A Scone To Die For (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1) (18 page)

I threw a look over my shoulder again. The glare from the car’s headlights blinded me and made it impossible to see who was behind the wheel. I faced front and pedalled harder. The expanse of tarmac stretched out in front of me—there were still at least a couple of miles before the suburbs of North Oxford. Suddenly I realised how very quiet and empty a country road could be.

I tried to pedal faster, panting as I leaned over the handlebars. My legs were beginning to ache. I could hear the car coming behind me now, faster and faster. I pumped my legs harder, my breath coming in quick, short gasps. I threw another look behind me. I knew I shouldn’t have kept looking—it only slowed me down—but the need was almost compulsive. I still couldn’t make out what kind of car it was or the face of the man at the wheel.

Or woman
, I thought suddenly. I tried to remember what kind of car Justine drove. It was black, I remembered my mother saying.
Just like this one…

I turned back to the front and looked desperately ahead. The road was entering the outskirts of the suburbs now but I couldn’t see anyone else on the streets—no pedestrians, no other cars or cyclists. The muscles in my thighs were screaming in agony and my hands were sweaty where they were clenched on the handlebars, but I didn’t dare slow down.

Then I spotted a section of pavement up ahead where the edge sloped down gradually to meet the road rather than ending in a sharp curb. It must have been designed for wheelchair access. It would also enable me to gain the pavement with my bicycle. The car wouldn’t be able to follow me. I’d be able to cycle between the houses and maybe down one of the back lanes and escape it.

Hope surged through me, giving me new energy. I yanked my handlebars to the left and headed for the incline, pumping my legs furiously, my aching muscles forgotten. But just as I was about to reach the pavement, the car suddenly gunned its engines and shot past me, pulling over with a screech directly in front of me. I swerved and narrowly avoided hitting my front wheel on its bumper. My bike tipped sideways and I lost my balance, screaming as I fell over and hit the ground.

The driver’s door swung open and a figure stepped out.

“Gemma! Are you all right?”

“Devlin?” I gasped, squinting up at him. All I could see was a black silhouette outlined against the blinding headlights, which hadn’t been switched off.

He dropped down next to me and put a gentle hand on my arm, helping me to my feet.

“What the blazes is going on, Gemma? You were cycling like a lunatic! You could have had an accident!”

“I thought… I thought…” I could barely speak as I tried to catch my breath. Then suddenly, I began to laugh uncontrollably. Devlin looked at me like I had lost my mind.

“I’m sorry,” I said, wiping tears from my eyes. “It was just that… Oh, I was so stupid… But you gave me a scare…” I put a hand on my chest, trying to regain my composure. “I thought you were someone coming after me… You know, after what you said to me this morning—”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that
something
I say gets through to you,” said Devlin dryly.

I took a long shuddering breath. “It was just because it was dark and I couldn’t see you behind the wheel—all I could see were these two headlights bearing down on me like creepy monster eyes and the car sounded really ominous. What kind of car is it anyway? You’ve got an engine on it like a sabre-tooth tiger.”

“It’s a Jaguar XK.” Devlin sounded amused. “And I wasn’t gunning the engine or anything. In fact, I was driving in quite a leisurely fashion and following you sedately, until you started cycling like a maniac from the Tour de France. Then I was just trying to catch up with you to ask what the matter was.”

“Why were you following me anyway?”

“I was coming down to North Oxford to speak to you and happened to see you ahead of me on the road.” He paused. “I wanted to give you an update on the case and what we’d found out about Hughes.”

I was surprised. “Oh… thanks. That’s really nice of you. Did you find any leads to his killer?”

“No, nothing. We searched the whole area where his body was found—nothing. We also searched his room in college. The only thing we turned up of note was an open envelope on his desk, addressed to him with no return address. The letter inside was missing. But what was interesting was that the envelope had a postmark showing that it was posted on Monday, from Meadowford-on-Smythe.”

“From Meadowford?”

“Yes, and given that that’s where his body was found… I think there’s a connection. Of course, it would help if we could find the letter but although we searched his office twice—and his house too—we couldn’t find it.”

“Maybe he destroyed it.”

Devlin inclined his head. “Very probably. There
were
some ashes in his fireplace, which could be the remnants of the burnt letter. I guess we’ll never know.”

“So you can’t take a guess at what was in the letter?”

“At a push, I’d say an invitation from someone in Meadowford, enticing Hughes to go out there.”

“Or—it could be someone who purposefully posted the letter from Meadowford-on-Smythe, to divert suspicion. People come here all the time from other places—to the antique shops and market stalls on the weekends, to my tearoom, to the pub, to the dance studio…”

“True,” Devlin acknowledged. “And Oxford is only fifteen minutes away by car. My sergeant will be going to the Meadowford post office tomorrow and making some enquiries, to see if anyone remembers anything from Monday.”

“I hope he does a better job than what he did with the alibis,” I muttered under my breath.

Devlin’s gaze sharpened. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve got new evidence against Justine Washington,” I said, raising my chin slightly. “I double-checked her alibi for Saturday morning. She said she was at a yoga class at the dance studio in the village.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Well, she may have arrived for class, but she certainly didn’t stay for it. She left after ten minutes.”

“Yes, I know,” said Devlin again.

“You knew?” I stared at him. “So you knew that she was lying about her alibi all along?”

He looked exasperated. “Gemma, do you think I don’t know how to do my job? I didn’t trust my sergeant’s report so I spoke to Justine again myself and she admitted to me that she hadn’t told the full truth.”

“I’m surprised you even doubted her.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I’m beginning to get tired of your snide comments where Justine is concerned. If you have something to say, just come out and say it.”

“Fine! I think you’re completely biased towards her and giving her preferential treatment. She’s a suspect in this murder case but you deliberately ignore evidence against her.”

“Are you questioning my professionalism?” Devlin said in a silky voice.

I hesitated. There was nothing overtly threatening in his tone or words, but somehow I had a feeling that I didn’t want to push him.

“I just think that… maybe you don’t want to admit it, but you’re prejudiced towards Justine. You’re letting your emotions affect your judgement. You
have
been known to let things get too… er… personal in the past, with suspects in murder investigations.”

His expression hardened. “I suppose Mabel Cooke and her friends have been gossiping about me?”

I shrugged. “It was in the papers. I’m sure it’s common knowledge. And besides, you should know by now that no secret is sacred in a small village.”

“It wasn’t a secret. There was nothing between me and the suspect in that case up in Leeds,” he said curtly. “I simply felt sorry for her. I knew she wasn’t guilty. In any case, I would never let my personal feelings interfere with an investigation.”

“Well, of course you would say that—but what if you’re not aware of it?” I said bluntly. “I mean, you say you knew that Justine lied about her alibi but you’re not doing anything about it. Why aren’t you taking it more seriously?’

“Because when you’ve been doing this a while, Gemma, you begin to realise that people lie for all sorts of reasons—but not always to do with murder.”

“I don’t understand.”

He sighed. “I don’t expect you to. Just… trust me, okay? I’m telling you that Justine is not the murderer. I… I have an instinct about it.”

“That’s a pretty handy instinct,” I sneered.

“Why don’t you be honest and say what this is really about?” he snapped. “You’re just jealous of Justine.”

“Me?” My voice was shrill. “I’m not jealous!”

“You could have fooled me.”

“How dare you!” I found that I was trembling with anger. “Don’t try to twist things around and make this about me, Devlin! Just because I felt something for you once doesn’t mean that I’d be so weak again.”

He stepped closer to me, his blue eyes blazing. “I’m not the one who’s been disappointed that things between us aren’t what they once were. Yes, don’t deny it—I can see it in your eyes every time you look at me. Bloody hell, Gemma! This isn’t some novel! Did you really think we were going to see each other again after all this time and everything would fall back into place? Is that what you were hoping for? That I would send you some fervent letter telling you that ‘
I am half agony, half hope’
?”

I flinched. I didn’t think those beautiful words, which I had always loved, could hurt so much coming out of his lips.

“I don’t expect anything from you, Devlin O’Connor!” I said furiously.

“Oh, really? Because every time we’ve been together, I see that look in your eyes—”

“What look?”

“The look wanting me to…” He leaned suddenly towards me.

My heart hammered in my chest. I realised that he was going to kiss me—and I didn’t know if I wanted him to or not. All I could think was that no one made me feel as angry and defensive and indignant and frustrated—and gloriously alive as this man did. I stood there, staring up at him, trembling as he paused inches from my face.

Then slowly, Devlin raised his head and eased himself back. I felt a stab of disappointment. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, causing a lock to fall forwards over his eyes. My fingers twitched and I had to fight the urge to reach up and brush it back across his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a more controlled voice. “I don’t normally lose my temper like that. You just seem to…” He broke off and gave a humourless laugh. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I behaved unprofessionally just now and I apologise.”

I swallowed. “It’s fine,” I said in a small voice. I couldn’t quite meet his eyes.

There was a long, strained silence, then Devlin gave another sigh and said, “Look, Gemma… we’re both living in the same city now. It’s inevitable that we would run into each other—even if we weren’t involved in a murder investigation together. We’re both adults. Don’t you think we could just bury the past and have some sort of civil relationship? Find a way to get along with each other?”

I hesitated, then said, “Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry—I…I think I let my emotions get the better of me sometimes.”

He smiled slightly. “Okay, so… Friends?”

I stared at him wordlessly for a moment, then gave a brief nod. “Friends.”

He stepped back from me. “And I need you to trust me, Gemma, and trust that I’m doing everything needed in this investigation. I do take every piece of evidence into consideration, whatever my personal feelings might be—”

“What about Justine?”

The shutters came down over his eyes. “I promise you, I’m not giving her any special treatment.”

With that, I had to be satisfied.

I woke up before my alarm the next morning and lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. I’m not usually a morning person—I need a hot shower and a strong cup of tea before I can speak in anything more than monosyllables—but this morning, I found myself surprisingly awake and clear-headed. I lay in bed, my mind buzzing with the events of yesterday: the news of Hughes’s death, the cheating scandal at Gloucester College, the conversation with Ethel and Glenda in the dance studio, Justine’s fake alibi, and then the frightening bike ride and finally the scene with Devlin… I shied away from the last one. Instead, I focused back on the dance studio. Something about that was bothering me—something in my conversation with Ethel and Glenda when they were talking about missing the yoga class… But I couldn’t put my finger on it.

I lay in bed thinking about it for another ten minutes, then gave up. I rose, showered, dressed, and headed for Meadowford-on-Smythe. Maybe it would be nice to get to the tearoom super early for once, before the whole village was up—as long as I didn’t find another dead body this time.

The Little Stables Tearoom was blessedly quiet—and dead-body free—when I got there. I had a full hour to myself, before Cassie and Fletcher would probably arrive, and I set to work in the kitchen. Fletcher had been attempting to teach me how to make his famous scones and I went through the steps now: sifting the flour into the bowl, adding a pinch of salt, mixing in the caster sugar, and then a teaspoon of baking powder, just to make the mixture even lighter and fluffier. Then I added the fresh butter and used my fingers to rub it into the mixture.

I remembered Fletcher’s instructions and tried to incorporate as much air into the mixture as I could, getting my fingers nice and floury, until it resembled very fine bread crumbs. Then I cracked two eggs and beat them into the dry mixture, followed by a dash of milk, which I poured in very slowly and carefully. Not too much milk, I reminded myself—recalling Fletcher’s instructions—otherwise the mixture would get too wet and the scones would “drop” and lose their shape. I mixed it all slowly with a wooden spoon.

Finally, I tipped the dough mixture out of the bowl and onto the floured board, then lightly began to knead it. Here was the real skill of making great scones. The mixture had to be kneaded but not “handled” too much, otherwise the scones would come out horrible and hard. So it was a delicate balance, carefully rolling the dough, taking it from the outside and pushing it gently towards the middle. Fletcher actually advised leaving the dough to rise in the fridge before working it too much, even leaving it overnight—but I was disobeying him this morning as I was too impatient. So I worked at the mixture until it looked smooth, then I scattered a bit more flour across the board and picked up the rolling pin.

Now came the other secret to really good scones. I had to make sure that I didn’t roll the mixture out too thinly. I pressed the rolling pin across the dough, turning it with one hand as I rolled with the other one, until the dough had been flattened into a sort of circular slab about an inch and half thick. Feeling pleased with myself, I picked up the cutter and carefully pressed out the scone shapes, transferring them to a baking tray. Then I brushed the top with an egg wash—so that they would come out of the oven with a lovely golden sheen—and finally popped the whole tray in the pre-heated oven.

The rhythm of baking was so soothing that I was in a serene mood by the time Cassie and Fletcher arrived to start the day. The wonderful smell of baking scones was already permeating the kitchen and Cassie sniffed appreciatively as she came in.

“My God, Gemma—don’t tell me you’ve been baking? And it actually smells edible!”

I laughed. After the stressful week, it was nice to finally have a bit of light-hearted banter. “You know, I’ve discovered that baking isn’t that hard—if you follow the recipe instructions and measure the ingredients.”

Cassie snorted. “Really? So you have to actually follow the recipe, instead of thinking you’re Jamie Oliver and tossing things in at random, huh? I would never have guessed.”

I laughed again and threw a tea towel at her.

“Well, I really have Fletcher to thank for being such a good, patient teacher…” I glanced at Fletcher, who had come in after Cassie. My high spirits disappeared as I remembered what had happened yesterday.

“Fletcher, I’m sorry. I heard that you found the body of Professor Hughes. That must have been horrible,” I said quietly.

He nodded silently.

“And… did the police find any sign of Muesli?”

He shook his head. I bit my lip and glanced at Cassie, who gave a helpless shrug.

“Would you like us to come and help you search again after work today?” I asked.

He shook his head again. “It’s no use anymore.” There was despair in every line of his body.

I went over to him, patting his shoulder awkwardly. “Aw, Fletcher, don’t talk like that! I’ve known people whose cats disappeared for a month or something and then suddenly returned, completely fine. You mustn’t give up hope, okay?”

He nodded and looked slightly cheered. He walked over to the oven and opened it to peer at my scones. I awaited his verdict with bated breath.

He sniffed and nodded approvingly. “They look good, Gemma.”

“Wait till you taste them before you decide,” said Cassie darkly, with the bitter experience of someone who has suffered my attempts at baking in the past.

I was about to retort when my phone rang. It was a local Oxford number I didn’t recognise. I went back out into the quiet of the dining room to take the call.

“Hello? Gemma Rose speaking.”

“Miss Rose? This is Cheryl White from the Oxford City Library. You put in a request for some information from the newspaper archives?”

“Oh yes, that’s right.” I had completely forgotten about this.

“Well, we’ve retrieved a couple of articles which might be of interest to you. Sorry for the delay—it took us longer than usual as they were held in the older archives and we had to put in a special request.”

With Hughes dead now, it seemed pointless looking through the articles. I’d originally requested them when I was searching for a motive for Hughes to murder Washington but now that I knew about the cheating scandal via Seth and his chat with the old don, Professor Wilkins, I already had that information. And in any case, it was irrelevant since Hughes wasn’t the killer after all. I was about to thank her and apologise, when she added:

“We’re trialling a new system—we’re digitising our archives so that we can now email members a link to access digital copies of articles held in the library database. Saves you having to come physically to the library. All you have to do is subscribe to the library archive service.”

I considered. To be honest, I felt a bit bad—after she had obviously gone to so much trouble—to tell her that I didn’t need the information anymore. It seemed easier just to accept the links.

“That sounds great,” I said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. We’re very excited about this new service and it would be wonderful if you could answer a survey afterwards on how user-friendly the system is. It would be very helpful to us.”

“Sure, of course.”

“The link to the survey will be in the email, along with links to the files. You’ll need your library card and membership number to set up the subscription.”

A minute later, my phone beeped with the email. I opened it absentmindedly and went through the motions of subscribing to the archive system, then clicked on the links she had sent me. The first was a copy of a page in an internal University publication. There was a short, succinct paragraph mentioning the cheating scheme and saying that disciplinary measures were being brought on the students involved, with no extra details. Well, I didn’t imagine that Gloucester College would want to dwell much on such an incident.

The second piece was from one of the tabloid papers and had much more detail, though I wondered how much of it was gossip and speculation. Having been the victim of such an article myself now, I was much more cynical about anything published. It was filled with the usual disclaimers such papers use: “It is rumoured that…”, “A source claims…”, “Apparently…”—but very little actual fact. They did mention the names of the students involved, however. I recognised Washington and Hughes from the list immediately: “M. Smith,
B. Washington
,
G.C. Hughes
, S. Greer, N.F. Wilson, T. O’Keefe, M. Williams, and D.E. Owens”.

I was surprised to see the large number of names—it had obviously been a syndicate of some kind—but it seemed a very brazen attempt to fool the college officials. According to the article, only two students had been found guilty and were “sent down”—the Oxford University euphemism for “expelled”. The rest had been cautioned but essentially let off due to lack of evidence.

My gaze sharpened on the first name on the list: “M. Smith”. I remembered that Justine’s maiden name was Smith. Could there have been a connection? Smith was an awfully common surname though—common enough that two people having that same surname wouldn’t mean much. Or was it too much of a coincidence?

It was another depressingly quiet day. I kept telling myself not to panic—to give it time. Today was Thursday and maybe things would get back to normal again by next week. After all, everything blew over after a while, and next week the tabloids would be filled with some new scandal and everyone would have forgotten about the murder in my tearoom. Next week, the tourists would be back in hordes, I told myself.

But deep inside, I knew that if this case wasn’t solved soon, my little tearoom would be joining Washington and Hughes as casualties.

I was almost glad when Cassie suggested that we shut early again. I let her and Fletcher go first, hanging on for another half an hour in vain hope. But when four o’clock rolled around without a single customer in sight, I sighed and walked over to the front door and flipped the “OPEN” sign over to “CLOSED”. Then I switched off all the lights and gathered my things, trying to shake off the feeling of depression that weighed on my shoulders.

As I was locking the front door, my phone rang. I answered it absentmindedly, tucking the phone between my right ear and shoulder as I continued to wrestle with the stiff old lock.

“Hello?”

“Gemma? This is Justine.”

I stopped what I was doing and slowly moved the phone to my hand.

“Justine… How nice to hear from you,” I said.

“I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time?”

“No, not at all… I’m just shutting up the tearoom, actually.”

“You’re in Meadowford?”

“Yes, but I’m just about to head back to North Oxford, if you—”

“No, actually, I’m near Meadowford myself.” She hesitated, then said, “I was wondering if I might speak to you, Gemma—privately.”

“Oh… er… of course, go ahead.”

“No, not over the phone. I’d prefer to meet in person. Are you free at the moment?”

“Um… I… I suppose I am,” I said, caught off guard.

“Great. How about if we meet at the old village smithy in half an hour? I’ve got my car and I can give you a lift back to your parents’ place afterwards if you like.”

“Oh, um… sure.”

“Great. I’ll see you then.”

I ended the call and stared at my phone. Why did Justine want to meet me alone? Had she found out that I was asking questions about her yesterday at the dance studio? I thought back to the article from the library archives and that student name on the list: “M. Smith”.

I had to speak to Devlin. He had finally given me his direct number before we parted last night, to save me having to beg the Oxfordshire police operator for access again. I rang it now. It went straight to voice mail. I left a terse message asking him to call me back. After a moment’s deliberation, I tried Cassie. Her phone went to a messaging service too. Frustrated, I ended the call. Then, on an impulse, I put a call through to Lincoln Green.

A brisk woman’s voice answered. “Dr Green’s phone.”

“Can I speak to Lincoln—I mean, Dr Green, please?”

“Dr Green is in a consult right now. Is it something urgent?”

I hesitated. What could I say?
Yes, sort of—I think this woman might be a murderer and she wants me to go and meet her alone and I was hoping Dr Green might accompany me…?
It sounded totally stupid, even to my own ears. Besides, if Lincoln was consulting, he could hardly abandon his patients and come to meet me—and the hospital was at least half an hour’s drive away, anyway.

“No, it’s all right. I’ll… I’ll try him again later.”

I hung up and chewed my lip.
What should I do now?
I still didn’t like the idea of going to meet Justine alone—without “back up”, as it were.
Should I send Justine a text, telling her that I couldn’t meet her after all…?

I frowned. Something in me balked at that. It seemed a bit pathetic. And what if Justine was able to tell me something valuable about the case? It wasn’t like I was going to meet a known terrorist or criminal gang leader, for heaven’s sake.