Muffins and Mourning Tea (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 5) Read online

  MUFFINS AND MOURNING TEA

  Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 5

  by

  H.Y. Hanna

  Cotswolds tearoom owner, Gemma Rose is excited to join the May Day celebrations in Oxford… until the beautiful spring morning ends in murder. Now, she’s embroiled in a deadly mystery —with four nosy old ladies determined to help in the sleuthing! Soon, Gemma finds herself stalking a Russian “princess” while trying to serve delicious cakes and buttery scones in her quaint English tearoom—and keeping up with the Old Biddies in Krav Maga class!

  And that’s just the start of her worries: there’s her little tabby, Muesli, who is causing havoc at the local nursing home… and what should she do with the creepy plants that her mother keeps buying for her new cottage?

  But the mystery that’s really bothering Gemma is her boyfriend’s odd behaviour. Devlin O’Connor has always been enigmatic but recently, the handsome CID detective has been strangely distant and evasive. Could he be lying to her? But why?

  * Classic Banoffee Pie recipe included!

  Books in the Oxford Tearoom Mysteries:

  All-Butter ShortDead (Prequel)

  A Scone to Die For (Book 1)

  Tea with Milk and Murder (Book 2)

  Two Down, Bun To Go (Book 3)

  Till Death Do Us Tart (Book 4)

  Muffins and Mourning Tea (Book 5)

  ~ more coming soon!

  Sign up to my mailing list to be notified about new releases, exclusive giveaways, early reader discounts and other book news: http://www.hyhanna.com/newsletter

  Note:

  This book follows British English spelling and usage

  There is a Glossary of British Terms at the end of the story.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  Four Puddings and a Funeral (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 6)

  BOOKS IN THIS SERIES

  GLOSSARY OF BRITISH TERMS

  BANOFFEE PIE RECIPE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  May Day was always a big event in the Oxford calendar and this year it was extra special—after all, nothing makes a morning as memorable as when it ends in murder.

  But even before I had any inkling of what was in store, I already regretted succumbing to my best friend Cassie’s enthusiasm to “relive our student days” and join the May morning celebrations—in particular, the tradition of getting up at the crack of dawn to listen to the Magdalen College Choir sing from the top of their great bell tower. It was the kind of thing that seemed like a good idea after a couple of drinks at the pub, but now—as I stumbled around in the dark, struggling to get dressed, at 4:45 a.m.—I just wanted to kick myself for agreeing to the stupid suggestion.

  I didn’t know why I had been mad enough to agree. I suppose we all liked to secretly believe (especially when we were approaching the big 3-0!) that no matter what our age, we were still the same person inside—that we still had the same energy and zest of our youth. Sadly, I was rapidly discovering that what was “good fun” when you were nineteen, and a carefree student at university, was very different when you were heading into your thirties and running a tearoom business which kept you on your feet all day.

  Yes, as I hopped around on one foot, looking for my other sock and cursing under my breath, I was more than happy to concede that I was older and wiser and… better at knowing when to conserve my energies (okay, I got tired a lot more easily). Still, I had promised my best friend and I knew that she would never forgive me if I didn’t turn up now.

  At least I had put my foot down when Cassie—buoyed by a wave of nostalgia—had suggested that we go the whole hog and really emulate our student days, including staying up the entire night before May morning. Stay up the whole night? I would be struggling to keep my eyes open today as it was. And it would be business as usual at the Little Stables Tearoom—I doubted the tourists who came from far and wide to sample my famous traditional English scones would appreciate me falling asleep in their teacups!

  I fumbled my way to the bedroom door, biting off a yelp of pain as I smacked against the side of the dresser. Ow! I was going to have a nasty bruise there tomorrow. I really needed to get a lamp for my bedside table. In fact, I needed to get a lot of things for my new cottage but I hadn’t had a spare moment since moving in last weekend. I’d barely managed to get the essentials unpacked and the place was still a mess of chaos and cardboard boxes. My fingers finally found the switch by the door and a dim light illuminated the bedroom.

  “Meorrw?” came a sleepy little voice.

  I looked back towards the bed where my grey tabby cat, Muesli, was curled up amongst the rumpled bedding. She blinked at me, gave a delicate yawn, showing the depths of her little pink mouth, then turned and snuggled deeper into the blankets.

  I wished I could join her. Instead, I stooped down and found the missing sock and put it on. Then, pausing only long enough to throw on an extra woolly jumper, I left the room and groped my way down the rickety wooden staircase. Downstairs, there were more teetering piles of cardboard boxes threatening to ambush me, as well as random bits of furniture that hadn’t found their proper parking spots yet. Somehow, I made it to the front door without stubbing any toes or toppling any boxes, and shrugged into my duffle coat. Then with a last look around, I stepped out into the chilly May morning.

  May Day officially marked the first day of spring in England but the morning was still cold enough that my breath formed clouds of condensation before me as I walked briskly up the towpath by the river. My cottage was situated by Folly Bridge, which spanned the River Thames at the south end of Oxford. I followed the road up from the bridge and turned right through the giant iron gates which led into Christ Church Meadow. This was a good shortcut to get to the High Street, the main boulevard which ran through the centre of Oxford and where most of the May Day celebrations would be concentrated.

  The sky was still a hazy indigo blue, but already you could see the pale blush of pink on the eastern horizon. An early morning mist lay low on the ground and, through it, I could see the humped forms of the herd of English Longhorn cattle which grazed on the Meadow. Quickening my steps, I turned off the wide Broad Walk bordering the north side of the meadow and followed the footpath to join Dead Man’s Walk—so called because it was the former coffin route to the Jewish cemetery in medieval times. Despite its ghoulish name and that fact that it was supposedly haunted, it was actually one of the prettiest pathways in Oxford, running alongside the ancient stone wall of Merton College, with its rambling roses and clumps of wil
d daisies bursting through the cracks, and the green of Christ Church Meadow stretching out in the distance.

  It was getting lighter now. The faint sounds of music and laughter drifted through the air, growing louder and clearer with every step I took, and in the distance, silhouetted sharply against the pale dawn sky, was the great bell tower of Magdalen, guarding the eastern entrance to the city. I reached the end of the walk and went through the kissing gates into Rose Lane and then, at last, burst out onto the High Street.

  Normally, the wide boulevard would have been empty and silent at this time of the morning, but today there was a carnival atmosphere as crowds of people—tourists, students, and residents alike—milled past, talking and laughing excitedly. They were moving en masse towards the eastern end of the High Street where it joined Magdalen Bridge, just beneath the great tower of Magdalen College. Everybody wanted to find a prime spot at the base of the tower to listen to the choir sing.

  I looked around, searching for a sign of Cassie. It was hard to make out faces in the crowd. Everyone was wrapped up in similar dark coats and anoraks, many with hoods or woolly hats to protect their ears against the cold. There seemed to be even more people than I remembered from my student days. The entire street was packed shoulder to shoulder with people shuffling along. I wondered suddenly if we should have come a bit earlier—at this rate, we’d never get a good spot under the tower…

  “Gemma!”

  I turned around and saw Cassie waving excitedly as she pushed her way through the crowd towards me. She was looking disgustingly bright-eyed and cheerful for this ungodly hour of the morning. Her luxuriant dark hair was pulled back into a low ponytail and tucked into her hooded anorak, and she had a thick scarf wrapped warmly around her neck. She stopped in front of me and gave a little shiver.

  “Brrr! It’s chilly, isn’t it? I don’t remember it being this cold when we did this back in college.”

  “I don’t remember it being this hard to get up at 4:30 a.m. either,” I grumbled.

  “Oh, you’re not going to be a spoilsport, are you, Gemma? I should have known better than to ask you to come—you’re such a grouch in the mornings.” Cassie grinned.

  “If Seth hadn’t gone away to that research conference, I would have let him be dragged into this instead of me,” I said.

  Seth Browning was my other closest friend from college days. Shy, sweet, and studious, Seth had remained in academia and was now a Senior Research Fellow and a tutor at one of the Oxford colleges. Aside from the fact that he had a secret crush on Cassie and would have done anything for her, taking part in an ancient Oxford tradition like this would have been just another day in his life at the University.

  “Well, instead, you can tell him all about it when he gets back,” said Cassie cheerfully. “Come on! We’ve got to get going otherwise we’ll never get a good spot under the tower!” She turned and plunged back into the crowd.

  Hurriedly, I followed her. As I pushed my way through the bodies, trying to keep Cassie in view, I had to admit that I was actually beginning to enjoy myself. The carnival atmosphere and sense of gaiety were infectious, and it was hard not to respond to the exuberant smiles and eager faces around me. Several people had dressed up for the occasion—some obviously in costume for the traditional Morris dancing, which was to be performed in the streets later that morning—and others decked out with garlands of flowers and leaves, as walking trees and wood nymphs and other pagan figures.

  I realised suddenly that I had been so busy gawking at the costumes, I had lost sight of Cassie. I peered ahead but couldn’t see her in the mass of heads milling in front of me. I hesitated for a moment, then pushed on, deciding to just keep heading for Magdalen Bridge—I was sure I would catch up with her when I got there.

  Magdalen Tower loomed up above, sitting at the juncture where the High Street merged onto Magdalen Bridge. The crowd was getting even thicker now, people jostling each other excitedly, talking and laughing, and gazing up avidly at the tower. I followed their gazes and saw movement at the very top—white-robed figures assembling behind the battlements: the choristers taking their places. It was almost 6 a.m. The choir would begin singing soon. Already, a hushed sense of anticipation was descending upon the crowd.

  I looked around for Cassie but couldn’t see her. Perhaps she’s moved farther along, out onto the bridge? I shuffled forwards, joining the crowds packing the width of the bridge, which had been closed to traffic for May morning. Still no sign of Cassie. In fact, I couldn’t see much of anything, sandwiched here in the thick of the crowd. This is a terrible spot, I thought irritably. A sense of claustrophobia gripped me and I wanted suddenly to get out from the crush of bodies. I turned and spotted a gap next to a group of Japanese tourists and dived through. As I came out on the other side, I found myself at the edge of the crowd, up against the stone balustrade that ran along the side of Magdalen Bridge. There was a bit more space here and I breathed a sigh of relief.

  A posh male voice with a deep, plummy accent said next to me: “D’you see Damian anywhere? Can’t believe he didn’t meet us. Lazy sod must have overslept…”

  “It does not matter. We do not need him.”

  I turned my head to glance at the couple next to me. The boy looked like the typical cliché for an Oxford student, with his tailored Harris tweed blazer, designer jeans, and striped college scarf wrapped around his neck. The only thing that was slightly incongruous was the rainbow-coloured knitted beanie cap on his head, which would have looked more at home on Bob Marley’s dreadlocks. I suppose—like many students—it was his “fashion quirk”: something to make a statement and display his personality. Especially if you came from a conservative upper-middle-class background, you probably felt the need to assert your fashion individuality even more (I speak from experience here, having spent a large part of my student days in flannel red overalls from Oxfam).

  It was the girl, however, who had drawn my attention when she spoke—mainly because of her deep husky voice and exotic accent: a sort of breathy, throaty intonation. I couldn’t quite work out what it was—not German, not French… Russian? She certainly had a Slavic look about her, with her high cheek bones, defined jawline, and deep-set, almond-shaped eyes beneath dark arching eyebrows that contrasted sharply with her pale skin. Her hair was long and blonde, loosely plaited over one shoulder, with wisps escaping around her forehead, and her eyes were a clear grey, fringed by thick lashes. She was stunningly beautiful and could easily have graced any fashion show in Paris or Milan. The only thing which marred her looks was her bored, cynical expression and her air of weary contempt. I wondered why she had bothered to come this morning if she was so apathetic to it all.

  Then I forgot everything else as above me, the bells in Magdalen Tower began to toll—rich, deep, sonorous—the sound clear and carrying in the bright morning air. We all waited, listening, enchanted, as the bells rang out above us.

  Then they stopped. There was a beat of silence.

  I was surprised at how quiet the crowd had gone. It seemed that even the birds had stopped singing as we all held our breaths, waiting.

  Then, in that golden silence, came the sweet sound of voices raised in harmony, drifting down from the tower above. The Magdalen College Choir singing the Latin hymn, Hymnus Eucharisticus, as they had done every May morning for the last five hundred years, to herald the arrival of spring. Rich and pure, the voices of the choirboys and student choristers rose and swelled, filling the air and bringing unexpected goosebumps to my skin. Suddenly, I was very glad that I had agreed to come after all. It had been more than eleven years since I had last stood here, underneath this tower, but the magic was the same as that very first time.

  The last verse was sung and the last voice died away. There was a soft sigh from the crowd—which burst suddenly into a roar as everyone yelled and whistled and clapped and cheered. People hugged impulsively, waved their arms, tossed things into the air, as a sense of exhilaration swept the crowd.

 
; There was a commotion next to me—the crowd surging around the balustrade, people shouting excitedly as somebody lurched against the side of the stone railing and heaved up over the top. I turned swiftly, just in time to see a body roll over the ledge and go over the other side, followed by the resounding splash of water. I jumped forwards and leaned over the balustrade, smiling to myself as I looked down at the river below.

  It seemed that another Oxford May Day tradition was still going strong: each year, students took great delight in jumping off Magdalen Bridge into the River Cherwell below, usually fully clothed—sometimes even in ball gowns and black tie! No matter how many pleas and warnings the authorities issued about the dangers of jumping into such a shallow river, high-spirited students persisted in following this thrilling ritual.

  A cheer rose from the crowd now as everyone leaned eagerly over the side of the bridge to applaud the first jumper. I saw something break the surface of the water and recognised the Harris tweed blazer of the boy who had been standing next to me.

  Then I frowned. Around me, the crowd began to fall silent as they too realised that something was wrong.

  Instead of the usual head bobbing up and the student waving cheerily to the crowd above, the body floated silently, face down in the water.

  There was a gasp from next to me and I turned to see the blonde girl with a hand to her mouth, her grey eyes wide and staring. She let out a strangled cry, then turned and pushed her way through the crowds until she reached the end of the bridge and ran down to the bank of the river below.

  A man in a neon vest was already there—one of the posse of security guards deployed by the city council to keep the May morning crowds safe—and he was reaching out to pull the motionless body in. The girl thrust him aside, wading into the water to throw her arms around the boy and haul him onto the bank.

  Then the air was split by a wrenching scream. Even from the top of the bridge, I could see the ominous red stain spreading across the boy’s lower back.