quad.

She tried to recall who St Agatha was, and for what she'd been canonised, but without much success. She made a mental note to read up on her. Those ancient martyrs were usually fascinating people. Perhaps a poem about a modern-day version? Davina laughed at herself. Whatever else she was, no matter what was going on in her life at a given moment, she was always a poet. On the lookout for inspiration everywhere she went. Taking mental notes.

She was sure that on her deathbed she'd be composing a mourning poem for herself in her head. Telling herself firmly to stick to the matters in hand, she once more consulted the brochure. St Bede's, she read, was named after The Venerable Bede, who'd been born in AD 673. He'd been a theological historian of wide acclaim, which accounted for the very large Theology and History departments at St Bede's. Fortunately for her, the college also boasted one of the largest English Literature intakes of any Oxford College, as well as a famous Library.

Davina glanced around her, at mellow Cotswold stone residences, gardens frothing with colour even in this inhospitable month,
and
a large stone cross. A quick glance at her prospectus told her that the residence in front of her, its facade smothered with winter-flowering yellow jasmine, was a student residence called Webster. Named, so she was informed, after John Webster, the Elizabethan dramatist who'd written, amongst other things,
The Duchess of Malfi.
Of course, Davina already knew that. She'd read the play some years ago. When she'd grown up enough to realise that reading the greats and classics was hardly a betrayal of her principles, and might actually do her some good.

She walked slowly, reluctantly, forward and stood in front of the large stone cross. It was, of course, a war memorial. And on it, listed in sad, carved lines, were the names of St Bede's fallen, young men who'd studied here in the halcyon days before the wars, and then lost their lives on battlefields in Flanders and Germany. Davina's lips twisted as a great rush of bitterness and pity washed over her. Such a waste.

So much futility. If women ruled the world, such insanities would never happen . . . She moved quickly on, past a rather unattractive car park and towards a much more interesting and attractive feature—the college clock, set squarely in the middle of yet another quad—Wallace Quad this time—with four massive white dials facing north, south, east and west.

She checked her watch, saw that the clock
was
right on time and gave it a friendly pat of congratulation as she walked on past it.

Opposite her was an ancient stretch of drystone walling, and a very attractive arch, showing glimpses of green velvet lawns, ponds and more stone facades beyond it. Becket Arch, the very helpful prospectus informed her. And through it, the main college gardens, croquet lawn, and the other student residences of Wolsey and Walton. Once again, she recognised the names. Wolsey, named after the Cardinal who was Henry VIII's ill-fated advisor. And Walton, named after Isaac, author of
The Compleat Angler
written in the seventeenth century.

But as she stepped through Becket Arch, Davina Granger was not thinking about that esteemed fellow wordsmith and fisherman. She was thinking only that, within those many rooms,
he
was working. Perhaps giving a tutorial to one of his students. Or perhaps working on his own, latest work.

Dr Gareth Lacey. The much-published Dr Gareth Lacey, one of St Bede's three much-respected, lauded, and venerated English dons. Specialities: Modern Poetry and the Romantics.

She forced her hands, which had clenched into fists by her sides, to relax, but she could still feel the imprint of her fingernails, cutting into her palms. She really must learn to control the rush of rage and hatred that
washed
over her whenever she so much as even thought of his name. She must force herself to keep a distance. Step back, think coldly, logically. Otherwise she would destroy herself.

And not Gareth Lacey.

She turned and made her way to the main entrance to St Bede's famous library. She very much needed peace and quiet, a place to sit and think and recover.

The library was one of the oldest buildings in the College, and as she walked along the cold stone floors, worn down by a procession of Oxford students who'd studied in these hallowed, narrow rooms since before the reign of Queen Elizabeth I, she found herself trembling again. A fine shivering in her lithe, conditioned muscles. A weakness that had nothing to do with the physical, but everything to do with mental stress.

She was apt to be over emotional. She knew that. Her teachers had told her mother so, when she was only five and had reacted so badly to the death of her stepfather. As a poet, having a fine, sensitive nature was a huge asset. But it left her extremely vulnerable to the barbs of everyday living.

She pushed open a heavy door, and found herself looking down a long tunnel lined with books. Nothing but books as far as the eye could see. In bays, stretched out along the length of the building, were heavy wooden
tables
and comfortable, red velvet-backed chairs. Some were empty, others held students who glanced up from their reading and gazed at her with vague curiosity. Davina breathed deeply of the musty, dusty, wonderful atmosphere that only books could produce. The floorboards underneath were soft and spongy, as was the ancient, faded, red carpet. She felt the building welcome her, like an old friend.

She moved along the line of books—heading unerringly for the English Literature section. There, she found everything from Thackeray to Dylan Thomas, John Donne to Ted Hughes, Shakespeare's complete works to Virginia Woolf. She slowly sat down at an empty table and took a long, slow, deep breath.

Steady.

She was here now. She'd made it. Step one in her plans was accomplished and completed.

Nothing was going to stop her now.

The destruction of Gareth Lacey could begin.

CHAPTER TWO

The Principal of St Bede's, Lord St John James, known simply as Sin-Jun to his friends, walked briskly towards the lodge. He was a
well
preserved man in his early sixties, and was looking forward to meeting their latest VIP. After arranging Honorary Fellowship status for Davina Granger for Hilary Term, he was the current darling of the English Department.

When he stepped through the door into the small, office-like interior, however, he stopped abruptly. He'd expected the most famous and controversial modern woman poet of her generation to look . . . well, different. Like a female bulldog perhaps. Ready to chew him up and spit him out.

‘Hello. You must be Lord St James?' The voice wasn't what he'd been expecting either. Soft. Feminine. At total odds with the short, spiky, defiant hair cut, and level, challenging, but quite delightfully
huge
green eyes.

‘Er . . . humph, yes. Please, call me Sin-Jun. It's a lot less work for the tongue.'

‘Thank you so much for inviting me here this term,' she said sweetly. ‘I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to being a part of a college like St Bede's.'

Sin-Jun beamed, utterly charmed. ‘The pleasure, and the privilege my dear, I assure you, are all ours. Well now, I'm sure you'd like to see your Rooms, and . . . er . . . freshen up, yes?' he asked tentatively. The trouble with so-called liberated women, was that you never knew when you were going to get your head chewed off for saying something sexist. And since Sin-Jun hadn't the least idea what
constituted
a sexist remark, he was naturally wary.

Davina picked up her suitcase and smiled. ‘Thank you. That would be nice.'

He began filling her in about some of Oxford's traditions as they walked out into St Agnes Quad, and, much to her relief, past Webster. It meant she was in either Wolsey or Walton—just where she wanted to be.

She was glad the Principal so obviously approved of her—it was vital that she get as many members of the college's hierarchy eating out of her hand as quickly as possible. She was going to have to entrench herself quickly and deeply in college life, if she was to learn all the secrets, gossips, and weaknesses, of one Dr Gareth Lacey.

‘This is Wolsey,' Sin-Jun said. ‘We've got a very nice set of rooms free here.' As he talked, he opened a large door that led into a dark but charming hallway with a carved wooden staircase and big crystal chandelier.

‘You can almost smell the centuries in here,' Davina murmured, instantly aware of the feeling of antiquity that assailed her. ‘I'm going to love it, I can tell.'

And Walton was right across the gardens. Easy access to her enemy. But with just enough distance to provide her with a breathing space when she needed it. ‘It's perfect.'

‘Your rooms are on the first floor—a corner
suite.
It'll be quite quiet because you don't have noisy student neighbours on every side of you.'

The rooms he led her to were some of the most elegant and interesting Davina had ever seen.

The door opened on to the study, where a log fire already burned in the grate. Davina instantly walked towards it. ‘It's lovely. But I'm not sure I'd know how to keep it going?' she said, watching the flames as they hypnotically danced their way up the chimney.

‘Oh, the scouts will do that for you,' Sin-Jun said quickly.

Davina surmised that in Oxford scouts were the members of staff responsible for cleaning the rooms, serving the Fellows, and generally keeping the place running. She smiled. ‘I can see I'm going to be spoiled rotten.'

She glanced round at the worn but comfortable sofa and large leather armchair. She walked towards the window, where the surface of an ancient desk caught the fading winter light. There were some undistinguished but genuine daubs from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries hanging on the walls, and faded but lovely green velvet curtains framed a view across the croquet lawns.

‘It's wonderful—just what I need to inspire me in my work. I dare say I'll spend a lot of my time in the libraries though. And,' she added, oh-so-casually, ‘consulting various English
Literature
Fellows. St Bede's has three, I understand? Of course, the man I need to see most of is the Fellow who specialises in Modern Poetry.'

Sin-Jun's face lit up. ‘Ah! Yes, that'll be Gareth. Dr Gareth Lacey? You may have read his books?'

Davina smiled. Like a tiger. ‘Oh yes. I've read every word Dr Lacey has ever written.' She didn't add that her interest in his books had only been recent. Very recent.

Sin-Jun beamed. ‘He's eager to meet you too, I assure you.'

Davina smiled. ‘That's nice,' she said, her green eyes glowing like newly cut and polished emeralds.

‘Well, I'll leave you to unpack,' Sin-Jun rubbed his hands briskly. ‘Oh, there's a cocktail party in the SCR—the Senior Common Room—at six this evening. I've invited several English Fellows from other colleges to come, and of course our own Scholars and Exhibitioners in English to join us. I'm sure they'll give you a generous welcome,' he added, before taking his leave.

Inside her small domain, Davina made a brief tour. There was a large bedroom with a huge four-poster bed but rather inadequate wardrobe space, and a small kitchenette off the study. An antiquated bathroom completed the suite.

She nodded in satisfaction. She couldn't
have
asked for things to go better. Now, all she had to do was prepare for the cocktail party, and her first meeting with the enemy.

She glanced at her watch. Nearly four. She hurried to the bathroom, and whilst the vast claw-footed tub was filling, quickly and methodically unpacked. She added gardenia bath oil, returned to her bedroom, stripped, and picked up her two hand weights. She'd learned to use them when she went to America, just after her seventeenth birthday, and had shared a flat near Muscle Beach.

Since then she'd published six books of poetry, won every major prize going, and travelled all over the world, working in all kinds of weird and wonderful places, doing all kinds of weird and wonderful jobs to keep her head above financial water.

She trained only in order to be fit, and gave her actual physical attractiveness very little thought at all. She wore her hair so short because it meant she didn't have to bother with it. Spiky, because it was easier just to brush it than to try and decide which way to part it. The fact that men seemed to either love it or loathe it that way worried her not one whit.

Never in her life had Davina actively sought to attract a man. Until now.

She stopped pumping the weights and climbed into the bath. As she soaked, she thought about her campaign. She simply had
to
get close to Gareth Lacey. Had to ferret out his every weakness, his every dream, the way he thought, the way he lived, what made him tick. And the easiest way she knew to do that, was to get him interested in her.

She hoped he wasn't married. She closed her eyes briefly, appalled at the thought. She didn't want any woman to suffer because of what she was doing. No. If he was married, she'd have to find another way. But she'd make it one of the first things she tried to find out at the cocktail party.

She opened her eyes again, and took a deep steadying breath. OK. She was not going to compromise her principles, not even for Lacey. Especially not for Lacey.

She sat up abruptly and reached for the shampoo. But as she did so, Davina began to cry. She wasn't aware of it at first. Then a small drip hit the back of her hand and she raised it to her cheek, giving a small grimace as her hand came away wet with salty tears.