Death in an Ivory Tower (Dotsy Lamb Travel Mysteries) by Maria Hudgins
Authors: Maria Hudgins
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Cromwell, of course, was easy. Oliver Cromwell, military leader in the English Civil War and Lord Protector of the Commonwealth in the mid-1600s, was instrumental in relieving King Charles I of his head. Hero to some and an archvillain to others. The preceding word, Sharpham, had me stumped. I googled it and found that Sharpham was a small town near Glastonbury, and also a vineyard on the river Dart south of Dartmoor. Was there a reason why both these names were on the same line? How were they connected?
Finally, item four. TVRA 450 CE. The first four letters were printed so I thought they could be an acronym or possibly a foreign word. 450 CE. A year? CE was the new, politically correct, way of writing A.D. A.D.,
anno domini,
in the year of our Lord, had a definite Christian connotation as did B.C. before Christ. Recently most historians had switched to writing BCE, Before the Common Era, instead of B.C., and CE—Common Era? It still sounded awkward to me. What’s so common about the era we live in?
I googled TVRA and got a number of suggestions, none of which seemed to have anything to do with Bram Fitzwaring, Glastonbury, the Elizabethans, or King Arthur.
C HAPTER E IGHT
----
My phone rang at midnight and woke me up. It was Lettie, still at her daughter’s apartment. “Lindsey says she can show you around the hospital tomorrow morning about ten if you can meet her in the front lobby.”
This made no sense mixed in with the dream the call had interrupted. I sat up and paused a minute to get my bearings. Lettie’s voice. Lindsey. Her daughter. Hospital? Slowly the pieces came together.
“Are you still there, Dotsy?”
“Right,” I croaked. “That’s good. Why did you have to call me so late?”
“It’s not late. You’re just in bed early. I have to get an answer now because Lindsey’s getting ready for bed and I’m getting ready to go back to St. Ormond’s. She needs to know tonight so she can clear you for a visit tomorrow morning.”
“Ten o’clock. I’ll be there.”
It took me a few minutes to go back to sleep, and meanwhile I heard thunking noises from my window. Standing on the foot of my bed, I cranked the window open and listened. I heard scrapes and metallic clangs that seemed to be coming from my right, down Sycamore Lane. I knew there was a narrow alley on this side of the lane, some twenty yards down. It was full of trashcans. Why would anyone be taking out trash at this hour? Probably a dog or something.
I dropped to my pillow and my knee flattened the plastic bag I’d used on my twisted ankle. The ice had melted and cold water squirted across the covers.
The next morning as I dressed, I studied the conference program for the day. It was Sunday and nothing was scheduled until one-thirty so people could attend church if they wanted to. Oxford abounded with historic churches, and I’d intended to go to services at the Church of St. Mary the Virgin on the High Street because it had been the site of so many pivotal events in its thousand-year history. I’d taken a quick walk through a few days ago.
But I had made plans, sometime in the wee hours, to meet Lindsey at the Radcliffe Hospital at ten o’clock. I wondered if Lettie was in her room, but decided against “knocking her up” since she may have come in very late. Instead, I went to breakfast alone and found very few people there. The only one I recognized was Claudia Moss, the young woman from the British Museum in London, whose lecture I had missed yesterday. She waved me over to join her.
“You’re on Staircase Thirteen, aren’t you?” she said. “That’s why you weren’t there for my lecture yesterday. I looked for you in the audience because you told me you had a keen interest in Shakespeare.”
“I was so looking forward to it. But unfortunately . . .”
She cut me off. “Oh, golly! Was it you who found him?” Claudia tucked her long brown hair behind her ear and leaned forward, her shirt just missing the
Finally, item four. TVRA 450 CE. The first four letters were printed so I thought they could be an acronym or possibly a foreign word. 450 CE. A year? CE was the new, politically correct, way of writing A.D. A.D.,
anno domini,
in the year of our Lord, had a definite Christian connotation as did B.C. before Christ. Recently most historians had switched to writing BCE, Before the Common Era, instead of B.C., and CE—Common Era? It still sounded awkward to me. What’s so common about the era we live in?
I googled TVRA and got a number of suggestions, none of which seemed to have anything to do with Bram Fitzwaring, Glastonbury, the Elizabethans, or King Arthur.
C HAPTER E IGHT
----
My phone rang at midnight and woke me up. It was Lettie, still at her daughter’s apartment. “Lindsey says she can show you around the hospital tomorrow morning about ten if you can meet her in the front lobby.”
This made no sense mixed in with the dream the call had interrupted. I sat up and paused a minute to get my bearings. Lettie’s voice. Lindsey. Her daughter. Hospital? Slowly the pieces came together.
“Are you still there, Dotsy?”
“Right,” I croaked. “That’s good. Why did you have to call me so late?”
“It’s not late. You’re just in bed early. I have to get an answer now because Lindsey’s getting ready for bed and I’m getting ready to go back to St. Ormond’s. She needs to know tonight so she can clear you for a visit tomorrow morning.”
“Ten o’clock. I’ll be there.”
It took me a few minutes to go back to sleep, and meanwhile I heard thunking noises from my window. Standing on the foot of my bed, I cranked the window open and listened. I heard scrapes and metallic clangs that seemed to be coming from my right, down Sycamore Lane. I knew there was a narrow alley on this side of the lane, some twenty yards down. It was full of trashcans. Why would anyone be taking out trash at this hour? Probably a dog or something.
I dropped to my pillow and my knee flattened the plastic bag I’d used on my twisted ankle. The ice had melted and cold water squirted across the covers.
The next morning as I dressed, I studied the conference program for the day. It was Sunday and nothing was scheduled until one-thirty so people could attend church if they wanted to. Oxford abounded with historic churches, and I’d intended to go to services at the Church of St. Mary the Virgin on the High Street because it had been the site of so many pivotal events in its thousand-year history. I’d taken a quick walk through a few days ago.
But I had made plans, sometime in the wee hours, to meet Lindsey at the Radcliffe Hospital at ten o’clock. I wondered if Lettie was in her room, but decided against “knocking her up” since she may have come in very late. Instead, I went to breakfast alone and found very few people there. The only one I recognized was Claudia Moss, the young woman from the British Museum in London, whose lecture I had missed yesterday. She waved me over to join her.
“You’re on Staircase Thirteen, aren’t you?” she said. “That’s why you weren’t there for my lecture yesterday. I looked for you in the audience because you told me you had a keen interest in Shakespeare.”
“I was so looking forward to it. But unfortunately . . .”
She cut me off. “Oh, golly! Was it you who found him?” Claudia tucked her long brown hair behind her ear and leaned forward, her shirt just missing the
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