Newnham Daggerettes: winners of the short story competition
Congratulations to our Christmas murder mystery short story winner, Beth Honeyford, and five more writers who are highly commended.
For many years, Newnham has celebrated its love of crime fiction with a short story competition. For 2025-6, College members were invited to write a short story with the starter, ‘It was that time of year again. Joy was in the air (so they all kept telling me). But I had fallen asleep once again with that familiar sense of fear and trepidation...’
The contest attracted a fantastic range of entries. Royal Literary Fund Writing Fellow, Pragya Agarwal, said HSPS undergraduate Beth’s entry, Desperately Seeking Newnham Susan, was declared the winner by the panel of judges that included Professor Jenny Mander and Dr Claire Barlow.
Agarwal further added, “There is a long tradition of short story around Christmas time, particularly ghostly and ghastly ones that peaked in the Victorian era. The winter solstice was believed to be the time when the barrier between the living and dead was weakest. And, Newnham is such an excellent setting for such a story in my view.
“I wanted to set a prompt that allowed for creative freedom, but also imposed some order on the narrative. I was interested to see how different people would interpret this prompt in their own way, and thread together a compelling story within the constraints of the word limit (1500-1800 words) and the Newnham setting, while also maintaining their unique voice. The standard was high, and we really enjoyed reading the various entries, and the way the students created a sense of place. The best entries were those that really used Newnham as a setting but then took flight from there, giving us an intimate insight into the minds and intents of the characters.
“I believe storytelling is a very important skill for all of us to learn and practice. This is the way we communicate and have done for generations, and this is the way we build connections across divides. I am always asking the students even in writing their academic essays to think of the ‘story’ they are trying to tell, and how best they can do this.
“Beth’s title was intriguing and captured our attention. She managed to create a very strong sense of place and time in her story. I think what is impressive in the story is that she does not infantilise or patronise the reader, giving them so much credit to take a leap of imagination with her.”
Highly commended were Edurne Sosa El Fakih, Josie Higginson, Laurisa Sastoque Pabon, Valentina Schutze, Evie Malin. The winner and highly commended entries have been awarded book vouchers from Body in the Bookshop.
The winning entry is below.
Desperately Seeking Newnham Susan
By Beth Honeyford
It was that time of year again. Joy was in the air (or so they kept telling me). But I had fallen asleep once again with that familiar sense of fear and trepidation. And I awoke with a chill inching its way up my spine.
Still, nothing sinister about that. Simply evidence of a radiator whose best efforts were no match for a December morning in Cambridge.
I imagined the heat sluggishly leaving the groaning pipes. Most of the hot air would rise up and out of the window, adding to the condensation blocking the view of Newnham’s gardens and any reminders of the outside world. The remaining warmth, it seemed to me, congregated exclusively around the visibly lumpy, surprisingly turquoise armchair which took up a third of the floorspace. At least another third was filled by a magnificent oak desk. It seemed to beg you to pen the next great novel on the human condition over feverish winter nights. Or to look to the stars and find the equation which would send us there.
I always felt I’d disappointed that desk. Instead preferring to fall asleep in the armchair’s warmth with the remains of a kebab in my lap and the leftovers of an idea in smudged ink on the back of my hand.
The rest of the room included a chest of drawers, a bookshelf, a blanket box(?!) and my bed. Though ‘bed’ is somewhat generous. It was a fold-out metal frame with the suggestion of a mattress on top and, looking at that and the desk, one got the sense of how the college thought time should be prioritised. I sometimes wondered if, no matter how close to the radiator I pushed it, that bed would always be cold. Maybe some alumna had figured out how to create a kind of force-field which only affected temperature. Usually after thinking this kind of thing, I would go into town and remind myself that the real world was made up just as much of polyester clothing and zero hours contracts as female academics who looked at you as if they held the answer to the universe in their hands, and they couldn’t imagine how you fitted into it.
All that said, waking up with a shiver never felt like a good omen. But I dismissed superstition as I pulled on a pair of jeans over my pyjamas. Nine weeks I’d spent in this bizarre institution, trying not to let my presence cause a ripple in the apparently balanced atmosphere of stress and schoolgirl camaraderie.
I’d gotten a call to the number on my website. A minimalist page outlining my various competencies as a private investigator. What had started as a side gig to distract me from my degree had soon led to me dropping out. I hadn’t been back in a university until my introduction to the name Susan Crandour.
A languages student, French and Spanish, thought to have died towards the end of the last year’s exam period. Both college and family believed suicide, but the former wanted to be certain before any announcements were made. Hence, me. I would spend a term ensuring there were no embarrassments left in supposedly vacated rooms. Until then, no one would know. Her classmates would assume that Susan was in Seville on her year abroad as planned, apparently no longer interested in replying to messages. In and out job, practically a book report.
At least that’s what I’d thought. Until I arrived and met my ‘Director of Studies’ for my duration as a student. Helena Gibson, a somewhat intense but seemingly pleasant academic teaching Russian, informed me that actually the college were not so sure Susan did kill herself. In fact, they were confident someone else did. And suddenly I’m investigating a murder. Not only that, but no one can know the victim is dead.
The first week after finding out my new brief, I barely slept. I lay awake, no longer understanding why I was at the university. Out of my depth, with no ideas, I was a failure before I’d even began, and it felt like these hallowed halls took every opportunity to remind me.
And now I was finally set to get out of this place. Today of all days, I had no reason to complain about waking up a little cold.
That wasn’t to say there’d be nothing to miss, I reluctantly admitted as I pocketed my ID card and left the room. Hopefully for the last time.
I had soon understood that my feelings that first week were probably the experience I shared most with the other students at Newnham.
I’d tried my best to fit in. I learnt the terminology, from Michaelmas to MathMo. I pretended to care about rowing. I developed a demeanour of vague distraction. Eventually, I even gave in and bought one of those damn puffer jackets, embroidered and all. Luckily, with it I was invisible enough for no one to realise that the initials F.U. bore no relation to my name.
I was wearing it now as I stepped out of my building into the gardens. My breath turned to white smoke in front of me as I couldn’t help relax a little. They were right about the jacket. It really was incredibly warm. Even though I felt that there were very limited corners of the world that wearing such a thing was acceptable, and that I was surrounded by people who could quite possibly never leave them.
But it had done its job. By October’s end, I was undeniably a Newnhamite. And I started to compile a list of suspects.
Susan had complained about a supervisor at another college back in March. He had been removed from his teaching post and seemed to have relocated to Swansea.
She had had some arguments with her neighbour about food rotting in the fridge, both claiming it wasn’t theirs. The neighbour was a medic, now on placement in Manchester rarely seen in Cambridge, let alone Newnham.
Finally, Susan’s girlfriend – a volleyball player at Murray Edwards. Apparently, the two had been in a rocky patch most of their second years. She too was a languages student and was currently practicing her Russian in a small town in Kazakhstan.
The three options cycled around my head as I paced the flower beds. Though all were plausible, none seemed likely. Even without being able to interview them, nothing from my research indicated a penchant for violent crime. The college may lend itself to mystery, but not aggression. Here, the weapon of choice would always be a pen, and while I definitely believed it could do serious damage, I didn’t see how it could kill a second year MML student and leave no trace.
The very idea felt so incongruous with the peace around me. Newnham had its quirks, but I had to recognise that it had started to feel like… not home exactly, but something else. A haven maybe. Somewhere I could really think. And have fun. I wasn’t forgetting that this was a bubble. But I also wasn’t in a hurry to leave.
Which was a shame, because as my feet returned me to where I’d started, I’d realised that I was about to. I’d turned the possibilities over in my mind, and this was the only one that made sense. Well, up until the point that it made no sense. But I didn’t have to worry about that, I decided as I made my way to Helena’s office.
***
The door sighed open and I came face to face with my smiling DoS. As I moved forwards, she stepped back, revealing a second woman stood behind her desk.
“Vice-Principal Marshall” I met her gaze as I lowered myself onto the hulking leather sofa, forced to look up at the pair opposite me. A rustle echoed as I shifted my weight and I resolved to remain still.
“The Vice-Principal and I both thought it would be better if she joined us for your,” Helena hesitated for a moment, “findings.”
The grandfather clock behind me started to chime, and we paused until it stopped.
“We would both love to hear your thoughts on the sad case of Susan Crandour.”
My gaze slipped down to the piles of books surrounding the desk. Wolf Hall, Hillary Mantel; Smiley’s People, John le Carre; a whole collection of Stella Remington was scattered at Marshall’s feet.
I looked back at the two calm faces in front of me.
“Well, I think,” my voice was quieter than it should be. I coughed. “I think we’re all on the same page when I say that Susan Crandour is as alive and well as you or I. Probably more so, if she’s in a Spanish beach town.”
Marshall gave me a small smile, “Seville is actually over an hour away from the coast.”
“Right.” Their faces remained neutral. “How did you persuade her to go dark?”
Helena answered this, “Oh we upped her book grant. She wasn’t particularly close with the rest of her cohort, and education is an expensive endeavour after all.”
Their readiness to admit everything was making me nervous. But there was nothing threatening behind their eyes. Which led me to the conclusion that, “This isn’t about Susan at all.”
Helena blinked expectantly.
“So it’s about me?”
At this, Marshall leant forward. “It’s good to see that reports of your deductive prowess have not been exaggerated too greatly.”
“Ok, a test? To check me out? But why? I mean I know your interview process is a little intense.” I started to laugh but it died in my throat when I saw their expressions. “An interview?”
“Not for any course, I assure you. Though I must admit your language skills are particularly impressive.” Marshall had moved in front of the desk. We were in her territory now. “No, we’re responsible for a different educational programme, based here at Newnham, and we think your expertise would be a good fit.”
My expertise? “So, what? Are you starting a women’s school for private investigators?”
“This kind of intelligence gathering exists more in the public sector. Though the same discretion is of course a must.”
I looked at her. She remained unmoving.
“You’re not seriously…”
“A tap on the shoulder. Isn’t that what the boys call it? Well, I like to think this is a little more civilised.”
“You brought me here, you set all this up, to make me a spy?”
“A rather more effective system than finding the most recent Eton graduate with a passing grade in French. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Actually,” Helena interjected, “there’s quite a lot we’d like you to agree to. If you’re interested.”
I paused, then started to smile.
Interested? Well, it was hard not to be.