Muffins and Mourning Tea (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 5) Page 3

  I shifted uncomfortably. “No, there hasn’t been anything specific. It’s just a feeling…”

  “Did you check his phone? Look at his text messages?”

  I recoiled from her. “Cass! I’m not going to be that kind of girlfriend, sneakily reading his text messages and stuff! I’ve always despised women like that!”

  Cassie shrugged. “Well, it might put your mind at rest. Or… why don’t you just ask him outright?”

  I stared at her disbelievingly. “You’re not seriously suggesting that I asked Devlin if he’s cheating on me?”

  “I thought the whole point of a good relationship was that you could talk about anything. If it’s bothering you, then you should speak to Devlin about it.”

  “But I can’t talk to him about this! I mean… He’d think I was… I can’t! He’d probably get annoyed and think I was being ridiculous or paranoid or something—”

  “Well, maybe you are,” said Cassie.

  I gritted my teeth, wishing now that I had never mentioned it to her. “I’m not imagining it, okay? Devlin is hiding something. I can feel it. And I can’t think why he would need to do that—unless it’s another woman.”

  “I still think—”

  My phone rang, cutting Cassie off. I dug it back out of my pocket and my heart skipped a beat as I saw Devlin’s name on the screen. I went into the little shop area adjoining the tearoom for some privacy as I took the call.

  “Hi, Gemma—did you get my text?”

  “Yes, about dinner, you mean?”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. It’s been crazy here today. We had a homicide out at Blackbird Leys last night and then I got called in to the scene at Magdalen Bridge this morning… I’m going to be here all night.”

  “That’s okay—I understand. What’s happening with the Magdalen Bridge case?”

  “Have the Old Biddies been putting you up to pump me for information again?” asked Devlin wryly.

  I gave a sheepish laugh. “Well, yes, they have a bit—but this is just my own curiosity speaking. I was there this morning, you know.”

  “Yes, I know, and that’s the reason I was calling—I wanted to get your account of what happened. You were standing on the bridge near the victim, right? You’re a valuable witness.”

  “Oh.” I felt a stab of disappointment. I had thought that Devlin was calling to apologise for having to cancel dinner and to check that I was okay, but this was strictly business, as usual. “Haven’t you spoken to any of the other people on the scene?”

  “It’s been a nightmare, to tell you the truth. By the time they called us in, half the crowd had dispersed and no one had thought to hold them back as witnesses for questioning. I guess it’s not really their fault—the security guards were mostly ex-Uniform branch, not CID, and they’re not trained for this sort of thing. But it does mean our job is a lot harder now trying to get information.”

  “What about the boy’s girlfriend? She was there, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, but I haven’t had a chance to speak to her yet. They had to sedate her and they’ve taken her to the Oxford Infirmary. I’m just about to head over there to question her, actually. There was another boy who rushed onto the riverbank a bit after the girl. Apparently he’s the victim’s roommate and was supposed to have met up with them earlier. That’s what he told the security guard. But he did a runner just before I arrived and the constables are still looking for him.”

  “A runner? You mean he ran off? Doesn’t that make him look guilty?”

  “Maybe… although in my experience, people can panic and do stupid things sometimes. Especially if they’ve had a bad shock—and seeing your friend murdered in front of you would be enough to scare the hell out of anyone.”

  “So it’s definitely murder?”

  “Oh yeah.” Devlin sounded grim. “No doubt about that. The boy was stabbed in the back. I haven’t had the full autopsy report yet but Jo reckons that the liver and spleen were probably punctured, and the inferior vena cava as well. Massive internal haemorrhage. He would have bled out in minutes.”

  I shivered. It was a pretty horrible thought. Once again, I wondered how Dr Jo Ling—the pretty Asian forensic pathologist who had just joined the CID team—could do her job. She looked like a fragile China doll and yet spent most of her days elbow-deep in bloody body cavities. It boggled the mind. And she did it all with such bubbly enthusiasm too.

  “What was the murder weapon?” I asked.

  “You’re not going to believe this—it was a barbecue skewer.”

  “A what?”

  “Yeah, a sixteen-inch kebab skewer shaped like a sword. You know, one of those novelty items that’s often given as a gift. Although this one looked quite old—almost vintage. Very nice quality, with a fake jewelled handle. Sort of a Middle Eastern style. It might be part of a set.”

  “Do you have any idea where it’s from?”

  “I’ve got officers checking the shops around Oxford to see if anyone sells anything like it. But if this is really as old as it looks, it could have been bought somewhere else a long time ago.”

  “And no fingerprints?”

  “No, it’s been wiped clean and the killer must have worn gloves.”

  I shivered again. There was something horribly sinister about the thought of this innocuous kitchen tool being carefully wiped clean of fingerprints, before being used to kill someone.

  “What about the victim? Have you found out anything about him? Was he an Oxford student?” I asked.

  “Yes, his name was Charles Foxton and he was at Haverton College, just farther up the High Street from Magdalen. He was the son of The Rt. Hon. David Foxton, the financier, who was a bigwig up in the City and a Member of Parliament. Charles was an orphan, actually—his parents were killed in a car accident a few years ago, and he was the only child. He inherited the whole estate. It was being managed by trustees but he was essentially a very rich boy.”

  “And was he involved in anything? Drugs? Gangs?” I said the last doubtfully, thinking back to the boy I remembered seeing that morning. Somehow, I couldn’t imagine a guy who looked so preppy upper-class being involved in gangs and other “rough stuff”. He looked more like the stereotype of the British elite, spending his time in posh drinking clubs or going down to Wimbledon or Ascot to watch proceedings from a private box—when his family home wasn’t being featured in Hello magazine. Still, appearances could be deceptive. And besides, wasn’t it well known that the rich often got bored with their privileged lifestyles and craved a bit of risk and excitement?

  I realised that Devlin was speaking and hurriedly pulled my mind back to the present.

  “It’s early days,” Devlin was saying. “But so far, nothing’s turned up. I’ve spoken to his college. He seems a pretty typical student. A few loud parties in his room which got shut down by the college porters but that’s nothing unusual. Quite a nice chap, actually. Well liked. No disciplinary measures from the college. Second-year linguist, and, according to his tutor, was expected to do quite well in his final exams.”

  “So basically no enemies, huh?” I shook my head in puzzlement. “The whole thing is bizarre. Why would anyone want to kill him—and in such a public place?”

  “Well, that’s why I was hoping your account might give me some leads.”

  “Okay, what do you want to ask me?”

  “Just tell me everything from the beginning—everything you can remember—from when you arrived at the bridge and first noticed Foxton and his girlfriend.”

  I did as he asked, trying to give as many details as I could. I could hear Devlin making notes at the other end.

  “Did you hear anything they said?” he asked when I’d finished.

  “A couple of words here and there—they seemed to be waiting for someone and complaining about him not showing up. I think they called him Damian.”

  “That’s the roommate who’s done the runner,” said Devlin. “Interesting… So they were supposed to meet up with him
and he didn’t show, eh? I wonder where he was…”

  “He could have just got lost in the crowd. It was really packed and very easy to get separated from your friends by mistake—that’s what happened to me. I was trying to follow Cassie and I lost sight of her, which is how I ended up on the bridge by myself. This Damian chap can’t have been far if he arrived on the riverbank soon after the girl.”

  “Yes, it would help if we had more eyewitness accounts.” Devlin sounded frustrated. “If only we could speak to one of the tourists nearby who might have seen something—”

  I gave a chuckle. “Well, if you want helpful tourists, just come down to my tearoom. According to the conversation at every table this morning, everyone saw something or heard something—and you should listen to some of their theories!”

  Devlin groaned. “That’s what I’m afraid of. People are so suggestible and everyone wants their fifteen minutes of fame. We’d put out a request for help from the public earlier today and we’ve been fielding calls ever since from people claiming to have seen everything from a drone shooting a laser beam at the boy to a mermaid stabbing him with a spear in the river. I’m not kidding.”

  I choked back a laugh.

  “Of course, the people who actually saw or heard anything important will probably not come forward and those are the ones we really need to speak to.” Devlin sighed. “Anyway, thanks for that, Gemma. I’d better get on now.”

  I spoke hurriedly, “I know we’re not doing dinner but will I see you later? Maybe you could come over after you’re finished at the station and we could have drink or a late night snack—”

  “Sorry, Gemma, but I’d better not promise anything. I could be here until midnight the way this case is going—I’d hate for you to wait up for me for nothing.”

  He was right, of course. It all made perfect sense. And yet I couldn’t help the niggling sense of unease.

  “Devlin… um… You’re not upset about me moving into my own place, are you?”

  “Upset? No, why should I be?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

  “Well, I just thought… maybe…” I trailed off, not quite sure how to continue. I felt so silly even saying the words: “You’ve been so distant lately.” It sounded like something out of a bad daytime TV soap opera!

  “I’m really happy you found that cottage,” Devlin assured me. “Especially given what a hard time you had looking for somewhere to rent. I think it’s practically a miracle finding a place in central Oxford at that price—and it allows pets too! No, it was a real find and you were right to snap it up.” He hesitated, then added, “And I totally understand about needing your own space. In fact, I… well, I think you were right about us not moving in together.”

  “Really? I thought you were really keen for us to live together.”

  There was a little pause, then Devlin said, “Yes, well… maybe I didn’t think things through properly. I think you’re right and it’s good for us to each have our own space. Living together would probably have been rushing things.”

  The prickle of unease grew. This was a change of tune! Devlin had been so keen for me to move into his place. It was really at his urging that I had done it and he had seemed genuinely happy to make room for me and Muesli in his home—and his life. Now it felt like he was suddenly trying to put more distance between us again. What had changed?

  I remembered what Cassie had said earlier and took a deep breath to ask Devlin directly, but before I could say anything, he cut in:

  “Listen, Gemma, I’m sorry but I’ve got to go. I’ve got someone waiting for me in the interview room and I’ve still got to get down to the Oxford Infirmary to interview Foxton’s girlfriend.”

  “Oh, sure… no problems,” I stammered. “I… um… I guess I’ll see you when I see you.”

  “I’ll give you a call tomorrow,” Devlin promised. “Have a good evening and give Muesli a pat for me.”

  He rang off and I stood staring at my phone. Devlin wasn’t the mushy type to indulge in telephone kisses and sugary endearments, but still… I couldn’t help feeling that the abrupt goodbye had sounded more like a distant colleague than a loving boyfriend…

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I was just about to close the tearoom late that afternoon when the front door opened and a middle-aged woman stepped in. She was probably in her late fifties but looked much older, with a thin, careworn face and dark circles under her eyes. Her greying brown hair was tucked into a low bun and she wore no make-up. The only thing glamorous about her was the beautiful handbag she carried, its surface covered in a mosaic pattern of beads and sequins which reminded me of the designs seen on Arabian mosques and palaces. There was something faintly familiar about her and yet I was sure I hadn’t met her before.

  She came forwards and said hesitantly, “Excuse me… I was wondering—is Dora around?”

  I gave her a smile. “Are you a friend of hers? She’s in the kitchen. Here, let me take you through.”

  The woman glanced around the tearoom. “Oh, I didn’t want to disturb you…”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m just closing up for the day, actually.”

  I flipped the “OPEN” sign to “CLOSED”, then ushered the woman through the swinging baize door into the tearoom kitchen: a large comfortable space dominated by a huge wooden table with a faded, scrubbed surface that was usually covered in trays of freshly baked scones and buns. My baking chef, Dora Kempton, was standing at the far end, industriously pushing a rolling pin across a large slab of dough. The late afternoon light that slanted through the kitchen windows highlighted the curve of her cheeks and I was pleased to see that she looked like she had put on some weight.

  When I had met Dora, she had been down on her luck and practically fainting from hunger—mainly because of her own stubborn pride and unwillingness to admit that she needed help. It had taken a bit of persuasion for her to accept the position of baker here at the tearoom but it was an arrangement that was working out great so far. Dora’s baking was absolutely divine and helped my tearoom maintain its reputation as having the best scones in Oxfordshire. And I quickly learned that beneath her stiff, prickly exterior was a kind and warm-hearted soul— although she was still very proud and sensitive to anything that she considered “charity” from anyone.

  Now her eyes lit up as she glanced over and saw her friend standing in the kitchen doorway.

  “Miriam, how nice to see you!” Dora hurried over, pushing back a wisp of grey hair and leaving a smear of flour on her temple. She turned to me and said with a smile, “This is Miriam Hopkins. She and I used to work as scouts together at Wadsworth College.”

  I realised why Miriam Hopkins had seemed familiar. I had seen a framed photo on Dora’s hall table, showing the two friends in pinafore aprons, standing together in the front quadrangle of Wadsworth College. It must have been taken several years ago when they had been scouts there together.

  “Are you still working at Wadsworth?” I asked her.

  She shook her head. “No, I transferred to Haverton College a few years ago. But I’m coming up to my retirement soon.”

  “Well, don’t just stand there—sit down,” said Dora briskly, waving her friend over to the table. “I’ve just got to finish this off but I won’t be long.”

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” I asked.

  “Oh, please don’t bother on my account,” said Miriam quickly. “I only came by to ask Dora if she would be free to come with me to see my mother. Mum’s in a home, you see,” she explained to me. “She’s got advanced dementia and… well, they’re having some trouble coping with her.”

  “They don’t want the trouble, you mean,” said Dora darkly. “That place is a disgrace! They neglect their residents dreadfully and just do the minimum possible.”

  Miriam looked distressed. “Yes, they don’t seem to make much effort. I know Mum can be difficult and she really needs specialised care, but they don’t seem to try at all…”

  “Is there nowhere else that
she could stay?” I asked.

  Miriam sighed. “Not really. There is one other place—a private home which specialises in seniors with dementia—but it’s so expensive and I… well, I just can’t afford it.”

  “Oh… I’m sorry…” I murmured, embarrassed to have asked.

  Dora gave a disapproving sniff. “It doesn’t help that that son of yours keeps siphoning off money every chance he can.”

  Miriam stiffened. “It’s not Jeremy’s fault that he ends up in those scrapes,” she said quickly. “He just got mixed up with some people who weren’t very good for him and they took advantage of him. He only borrows the money to tide him over—he always promises that he’ll pay me back soon.”

  “And has he yet?” demanded Dora.

  Miriam flushed. “Well, not yet… but I know he means to, as soon as he can. He’s got a new job over in Ireland.”

  “In Ireland?” said Dora. “What’s he doing there?”

  “Some kind of investment scheme,” said Miriam vaguely. “Jeremy didn’t really explain. But he said it was a great opportunity and that he stood to make a lot of money from it. Then he could pay me back several times over.” She gave a hopeful smile.

  Dora snorted. “That’s not going to help you with your mother now.”

  Miriam sighed. “Yes… in fact, the reason I’m going in this evening is because the Matron rang and said she needed to discuss my mother with me. She sounded a bit irritable on the phone.” She gave us an agonised look. “I’m worried now that they’ll say they can’t look after Mum anymore and ask me to move her elsewhere. I don’t know what I would do! I can’t have her at home—and there’s nowhere else nearby that can take her. I’ve just been worrying about it all day…!”

  Her voice broke and she hastily fished in her handbag for a tissue and blew her nose. I looked away, embarrassed, while Dora patted her friend’s hand in a gruff fashion.

  There was an awkward pause, then I said hastily, “That’s a beautiful bag, Miriam. I was admiring it when you came in. Where did you get it?”