A Scone To Die For (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1) (8 page)

“Will I have to dig out my old gown?”

“Well, you know they like it if you’re a member—even an ex-member of the University—but you could always pretend you’re not one of us.” Seth grinned.

I rolled my eyes. “Okay, I’ll see you back here at seven.”

“Great! Got to dash now. See you later!”

I watched him hurry off across the quad. Suddenly I was looking forward to dinner very much…

I surveyed myself critically in the mirror. I was out of practice at this. Eight years of living in Australia had made me lazy about dressing up. The Aussies championed the more casual way of life—even the wealthiest billionaires and high-society figures often hung out at the local cafés dressed in faded jeans and flip-flops. The easy-going, relaxed nature of Down Under had suited me to a comfy old T-shirt but my mother—who is of the pearls and twinset brigade—had despaired every single time she had seen me when I had come back to visit, horrified at my lack of ladylike presentation.

Well, tonight she would have been pleasantly surprised. In my fine crêpe wool dress, sheer black tights, and stiletto heels, my short pixie crop brushed to gleaming, complemented by soft plum lipstick and classic black eyeliner, I looked the picture of stylish elegance.

I picked up my favourite pale pink pashmina and then, on an impulse, turned and went back to my wardrobe. From the deepest recesses, I dragged out a large black robe with voluminous sleeves and a gathered, stiffened yokel at the back. This was my Oxford scholar’s gown. It had once been part of my life almost every day when I had been at Oxford, especially part of the ritual of attending dinner in Formal Hall. I stared at it for a long moment, then slipped it on and looked at myself once more in the mirror.

Strange how putting on something can instantly change the way you feel. Suddenly, I felt part of the University again—as if I was reclaiming a lost identity. I knew that I didn’t have to wear it, but I decided to keep it on. I smiled at my reflection, picked up the pashmina again, and turned and left my room.

“More wine, Miss Rose?”

I turned to the elderly don next to me, who had introduced himself as Professor Edmund Wilkins, and gave him a smile. “Thank you.”

I watched as he refilled my glass. So far, the experience was slightly surreal. It would have been strange anyway coming back to Formal Hall after all this time… but sitting at High Table just made it weirder. As an undergraduate, I had never been to High Table; in fact, I had never really paid it that much attention. It was simply the place where the members of the Senior Common Room sat during dinner; a table separated from the rest, on a raised platform at one end of the hall. Now that I was up here, it felt strangely “wrong”. I looked down across the hall. I knew that this wasn’t my own college and this wasn’t the dining hall I had been used to, but still, there was a sense of not being where I should be. I felt like I ought to be down there, sitting at the long tables, eating with the other students…

The old don set the wine bottle down and glanced sideways at my gown. “So are you a member of the University, my dear? I don’t seem to remember Seth bringing you before.”

“Yes, though this isn’t my college.” I gestured to the students below us. “I was just thinking to myself that I feel like I ought to be down there. I can’t believe that it’s been over eight years since I was last at Formal Hall. In a way, it feels like I never left.”

“Yes…” Professor Wilkins turned his eyes to the rest of the dining hall. “I’ve been at Gloucester College for nearly forty-seven years now—came here as an undergraduate and never left.” He gave a dry chuckle. “I’ve seen so many students come and go, I feel like I’m beginning to see the same faces again.”

“You must have a good memory then,” I said, smiling.

“One tries. Of course, some students stand out more than others.” He looked at me curiously. “So are you back at Oxford doing further studies?”

Seth laughed from across the table. “She’s back at Oxford serving tea,” he said. “Gemma’s taken over a tearoom in one of the Cotswolds villages.”

“Running a tearoom?” said one of the female dons from farther down the table with an incredulous laugh. “Are you serious?”

I felt myself flushing and raised my chin. “Yes,” I said.

“What did you read at Oxford?” she asked insolently.

“English.”

“I suppose you’re putting your education to great use at the tearoom,” she said with a snide smile.

I felt my jaw clenching and deliberately tried to relax it. Seth looked from me to the female don and back again, and said hastily:

“Well, I think Gemma’s doing a fantastic job with the tearoom. And she’s got the most smashing scones.” He turned back to Professor Wilkins. “Edmund, you must go and try them, if you haven’t yet.”

The old don nodded amiably. “What is the name, my dear?” he asked me.

“The Little Stables Tearoom,” I said.

“You’re the owner of the Little Stables Tearoom?” came a sharp voice from farther down the table.

I turned to see a thin man, with a balding head and wired-framed glasses, looking intently at me. Although Seth had made a round of introductions in the Senior Common Room earlier, I hadn’t spoken to this particular don. He had kept to himself, nursing a glass of dry sherry and not making eye contact with anyone. This was the first time he had attempted to speak to me all evening.

“Prof Hughes, now
you
ought to get some scones into you, old boy,” said Professor Wilkins jovially. “You’re always such a sack of skin and bones. You need a bit of fattening up!”

Hughes?
I thought of that signature on the American’s letter and I looked at the man with new interest. I noticed that his face seemed strangely swollen and the skin around his eyes was puffy and red.

“Wasn’t the Little Stables Tearoom on the news this evening?” another female fellow said suddenly. “A suspicious death?”

I coloured slightly as I saw everyone on High Table turn to look at me. “Yes,” I admitted. “There was an unfortunate incident this morning. Um… One of the customers—an American tourist—was found dead in the courtyard.”

There was a series of gasps, coupled with looks of sordid curiosity.

“Were you the one who found him?” asked the female fellow.

“Yes… unfortunately.”

She gave a delicate shudder. “How frightful!”

“Do the police think it’s murder?”

“Do they know what happened?”

“Have they got any suspects?”

I was very conscious of Hughes’s eyes boring into me. I decided to be less than honest.

“I’m not really sure. The police have started an investigation, of course. Did they say anything on the news?” I glanced back at Hughes.

“No, they merely said that it was being treated as a suspicious death,” he said shortly.

“Well, this is rather exciting!” cried another of the dons. “It’s like one of those murder mysteries on the telly! Our very own Inspector Morse or Midsomer Murder!”

The others at the table joined in eagerly with the speculation.

“I’d bet on them finding that it was a jealous ex-mistress.”

“Or a blackmailer! It’s always a blackmailer—”

“No, I think it was industrial espionage. He was American, right? He was probably selling trade secrets to some company in the U.K. and got silenced.”

“It was very likely something much more prosaic,” said Professor Wilkins with another dry chuckle. “Like a mugging gone wrong—a homeless drunk, perhaps, cracking him on the head with a wine bottle…”

I noticed that Hughes had remained silent through all this wild conjecture. I caught his eye and said, “Do
you
have any theories, Professor Hughes?”

His eyes slid away from mine. “Me? No, why should I? I don’t even know the man.”

Liar
, I thought. I didn’t have any proof but I was willing to bet that “Hughes” was the signature on that letter I had seen in the American’s folder. He would be about the same age as Washington—they had probably been at Oxford around the same time. What were the chances that Hughes was the person Washington had come back to his old college to see?

“I’m sure it was something like industrial espionage,” said one of the younger fellows again. He nodded eagerly. “He probably got involved with some organised crime syndicate and thought that he could handle things—but then found himself sinking deeper and deeper—”

Seth burst out laughing. “I think you’ve been reading too many spy thrillers, Gordon!”

The young fellow looked indignant. “It happens in real life too! Maybe he thought he could stay aloof, but it backfired. You know what they say—once you get your hands dirty, you can’t ever wash them clean again.”

“Sounds like something your favourite philosopher would say,” said Professor Wilkins with a nod to Hughes. “What’s that line again? About the abyss.”

Hughes hesitated, then quoted, “
And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you
.”

“Nietzsche,” I said, recognising the quote.

Hughes looked at me with new interest. “I thought you said you read English, not Philosophy?”

“Yes, but I always liked Nietzsche—from a language point of view, if nothing else—he had a real way with words.” I paused and added, “My favourite quote of his is:
‘And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music’
.”

The old don turned to me with a chuckle, “My goodness, you and Prof Hughes ought to get together sometime. He is obsessed with Nietzsche—”

“I’m not obsessed,” said Hughes sharply. “I just happen to admire him and agree with a lot of what he says.”

“And have his quotes all over your office, on your answering machine, in your research articles, and in the signature at the end of your emails?” scoffed the young fellow. “I’d say that you’re obsessed, Hughes! You should have made Philosophy your subject, and become an expert on Nietzsche, instead of going into Pharmacology.”

“Don’t encourage him even more,” said another fellow, rolling his eyes.

Hughes looked slightly embarrassed. “I’m quite happy in my field,” he said stiffly.

“So the police didn’t tell you anything?” said the female fellow to me, bringing the conversation back to the murder mystery.

“Not really.”

“Do they know anything about the victim?” asked Hughes. “Do they know where he was from or what he was doing in Oxford?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask the police that. They weren’t exactly forthcoming with me.” That, at least, wasn’t a lie. I paused, then looked at Hughes straight in the eye. “I’m sure they’ll be looking into his background and movements, to see who might have had a motive—and opportunity—to kill him.”

Hughes dropped his eyes from mine and busied himself cutting up some roast potatoes. The conversation on the table shifted to the rise of crime in Oxford and I could see that Hughes looked relieved. He contributed little more to the conversation and excused himself as soon as dessert was served.

I watched him leave the hall. He knew something about the American’s murder—I was sure of it. As soon as politeness allowed, I made my own excuses to Seth and the other fellows and left the hall. As I was walking towards the college gate, I pulled my phone out of my handbag and flicked to the photo gallery, looking at the picture I had taken of the Matriculation photo again. I zoomed in and focused on the young man next to Washington. Yes, it was definitely Geoffrey Hughes—with a lot more hair—but with the same serious expression.

A surge of excitement gripped me. I thought of Devlin. I knew I ought to tell him about this. It could have been a valuable lead. Then I remembered his cold, brusque attitude and his off-hand manner towards me. It was like a dash of cold water. And I recalled my vow not to volunteer any more information to him.

Let Devlin figure out the connections himself, I thought mutinously. He’s not going to get help from me in this investigation!

“Gemma? Gemma, are you up yet? They’ll be here any minute.”

“Hmm?” I opened one eye and squinted in the sunshine coming in through a gap in the curtains. There was muffled knocking at my bedroom door, then my mother’s voice came again. “Gemma, darling… It’s nearly ten o’clock.”

“WHAT?” I sat upright in bed.
Ten o’clock! How could I have slept so late?

I rubbed my eyes. The recent weeks—since the opening of the tearoom—must have been more exhausting than I’d thought. With weekends being the busiest days in the tourist trade, I hadn’t had a lie-in since I arrived back in England and the only reason I didn’t have the alarm set for this morning was because I’d gotten a message from Devlin last night saying that the police wouldn’t be done with the tearoom until lunchtime. So no business again today and no need to get up at my usual time. Still, I hadn’t intended to sleep this late!

My bedroom door opened and my mother stuck her head in. She raised her eyebrows slightly at my dishevelled state. “If you hurry, dear, you’ll still have time to shower before they arrive.”

“Before who arrives?” I asked, yawning.

“The book club, dear! Remember I told you about it at dinner on Friday night? I’m hosting the meeting this month. How lucky that you had to close the tearoom today—it means you can attend the meeting!”

She shut the door behind her. I flopped backwards on the bed with a groan.
Argh!
I’d forgotten all about the book club meeting. Now there was no way of escaping—not without upsetting my mother. I sat up again and got out of bed with a sigh. I might as well make the best of it. It wasn’t as if I had anywhere else to be this morning.

I showered, dressed, and got down to the living room just as the first members were arriving. My smile faltered slightly when I saw Mabel Cooke march through the front door. I could see from the gleam in her eye that she wanted to grill me about the murder but I managed to forestall her by hastily telling my mother that I would take care of the refreshments. Ten minutes of skulking in the kitchen, however, was as much as I could stretch it to. Thankfully, by the time I returned to the living room with the tea tray, everyone had sat down and Mabel was too busily engaged in gossiping with another lady to notice me quietly join the group.

In general, there are two kinds of book clubs: those whose members are “serious” readers and spend their time ferociously dissecting the text for hidden nuggets of meaning that the author probably never intended, and those of the more social kind, where members simply want an excuse to meet and exclaim over each other’s hairstyles and gossip about their kids and neighbours. I quickly realised that my mother’s group was of the latter variety when twenty minutes had elapsed and we still hadn’t even mentioned the title being read.

Most of the members were from my mother’s social circle, dressed in scarily similar Marks & Spencer cashmere twinsets, court pumps, and pearls, but one woman stood out like a black swan in a flock of white ones. She was a lot younger than the others—closer to my own age—and decidedly glamorous, in a sensual sort of way. She arrived in a cloud of designer perfume, dressed in a silk sheath dress which highlighted every one of her ample curves and complemented her creamy white skin. Her eyes were green and expertly accentuated with mascara, and her hair fell to her shoulders in glossy red waves. Real red—not something out of a bottle. I found it difficult not to stare. It was rare to see such a glamorous, attractive creature outside the pages of a fashion magazine.

My mother introduced her as Justine Smith—a recent new member of the club—and as she greeted everyone in a pleasant drawl, I realised that she was American. I was pleased when I managed to find a seat next to her.

“So you are new to Oxford?” I said.

“Oh no,” she said. “I’ve been living here for years. I have a house around the corner, actually.”

“I think I’ve seen you,” said my mother as she paused beside us to offer a plate of shortbread biscuits. “The large Regency townhouse in the crescent? You were unloading shopping from a big, black car at the front.” My mother shook her head in admiration. “How on earth did you manage to get such a fantastic parking bay? Right in front of your house too! I was just speaking to Dorothy and she’s been telling me what a nightmare it is to apply for an extra permit for on-street parking.”

Justine gave a coy smile. “I guess I just got lucky.”

My mother shook her head again and moved on to the ladies at the next sofa. I looked back at Justine. Somehow I had a hard time fitting her in my mother’s social circle. I wondered what had prompted her to join the book club. Something of my thoughts must have shown in my expression. She gave me a smile and said, “I thought it was time I became a bit more cultured.”

She laughed. She had a deep, throaty laugh, and a graceful, self-assured manner. I felt suddenly gauche and unattractive next to her expensive sophistication.

“I’m not sure how much literature you’re going to get,” I said ruefully, glancing at the others who were busily chattering.

My mother and two friends were discussing the best way to store smoked salmon, Mabel was instructing another elderly lady on the best type of bran to have for breakfast, and three other ladies were aggressively comparing pictures of their grandchildren.

“What book is the club reading anyway?” I asked.

“
Persuasion
by Jane Austen.”

“Oh—my favourite Austen book!” I said in delight.

She gave me a lazy smile. “Really? I thought most people’s favourite was
Pride and Prejudice
.”

“Oh, I like Darcy… which girl doesn’t? But you can’t beat Captain Wentworth for the most romantic letter of all time. Besides…” I hesitated. “I think there’s something so poignant and beautiful about Anne Elliot’s story—the story of second chances and starting again.”

She looked at me in amusement. “Yeah, it’s nice in a book. Shame it doesn’t happen like that in real life.”

“You’re very cynical.”

“Let’s just say, I believe in the saying about a leopard not changing its spots.”

“People aren’t leopards.”

“Oh, they’re not that different.” She gave a derisive smile. “You are who you are—and you don’t change.”

“I don’t believe that. People change all the time!” I said hotly. “They start again, re-invent themselves…”

I trailed off as I saw her looking at me curiously. I realised that I was probably over-reacting. I took a deep breath. Maybe Justine had hit a nerve. The tearoom was my “second chance”—my chance to start all over again, now that I was older and wiser. I wanted to believe—
needed
to believe—that I could be completely different to the “old me” and still find success and happiness. 

We were interrupted at that moment by my mother calling to me from across the room. She had her iPad in her lap and was frowning at it.

“Gemma, darling, what is my Apple ID password again? I thought it was ‘gemmarose’ but it’s not letting me in.”

“Did you capitalise the ‘G’?” I asked. “Remember, your Apple ID password needs the first letter to be a capital.”
And well done for broadcasting your password to everyone in the room,
I thought.

“Ah…” My mother tapped haphazardly at her iPad. “Oh, yes! Got it! Here, look…” She turned to Dorothy Clarke, seated next to her. “See, you can get
The Times
newspaper now in the iPad. Isn’t that clever? So you don’t have to have a paper delivered every day…”

Dorothy leaned over to look. “Oh, marvellous, Evelyn. Technology is amazing, isn’t it? Maybe I ought to get an iPad. My daughter keeps telling me to join this Face-thing where you can see your friends’ pictures on the computer.”

“Oh, yes, I know all about Facebook. Helen helped me do that last week. I’ve got six friends on it, you know,” my mother said proudly. “And they’re so lovely. They like everything I say. This morning I posted a message about the shocking murder at Gemma’s tearoom and I had ten people liking it within an hour! Though I’m not sure why I had ten ‘Likes’ when I only have six friends but—”

“Mother!” I looked at her in disbelief. “You shouldn’t be telling random people on Facebook about the murder!”

Dorothy gave an exclamation and looked at me. “Why, Gemma! I had no idea that it was
your
tearoom when I saw the six o’clock news last night! A murdered American tourist! How ghastly!”

I felt Justine stiffen next to me.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s the reason I’m here today. I would normally be working on a Sunday, but we had to close the tearoom because the police are still working the crime scene.”

Dorothy leaned forwards, lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper. “Were you the one who found the body?”

I sighed. I was beginning to feel like I ought to walk around carrying an FAQ with answers such as “Yes, I found the body”, “No, I don’t know who the police suspect”, “Yes, he was found with a scone in his mouth”, “No, I’m afraid we’re fully booked this week but I can take reservations for next week” (okay, the last one was wishful thinking).

“I heard on the news that the police have a suspect in custody already,” said one of the other ladies.

“Rubbish,” said Mabel tartly. “They don’t have anybody in custody. They just have a few outlandish theories—which is hardly surprising when you consider that useless excuse for a sergeant that I met. Really! That boy couldn’t find his own willy if it wasn’t zipped up in his trousers! The police have no idea what they’re doing.”

“I’m sure I heard that they had a suspect,” said the other lady stubbornly. “Somebody who had attacked the American in a pub or something…”

Mabel sniffed. “Yes, they’re trying to pin it on Glenda Bailey’s great-nephew.”

“The police suspect Mike Bailey?” I said.

“Yes, and all because they found some scones at his place that were from the tearoom!” Mabel shook her head in exasperation. “Glenda had to call and explain that she was the one who had given them to him.”

I frowned. “But surely that wouldn’t be enough for them to suspect him? I mean, several people bought scones from me on Friday.”

“It’s because of that fight in the pub,” one of the other ladies spoke up. “My son was there with his friends and he told me that Mike Bailey punched the American in the face!”

Mabel waved a hand dismissively. “Mike has a temper on him—but he’s not a murderer. I’ve known him since he was a child. He needs a good telling-off and his mouth washed out with soap—but he’s not the type to kill anyone.”

Maybe not on purpose
, I thought to myself.
But I wouldn’t put it past Mike to inadvertently hurt someone badly in a fit of temper.
It wouldn’t be the first time someone got killed by mistake when people lost their tempers and things got out of hand. Besides, who was to know what anyone was really capable of?

I remembered Cassie telling me how Mike had become increasingly bitter in recent months, ever since he had lost his job at the car factory due to an American takeover of the company. He was the type who always needed to blame someone for his misfortunes, and in this case, a rich American conglomerate would have been the perfect scapegoat. It would have given him even more reason to feel wronged and victimised: the small man fighting an unfair battle against the powerful corporate giant.

Yes, Mike Bailey could easily have been nursing a grievance. And with the way Washington was taunting him on Friday night, it would have hardly been surprising if Mike decided to get vengeance on a personal level, against one smug American.

“Well,
I
heard that the American choked on a scone,” said another lady. “Fancy that!”

“Yes, it must have happened sometime between seven-forty-five and eight-forty when Gemma discovered him,” Mabel said.

“How on earth could you know that?” I blurted out. “I doubt the police have even had the post-mortem report yet.”

“Because he called the hotel reception at seven forty-five asking for his bathroom lightbulb to be changed. Frances Moore’s niece works at the Cotswold’s Manor Hotel. She told Jane Addison—who told Judith Powell—who told me at church this morning.”

I could see Justine looking at Mabel with a mixture of astonishment and wonderment. Personally, I wasn’t surprised. In fact, I was more surprised that Mabel hadn’t found out what brand toothpaste Washington used and what size shoes he wore. On second thoughts, she probably had.

“I hear that the detective on the case is very good,” Dorothy spoke up. “Detective Inspector Devlin O’Connor. I recognised his name when they mentioned him on the news last night. There was a piece about him in the papers earlier this year; it was to do with a murder up North… Leeds, I think it was… and no one had been able to solve it for seventeen years. Well, he cracked it.”

My mother gave me a sharp look. “Devlin O’Connor? Is that—?”

“Yes,” I said evenly.

She seemed about to say something else, then glanced around and thought better of it. I saw Mabel watching us shrewdly

One of the other ladies spoke up. “You know, I remember reading that article too. And I seem to remember some scandal associated with that case—wasn’t there a rumour that he’d got involved with one of the suspects or something? A very attractive young lady. And they were questioning his impartiality in the investigation—although he did solve the case in the end and bring the murderer to justice…”