A Scone To Die For (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1) (15 page)

My earlier impulse to speak to Devlin was even stronger now. This wasn’t just Hughes providing a false alibi—this was Hughes actually admitting that he had been at the crime scene on the day of the murder! It changed everything. No matter what he said, it made him a strong suspect. Besides, I still had the feeling that he was hiding something, that he hadn’t told me the full truth. Maybe Devlin would have better luck getting it out of him.

As soon as I left Gloucester College, I pulled out my phone to call him, then remembered that I didn’t have his number. Devlin had blocked his caller ID so that his number never showed on phones. I hesitated, then rang Oxfordshire police, asking to be put through to Detective Inspector O’Connor. I was informed that he was out of his office, investigating a case, and to leave my information with the General Enquiries line.

“But I really need to speak to him. I have some information which could be pertinent to the case. Can’t you give me his mobile number or let me know where I might be able to find him? I’m in Oxford at the moment.”

“Well, we can’t just give out his number to any Tom, Dick, or Harry. It would waste too much of his time to keep fielding calls from everyone.”

“You don’t understand,” I said impatiently. “I am not just some random member of the public. I’m involved in the case that he’s currently investigating. It’s the murder at the Little Stables Tearoom in Meadowford-on-Smythe and I’m the owner of that tearoom.”

There was a pause at the other end of the line, then the woman said, “I’ll tell you what—I’ll put you through to his sergeant.”

A moment later, the familiar cocky voice of Devlin’s sergeant came on the line. I hadn’t liked him when I met him on the weekend and it seemed that his manner hadn’t improved. I took the wind out of his sails, however, when I revealed the gaping hole in Hughes’s alibi.

“Shi—” He bit off the curse and muttered, “The inspector’s going to give me a right bollocking for this.”

“Where is he at the moment—do you know? I need to speak to him urgently.”

“He’s interviewing someone about the case. You can to talk to me instead,” he said importantly.

“No, I think I’d prefer to pass the information to Inspector O’Connor directly,” I said crisply. “I’d rather not risk any more cock-ups.”

I could feel the wince across the line.

“Look, if I tell you where he is, will you… uh… put a good word in for me? Make it so that it wasn’t really my fault that I missed the alibi…?”

“All right,” I said with a grin. He sounded so young and anxious—and I suppose it wasn’t really his fault that he didn’t know about the connection to Nietzsche.

“The inspector’s at the Randolph Hotel. You should be able to find him in the Morse Bar—he’s meeting someone there.”

I thanked him and hung up, then hurried down Broad Street and right, along Magdalen Street, until I reached the Randolph on the corner. Housed in a 150-year-old Victorian Gothic building, the Randolph claimed pride of place as Oxford’s largest luxury hotel. Not that it was one of those five-star chain monstrosities. No, the Randolph was a boutique hotel, full of historic charm and elegant grandeur, with sumptuous wood-panelled interiors, Gothic arches, and a sweeping carved staircase, which dominated the front reception. And the Morse Bar was probably its most famous attraction.

I saw Devlin as soon as I entered the bar. He was sitting in one of the secluded corners, legs crossed, suit jacket off, his blue eyes trained keenly on the person next to him. And sitting beside him, her body draped sensuously in her chair, was Justine Washington.

I stopped in my tracks. They hadn’t seen me yet—the layout of the bar was such that I was partially hidden by the bar counter. Without conscious thought, I drew back and pressed myself against the wall so that I was completely hidden from view. There were a few other patrons in the bar—mostly tourists by the look of things—but they didn’t pay me much notice. All
my
attention was focused on Devlin and the woman next to him.

There was something in the cosy intimacy of the scene that made my heart beat uncomfortably in my chest. As I watched, Justine reached out and languidly brushed her fingers along Devlin’s arm. She was saying something, her eyes wide and appealing on her face. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but there was no mistaking the suggestive look she gave him.

I couldn’t see Devlin’s face properly from this angle but I saw him nod, then lean forwards and incline his head towards her. I pulled back, feeling slightly sick. A feeling of betrayal washed over me and I whirled and ran from the bar. I stumbled out of the main hotel entrance and retrieved my bicycle.

Somehow I climbed aboard and made my way out of Oxford, cycling blindly and negotiating the roads without really being aware of them. All I kept seeing in my mind was that image of Justine Washington smiling as she reached out to stroke Devlin’s arm and then his head inclining towards her… Okay, so I didn’t actually see him kiss her, but somehow I doubted that he was just leaning forwards to tell her that she had dirt on her nose.

I looked up and realised to my surprise that I was entering Meadowford village high street. I had no recollection of how I had got here. I alighted from my bicycle in front of the tearoom and wheeled it into the courtyard, securing it by the back door. Then I went in. I found Cassie still at the counter, still sketching—and the room still empty.

“Well?” She looked up at me eagerly.

I waved towards the empty room. “Any…?”

She shook her head. “Sorry. I’m thinking we might as well close early.”

I winced but, looking around again, I decided that she was right. I doubted there was going to be any change this late in the day and sitting here was just depressing.

“If we close early, we can help Fletcher put some posters up,” added Cassie.

I looked at her questioningly. She held up the paper she was working on and I saw that it was a sketch of Muesli, sitting the way she often did with her tail curled around her front paws and her cheeky little face looking up expectantly. It was a fantastic likeness, drawn from memory. I’d known Cassie almost all her life and still I was continually surprised and awed by her talent.

“That’s brilliant, Cass. It looks just like her.”

She nodded and quickly added a border around the drawing, then in big letters across the top: “HAVE YOU SEEN THIS CAT?” followed by a request to call and Fletcher’s phone number.

“Yeah, I’m hoping that if we make several copies of this and stick it up around the village and maybe a bit farther out too, someone might ring up and say they’ve seen her. Anyway, it would be good just to do something. It would help to cheer Fletcher up a bit.”

“So he’s still not had any sign of her?”

Cassie shook her head. “He’s really upset about it. I told him after we put these posters up, I’d go back with him and help search the woods by his house.”

“I’ll come too,” I said.

I hoped Muesli was okay. Not just for Fletcher’s sake. I didn’t want to admit it but I had grown very fond of the little feline and the thought that something might have happened to her made me feel ill. I sighed. This was turning out to be a nightmare week. Ever since Brad Washington appeared on the scene, it had been one bad thing after another.

Cassie looked at me curiously. “So where did you go?”

Quickly, I told her about my encounter with Tom Rawlings, the Nietzsche quote on the answering machine, and my confrontation with Hughes.

“That was bloody clever, Gemma, the way you worked out his false alibi.” She looked at me admiringly.

I waved her praise away. “Get this: Hughes was actually here on Saturday morning to meet Washington,” I said excitedly.

“Here?”

I nodded. “He found the body when he arrived so he panicked and ran away.”

“Wow.” Cassie digested this for a moment. “This totally changes things. You realise, he could easily have been the one to kill Washington. He just has to lie and
say
he found the body. It’s the best double bluff in the world. Admit that he was here—which he can’t hide anymore—but say that he didn’t do it.”

I frowned. “The only thing is—I can’t think of a motive for him to want to kill Washington.”

“He and Washington used to be mates here at Oxford, right?”

“Yeah, they were graduate research students here together.”

“Well, maybe something happened back then—something Washington did to Hughes, perhaps. That Washington was a creep—and a bully. I wouldn’t put it past him to take advantage of the weaker man. So… maybe Hughes has been nursing a grudge all these years and then on Saturday, he decided to get revenge…”

I shook my head impatiently. “But why wait till now? It’s been fifteen years since they matriculated. If it was something that happened when they were young and Hughes was still mad about it, wouldn’t he have wanted revenge long before now? Why wait until fifteen years later to murder him?”

“I guess that’s the police’s responsibility to find out.” She looked at me sharply. “You
have
told Devlin, haven’t you?”

“I… I left a message,” I said.

Cassie narrowed her eyes. I tried to keep my face expressionless. My best friend knew me too well and the last thing I needed was for her to start asking awkward questions about things I didn’t even want to face myself.

“So what happened last night with Devlin? You never told me.”

“Nothing happened,” I said lightly.

“Gemma.” She looked at me with mock severity. “You can’t fob me off that easily. You had drinks with the only man you ever loved and you’re telling me nothing happened?”

“He’s not the only man I ever loved,” I muttered. “I
have
dated other guys.”

“You mean like that accountant in Sydney? Or the guy who gave you surfing lessons?” she scoffed. “Gemma, this is Devlin! Devlin O’Connor! I was there, remember? I know how much you loved him. Bloody hell, you were thinking of marrying him!”

“Well I didn’t,” I said shortly, turning away. I thought of that scene in the Randolph Hotel again. “And anything that was between us is over.”

Cassie started to say something else but I cut her off.

“Anyway, getting back to the case—I think the answer lies in what happened between Hughes and Washington fifteen years ago. If I can find out more about that, maybe I can find out why Hughes would have had a reason to want Washington dead.”

“Have you tried the Oxford City Library?”

I looked at Cassie in puzzlement. “Why would that help?”

“Duh… detectives in movies are always going to libraries and looking up microfiches or something…”

“I don’t think they have microfiches anymore these days,” I said, laughing. “But you know, maybe that’s not a bad idea…”

I thought of the outrageous tabloid article about my tearoom. Technology and fashions might have changed but the tabloid papers and the thirst for gossip would have been the same fifteen years ago. Picking up my phone, I put a call though to Oxford City Library and got a very helpful librarian on the line. I explained my search for any articles mentioning students at Gloucester College, in particular with the names “Brad Washington” or “Geoffrey Hughes”—or any reference to some kind of trouble or scandal at the college.

“I can put in the request to search the archives for you,” said the librarian. “It might take a while—but I can probably let you know by tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, that sounds great.”

I gave her my details, then hung up. Now all I could do was wait and hope that my hunch was correct.

I went into the kitchen to tell Fletcher about closing early. I found him busy washing up some baking trays.

“Hey Fletcher, how’s it going? Listen, we’re going to close early today. Why don’t I help you wash up here?”

He nodded and we worked in a companionable silence for a while. As we stood by the sink, I said, “I’m sorry to hear that Muesli is still missing.”

He nodded gravely. “It’s been four days now.”

I grimaced. With each day that passed, the chances of the little cat turning up unharmed were getting slimmer and slimmer. But I didn’t want to worry him further. Instead, I cast my mind around for something to distract him. There seemed to be nothing in the past few days that didn’t involve the murder… then I remembered the book club meeting at my parents’ house last Sunday and began telling him about that.

“Have you ever been in a book club, Fletcher?” I said as I finished.

He shook his head shyly.

“Do you think you’d like to join one? It might be a nice way for you to meet people.”

He shrugged. “Don’t read much.”

“Well, I don’t think the people in my mother’s book club read much either,” I said with a chuckle. “It seems to be more of a social gathering than anything else. You know, a way to make friends…”

He said nothing and I was about to try another topic when he asked, “What are they reading in the book club?”

“A book by Jane Austen. It’s called
Persuasion
. Have you heard of it?”

He shook his head. “I’ve heard of
Pride and Prejudice
.”

I laughed. “Yes, everyone’s heard of
Pride and Prejudice
. It’s the more famous one. But I think
Persuasion
is actually my favourite Austen novel.”

“Why?”

I gazed out of the kitchen window. “I guess… because it’s about second chances and starting again. It’s about a girl who gave up a man she loved when she was very young because her family told her that he wasn’t right for her and then they meet again eight years later and he’s now very successful and very rich and she realises that she never stopped loving him…” I trailed off, suddenly uncomfortable as I became aware of what I was saying.

Fletcher looked at me curiously. “Do you believe in second chances, Gemma? Do you think people can start again—even when they’ve made a mistake?”

I thought of Justine and her cynical remarks to me that Sunday morning. Did that mean something? Was there something in Justine’s past—or was she referring to something Brad Washington had done?

I came out of my thoughts and smiled at Fletcher. “Yeah, I believe they can. I think if you want something badly enough—and you really want the change—then yes, you can start again.”

Fletcher looked at me searchingly, and I had to resist the urge to squirm. Sometimes he could be like a child in his directness. Nobody likes to be thought to be transparent, but it didn’t take a genius to work out that this tearoom and everything it represented was my “second chance”, my bid to start again.

Slowly Fletcher smiled and nodded. “Yes,” he said encouragingly. “Yes.”

Cassie stuck her head in through the kitchen doorway. “Are you guys almost done? I want to get to the post office before it shuts, so I can make some photocopies of this poster.”

Half an hour later, we were making our way to Fletcher’s place, having stuck up several posters of Muesli all over the village. We walked down the row of neat terraces until we reached the end, passing Ethel pruning roses in her garden. She waved as we walked past and I waved back. We followed Fletcher into his obsessively neat little cottage and out the back door to the large woods which surrounded one side of the house. It extended for several miles and my heart sank slightly at the thought of trying to find one small cat in all this wilderness.

Nevertheless, we began searching methodically, calling Muesli’s name and peering through the undergrowth. We hadn’t gone very far, though, when my phone rang, the shrill sound piercing in the quiet of the woods. I dug it out of my pocket and stared at the screen. The number was withheld. I suddenly remembered the last time I had had a similar call—when Devlin had rung me on Sunday. I hesitated, then tossed the phone to Cassie.

“Can you do me a favour? Answer that for me and if it’s Devlin, tell him I’m not available.”

She gave me a look but obediently answered the phone. “Hello? Gemma’s phone.” She listened, her eyes flicking to mine for a moment. “Oh hi, Devlin. No, she’s busy right now. Can I take a message?” She paused. “Yeah, I’ll get her to give you a ring as soon as she’s free. Cheers.”

She ended the call and tossed the phone back to me. “Okay, now what was that all about?”

I thought of fobbing her off again, then I saw the look in her eyes and knew that I wouldn’t get away with it this time. I glanced at Fletcher. He was searching behind some bushes a few feet away and seemed to be lost in his own world. I lowered my voice.

“I… um… I just don’t feel like talking to Devlin right now.”

“Why?”

“I saw him this morning.” I paused. “At the Randolph. In the Morse bar. With Justine Washington.”

Cassie raised an eyebrow.

I flushed at her look. “I just… well, they didn’t look very… uh… professional.”

“Professional?” Cassie choked back a laugh. “Why don’t you just admit that you’re jealous?”

I scowled at her. “I’m not jealous! He’s a free agent after all. But you should have seen them—she was practically in his lap! He was supposed to be interviewing her but it looked to me a lot friendlier than a police interview.”

“Well, maybe that’s his method,” said Cassie. “He might just be softening her up or something…”

I made a rude noise.

“Okay, well, whatever…” Cassie threw up her hands. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on between you and Devlin, but you’ve got to speak to him. You’ve got important information about the case and you have to pass it on. You’re just being childish, not talking to him.”

I hated to admit it but Cassie was right. Still, I couldn’t face the thought of speaking to Devlin tonight. Besides, there was nothing that was really urgent. “I’ll speak to him tomorrow morning.”

Cassie sighed. “Fine.”

We continued searching but the light was fading rapidly now and it was soon hard to see anything. We were forced to abandon the search. Gently, we urged Fletcher back to his house, promising to return and search with him again tomorrow. The phone was ringing as we trooped back in and my heart leapt with hope. Perhaps it was someone who had seen the posters and was ringing with news of Muesli. But Fletcher listened without saying much and hung up after a moment. He met our looks and shook his head despondently.

“Never mind,” said Cassie. “I still believe that she’ll turn up, just when you’re least expecting it, looking completely unbothered that she’s put us to so much worry. Typical cat.” She glanced at her watch. “Yikes—I’d better go. I promised my mother I’d be there for a family dinner tonight.”

I suddenly remembered that I’d made a similar promise to my own mother. She had been very insistent that I be home for dinner and I’d given my word to be on time. I bade goodbye to Fletcher and Cassie, and raced back to Oxford, arriving just in time to find my mother laying the table.

“Gemma, darling, you’re not going to have dinner dressed like that, are you?” she said, looking at me in dismay.

I glanced down at my jeans and faded sweater. “Yeah, I was—why?”

“Oh, darling—how uncivilised! There’s still time. Why don’t you run upstairs and put on a nice dress?”

I looked at her in puzzlement. “Mother, I never change for dinner—”

“Nonsense, dear. You used to get changed for dinner every night when you were in college.”

“Yes, but that was different. I was going to Formal Hall every night and that was one of those Oxford etiquette things. But I’m not at college anymore.”

“Well, you could
pretend
that you are,” said my mother brightly. “Wouldn’t you like to look more… er… presentable, for a change?”

I eyed her in sudden suspicion. “Mother, why is it so important for me to look presentable tonight? Is someone coming to dinner?”

She tossed her head and said airily, “Oh, didn’t I say? I invited Lincoln Green over to join us.”

“
Mother!
” I said in exasperation. “I
told
you! I don’t want to be set up with Lincoln Green!”

“Whoever said anything about setting you up? I just thought the poor boy would enjoy some home cooking. He’s all alone in that huge house of his and he must be at loose ends in the evenings. And his mother is my oldest friend. Why, it would be rude of me not to invite him when he only lives around the corner.”

Argh.
For a moment, I considered making a run for it. I could have bolted out the door and been halfway to central Oxford before my mother could stop me. But then what would I do? Wander aimlessly around the streets of the city, waiting for Lincoln Green to finish eating and leave? It seemed ridiculous to be skulking around in the night just because you didn’t want to meet a man in your own home. Besides, my mother would never forgive me and you don’t know what “passive-aggressive” really means until you’ve seen my mother in action.

I sighed. It would be easier just to grit my teeth and get it over with. It was only one night. Besides, it would make my mother happy. I felt a faint stab of guilt. I’d been a pretty disappointing daughter in so many ways recently—what would it cost me to put on a dress, sit at a table, and smile nicely for a couple of hours?

I gave another deep sigh. “Fine.”

“Wonderful!” my mother trilled. “Make sure you wear something pink, darling—it’s your best colour. And put on some make-up and jewellery. There’s not much you can do with your hair…” She eyed my pixie crop with distaste. “I can never understand why you want to chop off your hair when you’ve got such lovely thick waves to play with.”

I ruffled my short ’do. “I like my hair. It’s practical and convenient.” I didn’t add that, in my private moments, I liked to think it gave me a shot at Audrey Hepburn’s elfin charm.

My mother sniffed. “No man likes a woman with short hair, darling. It’s so unfeminine!”

“I’m not trying to impress a man,” I muttered.

“Maybe you could put a hairband in it,” my mother suggested suddenly. “One of those cute Alice-in-Wonderland styles with a bow on the side.”

“What?” I recoiled in horror. “No, no, I don’t want—”

“I know! I’ll come and help you get dressed.”

“No, Mother, no…” My protests fell on deaf ears as I found myself being hustled upstairs to my fashion doom.