A Scone To Die For (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1) (4 page)

Cassie shook her head in exasperation. “Well, he could have read about that as well! I mean, there’s a reason it’s called the Old
Bank
Hotel, isn’t there? It would be logical to assume that there used to be a bank there.”

“But it’s not the way you’d talk if you were a tourist and read the information on Wikipedia or Trip Advisor,” I said stubbornly. “You would have just said Old Bank Hotel, not ‘the bank’. That suggests someone who used to see it as a bank. It’s that kind of casual assumption you use when you’ve walked past a place loads of times. And we know that the hotel used to be a branch of Barclays. My parents bank with Barclays and my father had his account there before it shut down. I remember going in with him as a little girl to see the tellers in that old Georgian building.”

“I think you’re splitting hairs,” said Cassie impatiently. “Or letting your imagination run away with you.”

“Well, I wasn’t imagining his crazy psycho behaviour when he jumped on me with that knife!” I said. “That was totally over the top. And he wasn’t just being careful about identity theft, in spite of what he said. I think he got upset because he thought I was looking at his papers.”

“So? A lot of people would get upset if you looked at their private papers.”

“Yeah, but they wouldn’t jump on you and threaten you with a knife!”

“Well, maybe he over-reacted. Or maybe it was a kind of reflex thing. You know, like he just grabbed anything within reach on the table.”

“It was still an extreme reaction,” I insisted. “And besides, I did get a glimpse of one of the papers in the folder.”

“And?”

“And it looked like an official letter from someone at Oxford University.”

Cassie gave another impatient sigh. “So?”

“So he said that he had never been to Oxford before, right? He specifically told me that he was a first-time tourist and acted like he knew nothing about the place… so why did he have an official letter from the University?”

“Are you sure the letter was for him?”

“No, I’m not,” I admitted. “But if it wasn’t his, why was he so sensitive about it?”

“I don’t know!” Cassie threw her hands up in exasperation. “Honestly, Gemma, I think you’re letting the whole thing blow up into a huge deal in your head.” She got up and shoved her chair back under the table. “Come on, let’s get out of here. You coming to the pub for a drink?”

“I don’t know… I’m supposed to have dinner with my parents,” I said

Cassie threw a glance at the clock on the wall. “It’s only six. You’ve got time for a quick drink before heading back. Besides, after a day like today—you need a drink.”

She was right. Quickly, I helped to tidy up the room, then switched off all the lights and shut up the tearoom.

We left by the back door which led out into the side courtyard. The building in which my tearoom was housed used to be a Tudor inn, with accompanying stabling for the guests’ horses. A long, narrow courtyard ran along the side of the building, paved with cobblestones and bounded by white-washed walls. It was probably where they used to saddle up and mount the horses, but now it made a valuable addition to the tearoom premises. Especially in the warm summer months, I could see lots of customers enjoying the open air and having their tea and food at the tables out here. I planned to dress the place up with some big wooden tubs of pansies, hanging flower baskets in the corners, and generally make it look so pretty and inviting that no tourist could resist if they walked past and looked in the courtyard entrance.

For now, though, with the chilly autumn weather, the courtyard was mostly empty and un-used. I kept the wrought iron gates open, though, so that anyone could use the tables and chairs if they just wanted somewhere to rest their weary feet or a quiet place to eat their packed lunch. I knew that the local dog owners appreciated having somewhere they could sit down together with their hounds, after a walk, and I made sure to always leave a bowl of fresh water by the back door of the tearoom.

There was a real nip in the air that night—a good reminder that winter was just around the corner—and I pulled the collar of my duffel coat up around my neck as I followed Cassie down the high street to the local village pub. Once the sun set, the Blue Boar was the place to be—it was the heart of the village and the place where all the locals congregated for a pint and a gossip.

I pulled the door open and stepped into the warmth, looking around me with appreciation. Like my tearoom, the pub was housed in a 15th-century Tudor house, although with lower ceilings, giving the place an almost cellar-like feel. And instead of a large open space, the interior was filled with cosy nooks and crannies—behind the pillars and around the fireplace—and dominated by a hand-carved, dark mahogany bar in the centre.

The place was heaving. With the typical English habit of heading straight to the pub after work, this was the busiest time of the evening—and the numbers were swelled by the visiting tourists. Many of them would be staying at the various B&Bs and hotels on the outskirts of the village and probably came here for an authentic English pub experience.

“Seth said he might meet us here, if he could get away in time…” Cassie scanned the room. “Ah, there he is! And he’s got a couple of seats for us by the window—good on him,” she said with satisfaction.

“I’ll get the drinks,” I said. “You go and join him first.”

Cassie nodded and headed across the room. I elbowed my way through the crowd to the front of the bar. Brian, the landlord, was busy at the beer tap, his sleeves rolled up to show his beefy arms as he pulled on a lever and filled a glass with foaming amber liquid. 

He glanced up and gave me a smile. “Gemma! What can I get ya?”

“Half a cider for Cassie, please, and a shandy for me.”

“Still a lightweight, eh? I would have thought that living in Australia would’ve cured you of that. On the other hand, Aussie beer…” He made a face. “Maybe I’m not surprised that you’re opting for soft drinks.”

I laughed. “Hey, the Aussies are pretty proud of their beers.”

“I stand by my opinion. A beer’s not a beer unless it’s a proper pint of English ale.”

I smiled, refusing to be drawn into that age-old debate. “Busy here tonight,” I commented, looking around the place.

He nodded, casting an experienced eye over the crowd. “Aye, a good bunch. A lot of tourists, but.”

I noticed his eyes were fixed on a particular figure on the other side of the bar and as I followed his gaze, my heart sank as I realised suddenly who it was: the American from that morning. He was standing at the bar with pint of ale in his hand, arguing with another man. From the expression on their faces, it wasn’t a friendly debate. I could see the look of concern in Brian’s eyes. He had been a publican for thirty years and he could recognise trouble brewing.

“Some of these tourists ought to know when to keep their mouths shut,” he muttered as he pulled the lever and filled Cassie’s half pint, tilting the glass with expert skill so that the foam stopped just short of spilling over the edge. “And some of the locals should learn not to let others wind them up so easily.”

I looked over at the arguing men again and belatedly recognised the other punter. It was Mike Bailey, one of the local “troublemakers”. He was a belligerent young man in his early twenties, with a tendency to get violent when drunk—which was often. Long acquaintance and respect for his family, who had lived in the area for centuries, had led most of the villagers to ignore Mike’s sullen outbursts and put up with his behaviour. But when his surliness took a physical turn, Brian was quick to kick him off the premises. Cassie had told me that there had been a couple of incidents which had ended in assault charges, but so far, Mike Bailey had managed to stay out of Oxford Prison.

As I watched, he squared up to the American, jutting his chin out and jabbing a finger in the other man’s chest. A third man was standing between them, smiling weakly and attempting to calm the situation.

“I’m not sure you can blame Mike this time,” I said to Brian. “I had a run-in with that chap myself earlier today and I have to say, he’s pretty obnoxious.”

Brian grunted. “Obnoxious or not, he’s a customer. Mike had better watch himself. If they’ve got a problem, they can take it outside. I’m not having a fight in my pub.”

As we watched, the third man tried again, this time inserting himself bodily between the two arguing men. They seemed to calm down slightly and both stopped to take a drink from their glasses. I breathed a small sigh of relief. I didn’t think I could handle any more drama today.

Brian set my drinks in front of me, took the money I offered, and handed me a packet of pork scratchings. He gave me a wink. “On the house.”

I smiled my thanks, then tucked the packet under my arm, picked up the drinks, and, balancing them carefully, made my way over to join Cassie and Seth.

“I’ve just been telling Seth all about our day and our American Psycho,” said Cassie as I sat down. Her eyes flicked across the room. “And then I look up and he’s there! And as charming as ever, I see.”

I groaned. “I know; it’s like some kind of curse—I can’t get away from the man! When he said he was going into Oxford earlier, I was hoping that he wouldn’t be coming back any time soon.”

“Well, the coach probably brought the whole tour group back to the hotel this afternoon,” said Cassie. “Anyway, forget him.” She turned to Seth, sitting next to her. “So how’s life in the ‘dreaming spires’ these days?”

Seth cleared his throat and pushed his thick-framed glasses up his nose. It was a gesture I could remember from the day I met him when I first arrived as a Fresher in college. He had come up to read Chemistry, whilst I’d opted for the more genteel degree of English Literature. He had a room on my staircase in college and he had found me on that first day in Noughth Week, struggling with my suitcase at the bottom of the four-flight staircase. He had gallantly insisted on carrying my case up for me, in spite of nearly keeling over under the weight of it, and we had been firm friends ever since.

Seth was sweet and shy, although his earnest sharing of information could occasionally make him come across as pompous. Maybe because of this, he had opted to remain in the insular safety of academia and had gone straight from his undergraduate degree to a DPhil (PhD to the rest of the world), then a Junior Research Fellowship, and finally a Senior Research Fellow. I didn’t think it would be long before he was made Professor. I suspected that Seth harboured a secret crush on Cassie all these years, but was simply too shy to tell her.

He was blushing slightly now as he recounted a story about his adventures at High Table. All the Oxford colleges had stately halls where a communal dinner was served and the dons and “fellows”—the academic staff—normally sat at High Table, usually at the very top of the room. Politics at High Table could be treacherous, especially for a younger member of the Senior Common Room—as Seth was finding out. With his naturally diffident manner, he was an easy target for the more domineering members of the SCR.

“You should have just told him where to stuff it,” said Cassie heatedly as he finished his story. “I would have—”

“THAT’S A LOAD O’ BOLLOCKS!”

We all jerked our heads around. Mike Bailey was thrusting himself aggressively at the American, his face mottled with anger.

“Hey, don’t get mad at me just because you don’t like to hear the truth,” said the American loudly. “Your country is a sad relic of the last century, stuck in your stupid traditions and elitist attitudes, with crap food and miserable, stuck-up people. Come to the U.S. and see what real progress is!”

“I’ve had enough o’ you bloody Americans coming here, throwing your money around an’ thinking you know everything! I’m telling you—”

“Whoa, gentlemen…” Brian came hurriedly out from behind the bar, his hands raised in a placating manner. “Why don’t we step outside and talk this out—”

“I don’t need to step outside,” Mike snarled. “I know what I need to do right here!”

And he lunged forwards and punched the American in the face. Cries of alarm erupted around the room and several people sprang up from their seats. I noticed, though, that the men standing around Mike had expressions of satisfaction on their faces. Guess the American hadn’t been making himself too popular. No one stepped in to help him either as he slowly picked himself up off the floor.

Rubbing his jaw, he glared at Mike and said, “Is that your best shot, you drunk loser?”

“Why you—!” Mike went for him, his hands around the American’s throat. This time, some of the other men jumped in to try and separate them.

“Hey! Enough of that!” cried Brian, shoving his way between them and forcing them apart. The American said something with a sneer—too low for me to catch from the other side of the room—but it caused Mike to make another lunge for him.

“You bastard! I’ll make you pay for that!” he yelled, as several of his friends tried to restrain him.

Brian turned to the American. “Sir, you seem to be deliberately provoking him. I must ask you to leave.”

The American gave a shrug. “Sure, no skin off my nose. Don’t know what the big deal is about this place anyway.” He gave the room a contemptuous look as he adjusted the collar on his shirt. “Bet I’ll find better drinks for cheaper in Oxford.”

The door slammed shut behind him and there was an audible sigh of relief in the room.

“Good riddance,” said Cassie in disgust. “What a pillock.”

Brian was now talking to Mike Bailey and also asking him to leave. The latter was indignant.

“I can’t believe you’re taking that bloody American’s side in this!”

“I’m not taking anyone’s side,” said Brian wearily. “But I can’t have different rules for locals and tourists in my pub. You’ve caused trouble so I’m going to have to ask you to leave just like him.”

Mike swore viciously, then he turned and banged out of the pub. I hoped that the American was already a good distance away otherwise there was likely to be another brawl out on the street. Several of Mike’s friends must have shared the same thoughts because they hastily followed him out. The sudden clearing of the pub made the whole place seem a lot quieter and reminded me of my dinner appointment.

“Yikes!” I glanced at my watch and sprang to my feet. “I’d better get going. I’m going to be late for dinner!”

“It’s only your parents. I’m sure they won’t mind if you’re a few minutes late,” said Cassie.

“Are you kidding?” I gave her a look. “You know what my mother’s like. Punctuality is one of the Ten Commandments in her household.” I bent down and gave them both a peck on the cheek, then added to Cassie, “See you tomorrow.”

“Don’t forget Daylight Savings ends tonight,” Seth spoke up. “So remember to turn your clocks back, otherwise you’ll be getting up an hour early for nothing.”

Cassie groaned. “Oh my God, that’s what I did one year—and I got up and had showered and dressed for work before I realised it was still practically the middle of the night!”

I laughed. “I nearly did something similar in Sydney. Anyway, it’s great to know that I’ll get an extra hour of sleep tonight. See you!”

I gave them a smile and a cheery wave, and made my way out of the pub.