A Scone To Die For (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1) (20 page)

“I can’t believe it. I still can’t believe it.” Cassie shook her head as she stood next to me at the tearoom counter.

“How do you think I felt?” I said wryly. “Standing there, facing my sweet, lovely, gentle chef who had suddenly turned into a hammer-wielding psycho!”

Cassie squeezed my hand. “That must have been horrible.”

I sighed. “Actually, do you know what was more horrible? When he came round and they handcuffed him and were leading him out… he was perfectly normal again. It was like he had flipped a switch or something.” I shuddered. “That was… I don’t know. Just awful and heart-breaking and scary and sad all at the same time.” I shook my head. “I couldn’t sleep when I finally got home on Thursday night after they’d finished questioning me at the police station—I just kept thinking about that.”

Cassie gave me a sideways look. “I have to say, Gemma—you’re taking it all pretty well. I would be… well, I feel sick enough already and I wasn’t the one who had to face him.”

“I do feel sick about it,” I admitted. “But at the same time, I feel like… well, it wasn’t really him, you know? I don’t know how to explain it. That wasn’t the Fletcher I knew—the Fletcher who was my friend, who had taught me so patiently to bake and who was that sweet, gentle guy. It was like he was…” I shook my head, sighing. “I don’t know… possessed or something. Like he was a different person.”

“They’ll take that into account, won’t they?” said Cassie. “I mean, you could argue that Fletcher wasn’t in his right mind and wasn’t really aware of what he was doing…”

“Yes, Devlin said he would make sure that Fletcher got a good solicitor—someone who had experience in such cases.”

“And I hate to sound callous but… what are we going to do here?” Cassie waved a hand around the tearoom. “We’ve lost our chef.”

I grimaced. “I know. I’ve been thinking about that. I’m a lot better at baking than I was and I think I’ve mastered a couple of Fletcher’s recipes, but I wouldn’t say I’m ready to take on the whole menu. Besides, even if you and I could make everything perfectly, who would serve the customers out here?” I sighed. “No, we need someone full-time in the kitchen.”

“Well, I suppose you could go back to your original plan of hiring someone from London…”

“There was one other idea…” I said reluctantly.

“Yeah?”

“My mother has volunteered to help out—just to tide us over until we can find someone suitable. I wouldn’t have said yes except that she’s really very good—her baking is absolutely divine—and she’d be working for free.”

“Your mother!” Cassie bit back a laugh. “Bloody hell, Gemma, if she comes to work in the kitchen here, there’ll be another murder soon—and they won’t have to look very far for the culprit!”

“Shut up,” I said, good-humouredly. “So, okay, my mother is a bit trying, but I’m an adult now. I’m sure I can manage a professional, working relationship with her.”

“Yeah, right…” Cassie grinned. “I’m going to enjoy watching this from the sidelines.”

I ignored her and walked over to flip the sign on the tearoom door to “OPEN”, thinking that I probably shouldn’t even bother. The tearoom had been completely closed yesterday, Friday, while the police wrapped up the case and I lay prostrate on my mother’s sofa. Okay, that might be a slight exaggeration, but the whole experience
had
taken it out of me. To be honest, all I had wanted to do today was remain on my mother’s sofa, hiding from the world. But I had forced myself to come in. I felt that I owed it to myself—to my new self, anyway—to face my troubles and not run away from them (can you tell that I was brought up on repeats of
The Sound of Music
?).

So I got here this morning at the same time as always and was grateful for the moral support when Cassie showed up soon afterwards. It felt strange and sad not having Fletcher arrive as well—he had become so much a part of my daily routine.
Well, anyway, at least it won’t matter that we’re missing a chef today
, I thought. It wasn’t as if we were going to have enough business to need it.

But to my surprise, I was proven wrong. Ten minutes after we’d opened, we had several customers sitting at various tables and more coming through the door. Cassie and I exchanged wide-eyed looks as we rushed to serve them. Devlin had given a press conference yesterday and had made a point to stress that Fletcher had acted completely independently and that the murdered victims were not connected to the tearoom in any way. It looked like our reputation was slowly being repaired.

If anything, the ghoulish curiosity and gawkers’ mentality had returned with a vengeance and, by lunchtime, we were run off our feet. Thank goodness I had finally mastered Fletcher’s scone recipe and made a fresh batch that morning, because our “Warm Scones with Jam & Clotted Cream” was the most popular item on the menu and several customers even asked eagerly if it was the same kind that was “used to murder the American tourist”.

I felt a warm glow as I stood at the counter at lunchtime and looked out across the dining room, which hummed with laughter and conversation again. It seemed like my little tearoom might have a chance after all.

“Is Seth free this evening?” I asked Cassie. “We must see if he can come and meet us for drinks at the Blue Boar. I haven’t had a chance to speak to him properly since the arrest and he must be dying for the details.”

“Well, actually, he’s invited me to High Table this evening,” said Cassie.

I turned to look at her in surprise. “He has?”

Good old Seth—so he finally got up the courage to ask her
. I smiled to myself.

She returned my smile, not realising what it was for. “Yeah. It’s going to be weird returning to that world again. I might even go the whole hog and dig out my old gown.”

“Well, you can tell Seth everything, then. And please thank him for me—if it hadn’t been for his help, I would never have figured out half the things in this mystery.”

My phone rang and I was surprised to hear Lincoln’s voice on the line.

“I missed the news last night and only just heard from my mother,” he said. “It’s unbelievable. I hope you’re okay, Gemma?”

I was touched by his concern. “Yes, fine. He didn’t touch me. It was really more of a shock than anything else.”

“Well… if you need someone to… uh… talk to… about anything,” he said awkwardly.

“Thanks, Lincoln—that’s very sweet of you.”

“Um… I was also wondering… well, maybe we could meet up sometime next week, when things have settled down a bit?”

“That sounds nice.”

“Great.” I could feel his smile across the line. “I’ll give you a ring with the details. Take care of yourself, Gemma.”

I ended the call, aware that Cassie had been listening with avid interest.

“Ooh, sounds very cosy…” she said with a teasing smile. “Is that the dishy doctor asking you out on a date? I wonder what a certain handsome detective might have to say about that. And speaking of the devil… or the Devlin, in this case…”

She nodded towards the windows where we could see a tall, dark-haired man step out of a black Jaguar XK parked at the curb. Reporters swarmed around him—yes, the press were back in force and camped outside the tearoom again—but he brushed them away like flies as he headed for our front door. A moment later, he came into the dining room.

“I’ll leave you two to your
tête-a-tête
.” Cassie smirked as she turned and headed into the kitchen.

I straightened to my full height as Devlin approached me. I hadn’t seen him since Thursday night when he had rushed in, white-faced, through Fletcher’s door. He had run up to me and, for one crazy moment, I had thought that he was going to pull me into his arms. Then—as his sergeant and other officers swarmed into the room—he had stepped back and asked rather formally if I was unharmed. Now, there was no sign of that tense man. Devlin was back to his usual laconic self, his blue eyes cool and guarded.

“I see that business is back to normal,” he said, indicating the full dining room.

“Yes, it’s a great relief,” I said, hiding a smile as I saw four pairs of geriatric ears turn in our direction. The Old Biddies weren’t at their usual table by the window but at one next to the counter, and I could see that they were delighted with this circumstance. They all leaned sideways, no doubt hoping to eavesdrop on my conversation with Devlin. He caught my eyes and his blue ones twinkled, letting me know that he was well aware of our listeners.

“Have you… er… tied up all the loose ends on the case?” I asked.

“Pretty much. There wasn’t really much beyond what you’d discovered. Fletcher
was
one of the students implicated in the cheating scandal fifteen years ago and it turns out that he was used as a scapegoat by Washington. He was the ‘fall guy’, so to speak, and took the blame and punishment for the others’ crimes. He had a really tough time when he was sent down from Oxford—he went into a depression for six months and never managed to enrol at another university. After that, he just ended up drifting between various dead-end jobs. Effectively, the whole thing ruined his life.”

“Poor sod,” I said with a sigh. “It really was unfair, what happened to him. I know murder is wrong but… well, you can’t help feeling that Washington—and Hughes—got what they deserved. And that Fletcher was almost driven to it.”

Devlin looked at me curiously. “That’s an unusual attitude from someone who was almost a victim. Most people in your situation would be feeling betrayed and bitter—”

“No.” I shook my head vehemently. “I don’t know how to explain it but I don’t hate Fletcher or fear him. I feel… sorry for him, really. Oh, don’t get me wrong—I was terrified on Thursday night and it was a horrible experience. In a way, I still feel sick when I think about it. But it was also like… well, I was trying to explain this to Cassie earlier—it was like it wasn’t
him
, you know? It was like I was facing a different person.”

“That is the approach the defence lawyers are going to take,” said Devlin. “Manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. He will probably go to a special facility, rather than prison.”

I nodded, looking out of the tearoom windows. “I knew Fletcher—I
understood
him, I think. His mind was… well, he related to things differently from the rest of us. He had a very simplistic view of the world. And I don’t think he meant to hurt me that night—it wasn’t like it was premeditated or anything. He was just reacting. I think it was when I said the trigger word ‘stupid’, he flipped and totally forgot who I was. Like an animal backed into a corner lashing out. You can’t be bitter about a horse who kicks you because it’s scared, can you? It doesn’t understand what it’s doing and doesn’t do it with intention.”

Devlin regarded me for a moment, then said, “I’m glad to hear you say that because I have a message for you from him.”

“From Fletcher?”

He nodded. “He’s obviously not allowed to have any contact with you—but he asked if I could pass a message on to you. Normally I wouldn’t allow it, but in this case… well, I guess I share your feelings. Anyway, he wanted me to give you this.”

He handed me a crumpled piece of paper. I unfolded it slowly and read the childlike scrawl:

I am very sorry, Gemma. I did bad things. I did not mean to hurt you. I hope you can forgive me one day.

Fletcher.

I swallowed past the sudden lump in my throat. “Please tell him… I’ve… I’ve forgiven him already.”

Devlin inclined his head. “And he also asked if you could do one thing for him.”

“What’s that?”

“Look after his cat. Make sure she goes to a good home.”

I swallowed again. “Tell him I will.”

I folded the piece of paper and tucked it into my pocket. Then, in an attempt to lighten the mood, I cleared my throat and said, “So my theory about the drug, Lassitomab, was completely wrong?”

“Oh no, I think you were on the right track there. Washington did come to Oxford to persuade Hughes to approve the drug—and I think he
was
using the threat of exposure to force his old colleague’s hand. It just wasn’t the reason he was murdered. It was one of those rare coincidences—or maybe you could call it karma—that he happened to come to your tearoom, bump into Fletcher, and set everything in motion. Of course, he had his own personality to blame too. If he hadn’t been such a nasty bully, he might never have provoked Fletcher and would still be alive.”

“And Justine?” I asked stiffly. “She
did
lie about her alibi on Saturday morning. Was that also nothing to do with Washington?”

“No, it wasn’t.” Devlin glanced over his shoulder to where the Old Biddies were still straining their ears. He turned his back to them and lowered his voice, so that I had to lean close to hear him. “Justine lied about her alibi, yes, because she didn’t want to admit where she had really gone that morning: to meet a respected member of Oxford City Council. She’s having an affair with him,” Devlin said baldly at my confused look. “But he’s married—and he’s hoping to run in the local elections next year—so it’s crucial that their liaison isn’t discovered by the public. Justine admitted everything to me and asked me to be discreet for her lover’s sake. I agreed. We often come across such situations in the course of CID investigations and we always try our best to respect the privacy of individuals if it doesn’t impact on the case.”