A Scone To Die For (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1) (22 page)

I had thought that things might be changing at last—I don’t know if my return to England had been a trigger or something—but recently, Seth seemed to be making hesitant attempts to get Cassie’s attention… a shy invitation to dinner, a sweet gift of flowers… then Jon Kelsey had arrived on the scene and swept Cassie off her feet. I imagined that the last thing Seth wanted to do was come tonight and stand around watching Cassie and Jon act like two lovebirds.

I realised that Cassie was still waiting for my answer. “Um… I don’t know. I don’t think so. Maybe he’s got university society commitments.”

After graduation, Seth had chosen to remain in the hallowed cloisters of Oxford University and had steadily climbed the rungs of the academic career ladder, recently taking up an appointment as one of the youngest Senior Research Fellows in Chemistry at Gloucester College.

“Well, I think it’s very poor show and I shall tell him when I next see him,” Cassie grumbled. “I mean, I went to listen to his three-hour chamber music ensemble and that time when his colleagues decided to do a chemistry-themed pantomime!”

Before I could answer, Jon Kelsey joined us, immediately sliding that possessive arm around Cassie’s waist again. I felt my hackles rising slightly, although I didn’t know why. It wasn’t like I was a rampant feminist or anything, but there was something about the way Jon treated Cassie that made it feel as if she was a trophy. Not that she seemed to mind, I reminded myself—and that was all that mattered.

“What are you girls nattering about?” said Jon with a patronising smile.

“Nothing much,” I said quickly, before Cassie could answer. “This is a great party, Jon.”

“Yes, my events are always first class,” he said. He looked down at Cassie and gave her a squeeze. “Nothing but the best for my artists. Especially my
favourite
artists.”

Cassie flushed and giggled. I looked at her incredulously. Cassie didn’t giggle. She did big, hearty, belly laughs, or she chuckled evilly in amusement—but she didn’t giggle like a vapid schoolgirl. At least, not before she met Jon Kelsey, I thought sourly.

“Oh, you’re wearing the new cufflinks I gave you!” said Cassie suddenly, pushing Jon’s suit sleeve back to look at his cuffs. “But… I thought you said you were going to wear the Cartier ones?”

“I was but I couldn’t find one of them. Anyway, this being such a special night for you, I thought it was more fitting that I should wear yours. Not that I don’t think of you all the time…” He gave Cassie a squeeze.

“Oh, you…!” Cassie giggled again and looked up at him adoringly.

I couldn’t face the thought of standing there much longer, watching her make goo-goo eyes at Jon.

“Excuse me, I’m just going to pop to the loo,” I said, giving them both a bright smile.

They barely noticed my departure and I made my escape with relief. Threading my way through the crowds, I headed for the corridor at the other end of the gallery which led to the rear of the building. But as I approached the swinging doors of the public toilets, I noticed a slightly open door farther down the corridor. From the draught of cold air wafting in, I realised that it led outside, probably to the rear gardens.

On an impulse, I walked down the corridor and out through the door, stepping into a courtyard filled with miniature trees and potted flowers. Slowly, I wandered across the flagstones, breathing in gratefully of the crisp night air. Everyone had told me that I would struggle with the cold winters back in England after the sunny climes Down Under, but it was actually the central heating that got to me. With the late November weather turning icy recently, everyone and their mother seemed to have put their central heating on full blast—and I spent half my time feeling irritable and muzzy-headed in the hot cloying atmosphere.

There were a bunch of steps at the back of the courtyard, leading up to a second, raised level overlooking the whole garden—a sort of elevated terrace heavily planted with trees and shrubs. I went up and found a stone bench tucked into a corner behind a bush, and sank down on it gratefully.  The night air was chilly and I hadn’t brought my coat, but I was so overheated that I didn’t mind it for the moment.

I leaned back and savoured the panorama around me. The back of the garden must have been built on a natural hill and I was able now, from my raised position, to get a view of not only the whole garden but also the surrounding rooftops—the medieval towers, Gothic arches, elegant cupolas, and high parapets that made up Oxford’s “dreaming spires”. The gallery was located in the very heart of the historic university city and, once again, I was reminded of the breathtakingly beautiful architecture which made Oxford such a top tourist destination.

I tilted my head back and looked up at the sky, clear and dark except for a sliver of moon and a smattering of a few stars. They looked strange and slightly upside down, now that I’d got used to the way the constellations looked in the Southern Hemisphere. I could see Orion’s Belt and, for the first time in eight years, the brilliant North Star shining in the night sky…

The sharp acrid smell of smoke disturbed my thoughts and I glanced around. Although my raised position gave me a view of the whole courtyard garden, much of it was obscured by foliage and shadows. I saw a movement through the tops of the trees right below me, and as I leaned forwards to peer through a gap in the leaves, I saw that it was the waitress from behind the bar. Her pale hair gleamed in the moonlight. She had just come out of the rear door and was standing beside it, her hands cupped around her mouth. I saw the flicker of a flame and then the smell of smoke wafted across to me again. Obviously out for a ciggie break—although as I watched, she took a few furtive puffs, then hastily stabbed the cigarette out and pulled something out of her pocket. There was the sound of ripping plastic and then she slapped a small square patch onto her arm, muttering as she did so.

I felt a twinge of empathy. I’d never tried smoking but I could understand the struggle to break free of an addiction. I sat back again, thinking that I really ought to return to the party—Cassie would probably be wondering where I was—but I was enjoying the peace and solitude out here. A few more minutes, I promised myself.

Then I became aware of the sound of whispering.

At first I thought it was the waitress, but then I realised that the sound was coming from the other side of the courtyard, in the shadows among the trees to the right. I shifted on the bench and peered into the darkness. On the level below me, I thought I could make out two figures, but it was difficult to see properly. I wouldn’t really have cared except that there was something in the urgent, furtive quality of the whispering which caught my attention. I leaned forwards, unconsciously straining my ears to discern the words.

“Are we going to do it tonight?”

“Relax… everything in good time.”

“I… I can’t bear the waiting. The suspense is killing me!”

There was a cold laugh.
“You knew what you were getting into. Don’t tell me it doesn’t turn you on.”

Was this conversation for real? I felt like I had stepped into some kind of Cold War spy movie. I leaned forwards even more, trying to see through the darkness. Yes, definitely two figures and, from their relative heights, a man and a woman perhaps? It had sounded like a woman who had spoken first. Was it the waitress after all? Perhaps she had crossed the courtyard to meet someone in secret there?

I was just thinking of creeping closer when the sound of footsteps came from the other side of the garden. Someone coming out of the back door, a cough, and then the unmistakable sound of a striking match. That acrid smell of cigarette smoke again. Another smoker coming out to indulge in his habit.

The couple in the shadows went silent, then there was a flurry of movement and, the next moment, the shadows were empty. I stood up hastily and rushed towards the steps, hoping to catch a glimpse of them. I don’t know why, but suddenly I needed to know who they were. They had to have come into the garden from the back door so they must have been guests at the party. And one of the voices had sounded vaguely familiar. It was hard to tell with whispers—a voice lost all the tones and timbres you used for recognition—but there had definitely been something in the inflection…

I dived down the steps, trying to take them two at a time, but my haste ended up being my undoing. I’d forgotten about my stupidly high heels and I slipped, toppling backwards.

“Ahh!”

I slid the rest of the way down on my bum and landed in a heap at the bottom of the steps.

“Ow…” I groaned.

“Hey, are you all right?”

I looked up. It was the man who had come out for a cigarette. He was standing over me, eying me with concern. I took the hand he offered and let him help me to my feet.

“Yeah, fine, thanks,” I said, embarrassed. I glanced quickly around. “Did you see another couple out here just now?”

“Another couple?” He looked around the empty courtyard in puzzlement. “No, I passed the bar waitress going back in as I was coming out, but then it was just you. I heard you cry out and saw you fall so I came over to help.”

Good thing this wasn’t a Cold War movie because I was turning out to be a crummy spy
, I thought. The other couple must have taken advantage of the distraction from my fall to slip back into the party unnoticed. Well, no point standing out here in the cold pondering it any longer. I was just going to have to accept that this was a mystery which would remain unsolved. Rubbing my sore bottom, I thanked the man and went back in to rejoin the party.

CHAPTER TWO

The warmth of the gallery was actually quite welcoming as I stepped back inside. I hadn’t realised how cold I had become sitting on that bench. I noticed instantly that the blonde waitress was back behind the bar. She couldn’t have been one of the couple, I reasoned, because the man had said that he had passed her coming in on his way out—and I knew that both figures had still been whispering when he stepped outside and disturbed them.

So who were they? I cast my eyes around the room, scanning the crowd, trying to see if anyone might fit the dark figures I’d seen. Then I did a double take as my eyes fell on four little old ladies on the other side of the gallery.
Oh my God. The Old Biddies. What on earth were they doing here?

The leader of the group, a stout, formidable woman in her early eighties with a helmet of woolly white hair—tinged slightly blue—and a determined gleam in her eye, marched purposefully towards a canvas suspended by wires from the ceiling and peered at it. Mrs Mabel Cooke. Probably the worst of the Old Biddies and as deadly as the Spanish Inquisition when she was after information. She and her friends, Glenda Bailey, Florence Doyle, and Ethel Webb, ruled the village of Meadowford-on-Smythe, where my tearoom was located (although there were rumours that their influence penetrated to the top reaches of the Oxford City Council).

I felt a hand grab my arm, and turned to see Cassie next to me, her eyes brilliant with excitement.

“Oh, Gemma! Jon’s just told me that he’s travelling to Italy to attend an auction on Monday. It’s in Florence and he asked if I’d like to go with him!” She hesitated. “Do you think you’ll be all right without me at the tearoom for a bit? We’re closed anyway on Monday so it’s just Tuesday really. I’d be back on Wednesday and I know it’s never as busy during the week—”

“Go,” I said, smiling at my friend. “Don’t worry, we’ll manage fine. You know you’re not a slave to the tearoom, Cassie! I’m really grateful you help out as much as you do, above and beyond your normal hours. Do you think you’ll have time to visit the Uffizi Gallery, see Michelangelo’s
David
and all that?”

Cassie nodded eagerly. “Yes, we’re going to go on Tuesday before we fly back. I’ve been there and seen it, of course, but it’ll be so different going with Jon!” She sighed dreamily. “He’s got such a unique way of viewing things and he’s so knowledgeable about art history…”

I squirmed slightly. Hearing Cassie gush about Jon Kelsey was not on my list of favourite activities. Hastily, I changed the subject. Nodding towards the Old Biddies, I said in an undertone, “Why are
they
here?”

“Oh…” Cassie followed my gaze and looked slightly bewildered. “I don’t know really. I mean, I invited them but—”

“You invited them?”

She gave a helpless shrug. “Mabel was asking me about my exhibition and I told her about the party tonight and then… I don’t know… somehow I found myself giving out invites to them. Jon was a bit annoyed, of course, since they’re not likely to become clients of the gallery…”

“No, I should think not,” I said dryly, thinking of the exorbitant price tags I’d seen on several of the other paintings so far. You could buy a small mansion for that money! I knew that art was subjective and value was in the eye of the beholder… but I just couldn’t understand how two random blobs of paint could be worth so much. Still, if Cassie could get a share of the spoils, then I was happy for her.

I looked back up and suppressed a smile as I saw the Old Biddies accost Jon as he was talking to a group admiring an exhibit. For once, I had no pity for Mabel Cooke’s victim. Cassie made a horrified sound in her throat and hurried over to rescue her boyfriend, and I followed (although I have to admit it was more in gleeful anticipation than sympathetic support).