A Scone To Die For (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1) (16 page)

The doorbell rang punctually on the dot of eight and I made my reluctant way downstairs. I nearly screamed when I caught sight of myself in the hall mirror. I looked like a cross between a Laura Ashley bedspread and a vintage lampshade. I might not have been interested in Lincoln Green but I had enough pride not to want him to be repulsed by me. 

Lincoln looked like an older, taller, slightly heavier version of the boy I used to know. He had the same serious expression and the same neat side parting in his brown hair. He was dressed in a navy blazer and beige designer chinos, and looked every inch the successful young doctor as he stepped over our threshold and politely handed my mother an enormous bouquet of flowers.

“Oh, how lovely!” my mother gushed. “Such a well-brought-up young man you are, Lincoln. And of course, you remember Gemma?” She stepped aside and shoved me forwards.

Lincoln offered his hand. “Yes, of course I remember. How are you, Gemma? Nice to see you again.”

“Now, now, no need to be so formal,” my mother said, giving Lincoln an arch look. “Shaking hands? This isn’t a business meeting! Doesn’t everyone kiss each other nowadays?”

“
Mother!
” I hissed out of the side of my mouth.

Lincoln stepped forwards and gave me a dutiful peck on the cheek. I knew my face was red. I hoped Lincoln would realise that it was a sign of angry humiliation and not romantic bashfulness. Thankfully my father came into the foyer at that moment and diverted the attention. He was delighted to discover that Lincoln was a cricket fan—cricket being one of the few things in the “real world” that’s powerful enough to take my father’s nose out of his textbooks—and he monopolised Lincoln for the next five minutes, discussing the result of the test match between England and Pakistan. By the time my mother managed to shepherd us into the dining room, I was relieved to find that the awkward atmosphere had eased a bit.

We filed dutifully towards the dining table, which was covered in a snowy white linen tablecloth and gleaming with even more crockery and wine glasses than usual. Lincoln pulled out my mother’s chair with an old-fashioned gallantry that had her beaming. She threw me a proud look, like someone showing off a well-trained puppy, and I had to resist the urge to roll my eyes. I have to admit, I took a wicked pleasure in managing the monumental task of pulling out my own chair and seating myself at the table before Lincoln came around to me, leaving him looking a bit nonplussed. My mother frowned at me but I pretended not to see.

“So, Lincoln…” my mother said brightly as we started on the first course of honeydew melon wrapped in paper-thin slices of
prosciutto
ham. “How are you settling back in Oxford?”

“Very well,” said Lincoln. “It’s nice to be back and I’m enjoying the work.”

“Do you have many friends here still? Does it get lonely sometimes?”

“No, actually, the hospital is a pretty sociable place. There’s a good entertainment committee that organises events for the medical staff. Pub crawls and karaoke nights and that sort of thing.”

“Oh, well, if you ever need a partner for anything, I’m sure Gemma would love to oblige,” my mother said gaily. “She doesn’t go out much and she’s always free in the evenings.”

I glared at her. Okay, so it was true that I didn’t have much of a social life, but there was no need to make me sound like some kind of pariah. Besides, I stayed in by choice. Since opening the tearoom, I had found that I was too exhausted most evenings to contemplate the thought of a night on the town. 

“I did wonder…” my mother continued, giving Lincoln another coy sideways glance. “…if you were coming alone tonight.”

Lincoln looked a bit confused. “Yes, I have come alone.”

“Oh… because I did say in my invite to include a friend, if you like?”

I squirmed in my seat. Lincoln looked even more confused.

My mother continued blithely, “Well, you being such a handsome young man… one expects you wouldn’t be alone. I thought you might have someone special you wanted to bring along?”

I cringed. I wondered why she didn’t just come out and say:
“Lincoln, are you shagging anyone at the moment, dear? Because if not, my daughter is available.”

Lincoln—to his credit—seemed to take things in his stride. “No, it’s just me,” he said with a smile.

“Just you in that huge house? Don’t you feel a bit lonely rattling around in there by yourself?”

“I’m all right. To be honest, I’m not home most of the time. It’s long hours at the hospital and I’m often on-call.”

“Oh, well, of course it’s different if you had
someone
to come home to,” said my mother meaningfully and flicked her eyes towards me.

I squirmed and wished that there was a convenient hole I could dive into. Lincoln gave an awkward laugh and made a great show of cutting up his melon, portioning it into bite-sized pieces with surgical precision. Suddenly I felt a twinge of sympathy for him. For all I knew, he had been press-ganged into coming to dinner tonight by his mother as well and was dreading it as much as I was.

I looked at Lincoln with slightly more charitable eyes.  He was quite good-looking, I admitted grudgingly. His nose was straight, his mouth firm, and his brown eyes humorous in an open, pleasant face. The kind of face you wanted on your doctor. Respectable, professional, trustworthy.

Lincoln looked up and made a desperate bid to change the subject. “I’m sorry to hear about the bit of unpleasantness with your tearoom, Gemma.”

How like an Englishman to make an understatement about everything. A brutal murder was reduced to “the bit of unpleasantness”. I suppose the British newspapers reported the sinking of the
Titanic
as “a regrettable excursion”. Still, I was grateful for the chance to get away from my mother’s heavy hints of our future nuptials and jumped at the cue he offered.

“Yes, it’s been a bit of a week,” I said with a wry smile. “It’s not every day that you have someone murdered in your tearoom.”

My mother gave a little scream. “Gemma, darling! Is this really a subject for the dinner table?”

“Oh, I’m sure Lincoln won’t mind. Being a doctor, I’m sure he’s used to all sorts of gory topics at the dinner table,” I said, giving him a grin.

“There’s certainly very little you can say that would disgust or offend me,” said Lincoln, returning my smile. “And a murder mystery is always fascinating. Have the police made any progress on the case? Are they close to finding the killer?”

I shrugged. “I wish I knew. They have a few suspects, but I don’t think they’re about to make an arrest any time soon.”

“There was a piece about the murder in the papers today,” said Lincoln. “I was reading it at the hospital this morning. The victim was an American named Brad Washington?”

I nodded.

“I’ve heard of Washington,” said Lincoln. “He’s head of a pharmaceutical company in the States. Very bright guy. Not the nicest man, from what I’ve heard, but very shrewd, especially in business. His company specialises in drugs which treat lumbar spondylosis and arthritis. There was a lot of talk about them in the medical field earlier this year—a lot of excitement about a new drug they’re developing.”

“A new drug?” I looked at him with interest.

“Well, it’s actually not completely new. It’s a drug they’ve got already, called Lassitomab, which works to treat arthritis. But they’ve discovered that it could help those suffering from Chronic Fatigue Syndrome as well,” Lincoln explained. “It seems to ease the symptoms so that sufferers are able to return to work and lead a normal life again. It’s a bit similar to another drug called Rituximab, which was used in cancer treatments and also thought to have benefits for those with CFS—but Washington’s drug promises to deliver even better results. It’s very exciting.”

“Is it on the market already?”

“Not for this particular use, no. It
has
been approved for arthritis use but it hasn’t gained FDA approval yet for treatment of CFS. I believe it’s going through the final stages of the process now but it will need to pass a special committee first. If approved, this drug could be one of the biggest advances in medicine in recent years and really make a difference to the quality of life of many sufferers. And of course, make Washington a fortune. Or rather… would have made him a fortune if he was still alive,” added Lincoln soberly.

Yes, I mused. Washington’s death seemed to have been very convenient—or inconvenient, depending on how you looked at it—for a number of people. Justine Washington benefited hugely from it. And Geoffrey Hughes? Did Washington’s old academic colleague benefit from his murder? I thought back to my conversation with Cassie about Hughes’s lack of motive. The Oxford don had admitted that Washington had come to see him about investing in a new venture. I was sure now that it was the development of this drug. It was just too much of a coincidence that the American should return to Oxford to see Hughes just before the launch of his revolutionary new drug. And Hughes was a professor in Pharmacology… What had really happened at their meeting on Friday afternoon? After all, you didn’t kill someone just because you didn’t want to invest in their business venture. No, there was something Hughes wasn’t telling.

I had a feeling that I was on the brink of a big discovery. Seth would be able to help me dig up more information, I thought. I wanted to run upstairs and call him. I could barely sit still through the rest of the dinner. My mother frowned at me as I fidgeted in my chair. She dragged out the meal for as long as she could, but even the delicious rhubarb crumble we had for dessert couldn’t quite make up for the strained atmosphere. My heart sank when we’d settled in the living room for the customary after-dinner tea, coffee, and chocolates, and she suggested a trip down Memory Lane via some family photo albums.

“I’m sure you and Gemma would love to see some pictures of when you were children together,” she said with a coy laugh. “You were such a handsome little boy, Lincoln—so proper and polite—and Gemma used to adore you and follow you around everywhere!”

I choked on my tea. That was an utter lie. To my great relief, Lincoln politely but firmly said that he had to leave as he had an early start at the hospital the next morning.

“Oh, what a shame! But we must do this again soon—it’s been so lovely to catch up with you, Lincoln. I hope you won’t mind if Gemma sees you out?” My mother gestured to the TV screen which my father was watching. “Such a riveting programme—I simply can’t miss a moment of it!”

Since the only thing showing on the screen was a five-day cricket match between India and Bangladesh, which was only marginally more exciting than watching paint dry, her lie was embarrassingly obvious. I flushed and gritted my teeth as I turned and stalked back out to the foyer with Lincoln at my heels.

However, as I turned around to face him by the front door, I felt slightly guilty. It wasn’t his fault that my mother was behaving the way she was. If anything, he had been remarkably good-humoured about everything and had done his best to deflect her ploys. Looking up at him in the light of the front hall, I had to admit again that he was not bad looking at all. In fact, if we weren’t being hounded by my mother’s matchmaking machinations, I might have actually enjoyed spending time with him.

As if reading my thoughts, he cleared his throat and said, “Well, that could probably go down in history as the most awkward dinner of all time.”

“I’m sorry about my mother…” I said, shame-faced.

“It’s all right. I have the same at home.” He paused, then gave me a hesitant smile. “But mothers aside, I
would
really like to see you again, Gemma. Perhaps we could have dinner sometime? Alone,” he added hastily.

I stared up at him. This man would never make my heart race or leave me speechless and furious, like Devlin did. But perhaps that was a good thing. I’d been burned once by a wild passionate love affair. Now that I was older and wiser, maybe it was time I sought a different romantic ideal. Lincoln was a nice guy—and very pleasant company. I realised that I
would
actually enjoy getting to know him better.

“Thanks, I’d like that,” I said with a smile. “But on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“That you don’t breathe a word of it to your mother and I won’t say anything to mine. Otherwise they’ll probably sit at the next table, orchestrating our every move and eavesdropping on our conversation.”

He chuckled. “You’re on. Shall I give you a call sometime next week?”

I agreed and gave him my number, then stood on the threshold and watched as he walked down the street. As soon as he had disappeared around the corner, I shut the door and hurried up to my bedroom to call Seth.

Romance was all very well but I had bigger things on my mind. I had a murderer to catch.

I paced up and down my room, listening to Seth’s phone ring. I hoped that he wasn’t out at some University society event. He answered finally, sounding slightly flustered.

I launched in without preamble. “Seth, listen—I was just speaking to a doctor who told me that Washington’s company is trying to get FDA approval for a drug called Lassitomab to be used to treat Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Do you know anything about this?”

Seth was silent for a moment. “Well, I’m no pharmacologist, but since organic chemistry does cross over in some ways, I do have some knowledge in this area. I’ve got access to MIMS online—that’s the database of pharmaceutical drugs—which might give me some information. If you hold on, I can do a quick search for you. It does sound vaguely familiar…”

I waited, listening to the sound of his keyboard clacking in the background. After what seemed like ages, he came back on the line.

“Found it. I had to search a few other databases and research archives to find out about the new application but, yes, Lassitomab is being hailed as the next big thing in the treatment of CFS. There’s been a preliminary trial with over two hundred patients.” He sounded quite excited. “They’re not quite sure how it works but they believe it’s by targeting the autoantibodies to the adrenergic receptors found on endothelial cells—which are present in postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome—and helping in the elimination of EBV or CMV, which is the principal mechanism for—”

“Er… Seth? In English, please.”

Seth took a breath. “Basically, the drug works by destroying the white blood cells that make the autoantibodies that are responsible for the symptoms of CFS. But what’s exciting about it is that it not only targets the cells making those autoantibodies but also binds to the autoantibodies themselves. So instead of the usual several months’ time lag after treatment, people start to respond within days.”

“Sounds great. So why isn’t it on the market already?”

“Well, these things need a lot of large-scale trials and studies to determine their safety, you know, just in case there are side effects.”

“Does this drug have side effects then?”

“All drugs have side effects,” said Seth. “It’s just a matter of whether the positives outweigh the negatives. In this case, there are a lot of positives. I’m actually quite surprised it hasn’t been brought to market yet… there must be something…” His voice trailed off and there was more clacking on the keyboard. I tried to wait patiently. Finally, he came back again.

“Hmm… it seems that it was almost approved a few months ago but was blocked by a member of the approval committee. A world expert in pharmacology maintained that the research wasn’t adequate to license the drug for safe use.”

I felt my heartbeat quicken. “Can you find his name?”

“How do you know it’s a ‘he’? It’s an equal opportunity world these days,” said Seth.

“Huh. Not when I last looked. Women are still earning less in the same jobs and being excluded from the ‘old boys’ club’,” I retorted. “But I’m not here to debate women’s rights with you. Can you find a name?”

“I’m looking… I’m looking… hold your horses, Gemma…”

I waited again, trying to contain my impatience.

“Ah yes… here… Professor Geoffrey Hu… Hughes! Bloody hell, it’s Prof Hughes here in my college!”

“I knew it! Seth, that’s the missing piece of the puzzle! I found out this morning that Hughes gave the police a fake alibi.” Quickly, I recounted my confrontation with the Oxford don. “He told me that he just panicked and ran away. But I had a feeling that he was hiding something. I think this is it! He lied—or at least, he was economical with the truth—about his meeting with Washington. They must have discussed Lassitomab and I’ll bet you anything that the real reason Washington came to Oxford was to persuade Hughes to retract his objection. Hughes was the only thing that stood between Washington and mass marketing this drug.”

“But wait, Gemma, it doesn’t make sense…” said Seth. “Why should that give Hughes a motive to murder Washington? If he didn’t want the drug to go to market, all he had to do was block its approval, like he’s done once already. No one can get him to change his professional opinion.”

“Yes, but what if Washington was trying to
force
him to change it?”

“How can he do that?”

“Well…” I thought furiously. “What if Washington had some kind of hold over Hughes?”

“You mean like blackmail?”

“Yes… I’ve been thinking…” I mused. “I’m sure this is all somehow connected to something that happened at Oxford fifteen years ago when Washington and Hughes were here as students.”

“What happened fifteen years ago?”

“I don’t know. I think that’s something for the police to dig up,” I said reluctantly, realising that I had yet another reason to speak to Devlin now.

“Well, if you think it might help, you can always come back and speak to some members of the SCR here in Gloucester College,” Seth offered. “Some of the older dons have been here for yonks and might remember something relevant from fifteen years ago. Hey, why don’t you come to dinner on High Table again?”

“Thanks, but once a term is more than enough for me,” I said dryly. “But thank you for the invitation. Why don’t you ask Cassie?”

“Oh… um…” Seth stammered. “I don’t know… I’m not sure if she would…”

“I’m sure she’d enjoy it. Just ask her, Seth.”

He mumbled something and I could practically feel him blushing across the line. I decided to let the subject drop. We bade each other good night and I hung up. Going back downstairs, I joined my mother in clearing the table and washing up. She was brimming with excitement over Lincoln’s visit and wanted to pump me for details of our “good bye”. I answered her distractedly, for once not minding her prying. My mind was elsewhere.

I knew who the murderer was now. I just had to find a way to prove it. And the answer lay in finding out what had happened in Oxford fifteen years ago.

The next morning brought me answers quicker than I expected. My phone rang as I was about to leave for work. It was Seth.

“Gemma,” he said excitedly. “I ran into Prof Wilkins this morning in the quad and we had a chat. You remember I said some of the old dons here might remember something relevant?”

His excitement was infectious and I felt my pulse speeding up in response. “Yes?”

“Listen to this: he told me that he remembered Washington. He saw a picture of the American in the local papers and it triggered his memory. He said that when Washington was here as a graduate student, there had been some scandal associated with him—some kind of cheating scandal.”

“Cheating scandal?”

“Yeah. It seemed that Washington was part of a group of students who managed to plagiarise their exam papers.”

I frowned. “Cheating can get you sent down, can’t it?”

“Yes, or if it’s discovered later, then your degree would be stripped from you.”

“Is that what happened? Washington was expelled from Oxford?”

“No. Somehow Washington got away with it. They weren’t able to prove that he cheated. But listen to this—” Seth sounded even more excited. “It wasn’t just him in on this cheating scheme, right? It was a whole group of students. And guess who was one of the other students also implicated?
Geoffrey Hughes!
”

I drew a sharp breath in. “Hughes! So… you think Washington might have had some hold over his old friend because of this scandal?”

“Yes! Hughes obviously got away with it too. But if Washington had some kind of proof… and if it came out now that Hughes had plagiarised his thesis or some other research… he’d be done for.”

“But wait—how can Hughes be employed as a tutor and be a respected member of the SCR if people thought he had cheated?”

“I told you, there was no proof. He obviously managed to hush it up. Prof Wilkins did say to me that there was a lot of talk in the SCR when Hughes was first given a position in college—behind the man’s back, as it were. Even now, I would say Hughes isn’t particularly liked and I get the feeling that a lot of the other fellows have doubts about his academic integrity. I guess mud sticks. Maybe that’s why he’s so sensitive about things. You know, it’s a bit of a joke among the students how much he insists on citing sources and stuff like that in his tutorials. I mean, that’s obviously good academic practice, particularly in the sciences, but he takes it to the extreme. I think he’s trying to make up for his past reputation.”

I thought for a moment. “What if Washington came and threatened Hughes with exposing his part in the cheating scandal? He could have used it as leverage against Hughes, to force the latter to agree to approve Lassitomab for the market.”

“Yeah, it would certainly be some leverage,” agreed Seth. “I mean, aside from his personal pride, if the truth came out that he cheated, Hughes would be stripped of his professorship and lose all his academic standing. In effect, it would kill his whole career.”

I felt a surge of excitement. “That would be more than enough to drive a man to murder.”

I stared at the phone in my hand, then looked up out of my bedroom window. I had to speak to Devlin—there was no way of delaying it any longer. It wasn’t just a case of reporting Hughes’s false alibi; now that I knew that he had a motive as well for killing Washington, I had to share the information.

I sighed and looked back down at the phone. This was stupid.
I should just call him and get it over with.
I pressed the number and was put through to Oxfordshire police. Once again, I asked to speak to Devlin and once again, I was thwarted.

“Inspector O’Connor is unavailable at the moment. He’s out on a murder investigation.”

“I know,” I said. “But this is important. It’s
about
that murder investigation.”

“Well, I’ll take a message and ask him to—”

“I really need to speak to him. It’s urgent. Can’t you give me his number?”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Miss. As I said, I’ll pass on your message and ask him to call you back when he can.”

I swallowed a sigh of frustration. “All right.” I gave my number and hung up. But I had barely put the phone down when my phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Gemma? Devlin here. They said you needed to speak to me.”

I was slightly taken aback at his brusque tone. I had been intending to treat him with cool indifference but, faced now with his curtness, I didn’t quite know how to begin.

“Gemma?” Devlin’s voice rose in impatience.

“Yeah, I’m here,” I said hastily. “I… um… I have something to tell you.”

“Look, Gemma I can’t speak right now. I’m in the middle of something. Can it wait? We can talk later tonight.”

“No, I don’t think it can. I think this information will help you find the murderer.”

Devlin went silent for a moment, then he said cautiously, “Yes?”

“I think I know who killed Brad Washington.” I took a breath, then said in a rush, “It’s Geoffrey Hughes, the Professor of Pharmacology at Gloucester College.”

There was a pause, then Devlin said, “What makes you say that?”

“Because he lied about his alibi for Saturday morning. He wasn’t in college at all—he was actually at the tearoom; he had gone to meet Washington there.” I told Devlin about the talk with Tom Rawlings, the answering machine, Nietzsche’s quote, and my confrontation with Hughes.

Devlin cursed under his breath. “I’m going to have to have serious words with my sergeant about being thorough,” he said savagely.

“Well, I suppose it wasn’t really his fault—anyone could have been fooled if Tom simply said he heard Hughes talking on the phone in the room. It was only because I was at High Table that night and found out about Hughes’s Nietzsche obsession that I was able to make the connection. But listen, it wasn’t just that…”

Quickly, I told him about Washington’s new drug and Hughes’s obstruction of its approval, and then what I had learnt from Seth about the two men’s chequered history at Oxford.

“I’m sure that Washington came to Oxford to persuade Hughes to retract his objections about the drug and he used the threat of the cheating scandal to try and force this from Hughes. This must be what they were discussing when they met on Friday afternoon. And maybe Hughes panicked at the thought of losing his whole career so he killed Washington to silence him,” I finished triumphantly.

“It’s a nice theory but it won’t wash,” Devlin said.

“Why?”

“Because Geoffrey Hughes was murdered last night.”