Muffins and Mourning Tea (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 5) Page 2

  The crowd had gone silent again, although this time it was the hush of foreboding. Into the silence came the girl’s voice, choked and sobbing:

  “O bozhe moi! He is dead! He is dead!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “I love trying out your traditional English cakes and buns, and I think we’ve had all the famous ones, but I don’t think I’ve come across banoffee pie yet—what’s that?”

  I smiled at the middle-aged American man and his wife. “Oh, it’s one of the most popular British desserts. It’s basically a sweet pie made with a crumbly biscuit base, covered with a layer of sticky toffee and sliced bananas, then topped with fresh whipped cream and, often, little curls of chocolate shavings on top. It’s really decadent and heavenly, especially if you have a sweet tooth.”

  “Oh my, that sounds absolutely delicious!” exclaimed the American wife. “I think I’ve got to have a slice of that.”

  “It sounds a bit too rich for me,” said the husband with a laugh. “I think I’ll stick to the lemon meringue pie. That’s always been one of my favourites.”

  “And would you like a pot of tea with that? We have a selection of premium loose leaf teas, from the traditional English breakfast to Earl Grey and…” I stifled a yawn and gave them an embarrassed smile. “I’m sorry, excuse me! I had a really early start this morning—”

  “Oh! Did you go down to listen to the choir at Magdalen Tower?” asked the American wife. “We were there! Our hotel told us that we just had to get up to see it and we were so glad we did. It’s apparently one of the biggest May Day celebrations in England.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” I agreed. “It’s a really unique experience. I went the first time when I was still an undergraduate at Oxford, and my friend and I went back this morning to ‘relive our student days’—and I have to say, it was just as special this time around.”

  “But so awful about that student falling off the bridge and getting killed,” said the wife with a shudder. “We weren’t close enough to see what happened—we didn’t get a spot under the tower—but we heard everyone talking about it in the crowd afterwards and we saw the commotion up ahead. Was it an accident or something?”

  I thought for a moment of that still body floating in the water and the ominous red stain spreading slowly across the boy’s back. No, that had been no accident. But I didn’t want to add to the gossip mill. Until the police released an official statement, the rumours would be spreading like wildfire already.

  “Well, I heard that it wasn’t an accident,” said the American husband. “A couple of German tourists we met walking back told us that they were near the bridge and that the boy had jumped into the water himself. And that wasn’t all! They said they were sure they saw blood. Seems like the boy could have been stabbed.” He shook his head. “Shame we don’t know anyone in the police force—could have got the inside scoop on things.”

  Well, actually—although I wasn’t going to admit it out loud—I did have an inside track on things: my boyfriend, Devlin O’Connor, was a CID detective and one of the leading investigators in the Oxfordshire police force. I hadn’t seen him arrive this morning—the uniformed constables had quickly moved me, along with the rest of the crowd, away from the bridge and closed off that section of the High Street—but I was sure that Devlin would have been the first to be called to the scene.

  Aloud, I said, “I think the police are still investigating. They’ll probably release a statement on the news this evening.”

  “Well, I have to say—it’s very tragic for the poor boy but this is quite exciting in a way. I almost feel like I’m in one of those British crime dramas we love watching back in the States,” said the wife with a laugh. “I half expect to see Inspector Morse or that nice detective from the Midsomer Murders walk into this tearoom and start questioning witnesses!”

  And they’d have their job cut out for them, I thought dryly, as I completed the couple’s order and started making my way back towards the counter. The whole tearoom was buzzing with talk of the boy’s death. It seemed like every table was filled with tourists who had been out to the May morning celebrations and everyone was eagerly recounting what they had seen and heard. Snatches of conversation came to me as I walked between the tables and I had to hide a smile at the ludicrous accounts and theories being bandied about.

  “He was shot. No doubt about it. Hmm…? No, I didn’t hear a gunshot either but it was obviously done with a sniper rifle and a silencer. Probably from the top of the tower…”

  “…and these secret college societies, you know, they make their members do the most dangerous things…”

  “Suicide pact. Definitely suicide pact. Boy probably had depression. I knew a guy once…”

  “…and I’m sure he was pushed! Didn’t they say he went backwards over the side of the bridge? No? That’s what I heard…”

  “…I’m telling you, it must have been the girl! The blonde one! She’s probably the girlfriend. Yeah, I know she was very upset, but people can fake it, you know…”

  I paused by a table of Australian backpackers and began clearing their empty plates as they talked excitedly around me.

  “… I was standing so close to them—right next to the girl—when the choir was singing. I had no idea!” said one guy.

  “Did you see him go over, mate?” his friend asked eagerly.

  “No, it was only after I heard the cry—”

  “Ah! Reckon he said something about his attacker?” a third guy said.

  “Could be! I heard someone cry out—sounded like ‘Bloody hell, why me?’ or somethin’ like that—”

  “No, you drongo, that was me,” said his friend. “I stepped in some dog poo with my new shoes.”

  Loud guffaws. “Ha! Ha! Ha! I thought that was a weird thing to say—”

  “Well, I heard a weird cry too—something like ‘Aagh! NATO joy evict!’” a fourth guy said.

  “Huh? What’s that mean?”

  He shrugged. “Dunno. I’m just repeating what I heard: NATO… joy… evict.”

  “Why would the boy say that?”

  “It wasn’t the boy—it was someone next to him. But it was just before he went over the bridge.”

  “Was it the blonde girl?” I spoke up.

  They all turned to look at me in surprise, aware of my presence for the first time. I flushed slightly. “Sorry—I couldn’t help overhearing.”

  “Hey, no worries,” said the first guy with a grin as he lifted his empty plate. “When the grub is this good, you can overhear anything you like. Best blueberry cheesecake I’ve had in years.”

  My flush deepened, this time with pleasure. “Thank you—I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  The others turned back to the fourth guy. “So he shouted out something to do with NATO, eh? Think it was a political crime?”

  “I told you, it wasn’t the boy himself. It was somebody next to him,” said the fourth guy.

  “Not the girl?” I asked again.

  He shrugged. “Might have been her. It was a deeper voice, though.”

  I remembered the girl’s husky tones and her throaty accent. That could easily have been mistaken for a masculine voice in the heat of the moment.

  The first Australian leaned forwards, his eyes shining. “I reckon it was some kind of government conspiracy. Maybe the boy was a spy!”

  I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes and headed back towards the counter, a stack of plates in my arms. When I got there, I found Cassie trying to load a tray with scones, jam, and clotted cream, while also fending off questions from four little old ladies who had just come into the tearoom. I smiled fondly as I saw them. Mabel Cooke, Glenda Bailey, Florence Doyle, and Ethel Webb. Known affectionately as the “Old Biddies”, they were the reigning gossip monarchs of the little Cotswolds village of Meadowford-on-Smythe where my tearoom was situated. In particular, they prided themselves on knowing everything that went on—every morsel of rumour, every titbit of scandal—and they were very miffed at
having missed out on one of the biggest news sensations of the day.

  Mabel Cooke—a formidable woman in her early 80s with a helmet of woolly white hair, a booming voice, and a bossy manner—pursed her lips in annoyance. “If only we had known that there was going to be a murder there, we would have made sure to attend the May Day celebrations,” she said, sounding like someone lamenting a missed show at the matinee.

  “Yeah—shame they didn’t announce it as part of the schedule of events,” I said, hiding a smile.

  “Cassie was just telling us that you were standing right next to the boy on the bridge!” said Florence Doyle, her plump figure quivering with excitement. “Did you hear him scream in agony, dear?”

  “Was there a lot of blood?” asked Glenda Bailey, her pretty wrinkled face pink with excitement—as well as the rouge she applied so lavishly to her cheeks.

  Ethel Webb, normally the quietest and gentlest of the group, piped up eagerly: “What about the weapon, dear? What was he stabbed with? I read a book once—when I was still working at the village library—about a lady who was stabbed by a knitting needle. Most creative! I didn’t think one could kill anyone with a knitting needle… although I suppose if it was suitably sharpened…” She trailed off thoughtfully.

  I looked at them in bewilderment. I could never understand how four little senior ladies, who looked so much like the stereotype of sweet old grannies, could have such a ghoulish appetite for mayhem and murder.

  “I didn’t really see or hear much of anything,” I said. “There was just a commotion next to me and, the next thing I knew, I heard a splash and I realised that someone had gone over the bridge. I thought it was just one of the students following the jumping tradition—until I saw the body floating in the water…” I gave a shrug. “Anyway, we’re not even sure if it’s murder yet. The police haven’t released an official statement.”

  “Oh, tosh—of course it was murder!” said Mabel, waving her hand impatiently. “When you next speak to that young man of yours, make sure you ask him everything about the case and then come back and tell us immediately!”

  I certainly wasn’t going to do anything of the kind. Devlin was exasperated enough with the Old Biddies’ attempts to muscle in on police investigations in the past. He wouldn’t take kindly to them trying to interfere again. Thankfully, the Old Biddies seemed happy to change the subject. They gathered around and beckoned me forwards eagerly.

  “Now, dear,” said Mabel, lifting up a plastic bag, “we must show you what we’ve got you for your new cottage.”

  “Oh, that’s really sweet of you,” I said, surprised and touched. “You know, you really didn’t have to—”

  “Well, we saw these at the weekend markets and we knew it would be absolutely perfect for your new home,” Glenda gushed.

  I smiled at her enthusiasm and watched as Florence reached a hand into the plastic bag and drew out something peach-coloured and knitted. My smile faltered.

  “Er… that’s… that’s nice…” I said as I accepted the object into my hands. “Um… where are you supposed to put it?”

  “In the toilet, of course!” boomed Mabel.

  “Oh… uh… right…” I stared down at the hideous thing I was holding. One end of it was a plastic doll, which vaguely resembled a Barbie (Manic-Grinning Barbie) wearing some kind of lumpy knitted dress with a huge ruffled skirt, in a puke-worthy shade of peach. But what was particularly worrying was that where her legs should have been, there was a stumpy wooden rod instead.

  “It’s a crocheted doll toilet roll holder!” Ethel burst out proudly. “There, you see? You slide the toilet paper roll over the stick and then her dress comes down around it, to cover it discreetly.” She demonstrated with a roll of toilet paper she had helpfully brought along as well.

  “All the best toilets have them,” declared Mabel.

  “And look—you can move her arms too so you can have her in different positions,” said Florence helpfully, showing me the doll’s full range of creepy poses.

  “It’s… er… it’s lovely,” I croaked.

  “We were wondering whether to get you two, dear, but you only have one bathroom at the cottage, don’t you? Although perhaps you’d like a second one just in case—”

  “No, no, one is more than enough. Thank you,” I said hastily. “It’s very sweet of you all to go to the trouble—”

  “We’re not finished yet!” said Mabel, reaching into the plastic bag again.

  I looked at her in horror, then relaxed slightly as she pulled out a cardboard box and I heard the clink of china. It must be a set of mugs. Whew. Okay, that wasn’t too bad. After all, you could always do with more mugs around the house, right?

  “These are a special limited edition.” Ethel beamed. “The lady at the stall said they are so unique, each will be an investment piece.”

  I opened the box and looked at the lurid red, white, and blue mugs, my heart sinking. It was a set featuring the British Royal Family, with each member’s head cut off by bad Photoshop and stuck crooked onto the side of the mug: the Queen, Prince Phillip, Prince Charles, Camilla, Prince William, and Prince Harry, all with their faces set in a rictus grin.

  “A cup of tea with the picture of our dear Queen,” said Mabel with satisfaction. “There is no better way to start the day!”

  I groped for something to say. Now, don’t get me wrong—I liked the Royal Family as much as the next person, and I had a great respect and admiration for the Queen—but mornings were hard enough for me without having to cope with her face grinning at me from my breakfast mug.

  “These… um… these are really… uh… unique,” I said. “In fact, they’re so valuable… I’ll… um… only save them for special occasions.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, dear—the lady who makes them said she has many more in stock,” said Glenda, patting my arm. “We can always get you another set. She even does teapots and milk jugs with them too. Oh, and soup tureens. Would you like one of those for Christmas?”

  “NO!” I lowered my voice hastily. “No, thank you. That’s really kind of you but… um… I’m all set for Royal Family crockery now.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  It wasn’t until well after two o’clock that the rush died down, and Cassie and I had a moment to catch our breaths. With just two tables occupied in the dining area—and both having been served—we grabbed the chance to sit down behind the counter and get a bite to eat.

  “Got anything nice planned for this weekend?” asked Cassie with her mouth full as she tucked into a toasted buttered muffin.

  “No… Devlin will probably be working late again.”

  Something in my voice caught her attention and she eyed me sharply. “Everything okay, Gemma?”

  I avoided her eyes and looked down at the jam tart I was eating. “Yes, sure… why wouldn’t it be?”

  She put the muffin down. “Come on, Gemma—you can’t fob me off. Something is bothering you… something to do with Devlin? Have you guys had a fight or something?”

  “No, no, nothing like that.”

  “Well, then?”

  I hesitated, feeling a bit silly to voice it out loud. “I don’t know… He just seems a bit… distant and preoccupied lately. Like, sometimes we’d be sitting together and he seems miles away… and if I ask him a question, I often have to repeat myself because he didn’t hear it the first time. And when I ask him what’s wrong, he always says it’s nothing—that he’s just a bit tired.”

  Cassie shrugged. “Maybe that is all it is. He does have a really tough job with crazy hours, you know.”

  “I know, I know that,” I said quickly. “And I try to be understanding about it. I mean, I’ve lost count of how many missed dinners and last-minute cancellations I’ve had to put up with… and we still haven’t even taken that weekend away that he promised!” I sighed with irritation. “But I get the feeling that this is about more than his workload—it’s something else that he’s not telling me.”

  “Yo
u don’t think he’s upset about you deciding not to live with him and moving into your own place instead?”

  “I don’t think so… I mean, we talked about it and he seemed fine with my decision. He seemed to understand that I needed my own space and was happy with that. At least, I thought so at the time.” I frowned. “Maybe it bothered him more than he let on?”

  “Have you tried asking him directly?”

  “Yes, but like I said, he always just brushes it off. Says that he’s preoccupied with work… if you can believe him.”

  Cassie raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Before I could answer, my phone beeped in my pocket. I pulled it out and glanced at the text message.

  “Bad news?” asked Cassie, looking at my face.

  I shrugged. “I was sort of expecting it. It’s Devlin saying he’s going to have to cancel dinner tonight because of the new murder case.” I shoved the phone back into my pocket, muttering, “At least this time I know it’s true…”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing,” I said, fiddling with my jam tart again.

  Cassie gave me a severe look. “Wait a minute, Gemma—you can’t make a loaded comment like that and then leave me hanging! What’s going on?”

  I sat up and said, trying to sound nonchalant, “Well, there are other distractions for a man besides work, aren’t there? And you know with his looks, Devlin is very attractive to women.”

  Cassie’s eyes widened. “You mean… you think there’s someone else?”

  I flinched slightly. Even though the insidious little thought had wormed its way into my mind, it was different hearing it voiced out loud by my friend.

  “Wait… Wait…” Cassie caught my arm. “Are you saying you think Devlin might be… having an affair?”

  “I don’t know!” I burst out. “I just… There’s something he’s not telling me… and he’s definitely not been himself the last couple of weeks.”

  “Have you seen anything suspicious? What gave you the idea?”