Muffins and Mourning Tea (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 5) Page 4

  “Oh, this…” Miriam looked grateful for the diversion. She patted the handbag and smiled. “I got it at a flea market in London. It’s by a Moroccan designer. I love things with a Middle Eastern theme and I collect them whenever I can.”

  “You should see her house—it looks a bit like something out of the Arabian Nights,” said Dora with a chuckle. “Sequined cushions, genie lamps, sheer veiled curtains, fake Persian carpets… I told her she could make a fortune hiring it out to movie producers for film sets”

  “Maybe I should consider that. If this Home decides that they can’t keep Mum anymore, I’m going to have to do something drastic to raise the money for the other place,” said Miriam, her face crumpling again.

  Dora glanced at me, then said, obviously trying to change the subject, “That student who jumped off Magdalen Bridge this morning—I heard that he was at Haverton?”

  Miriam nodded, a flash of grief crossing her face. “Yes, I knew him very well actually. He was one of mine.”

  “One of yours?” I looked at Miriam in confusion.

  Dora gave a small laugh. “One of the students on the staircases Miriam looks after as a scout,” she explained to me. “We like to call them ‘our’ students… and we had our favourites of course. The ones we didn’t mind doing a little bit extra for.”

  I looked at Dora sceptically. Scouts—or “bedders” as they were called at Cambridge—were part of a unique tradition that still remained in place at Oxford and Cambridge Universities. They were basically a sort of housekeeper who looked after the student rooms and kept a motherly eye over the undergraduates. Each scout was in charge of several staircases and would clean each student room, as well as the communal bathrooms and toilets on the staircase. It might seem weird in modern times—and to students at other universities—to think that there was someone who would come daily to empty your bins and once a week to vacuum, dust, and tidy your room (and even, I’ve heard in some cases, wash up your dirty mugs and help with your laundry!)—but I suppose it was all part of the eccentricities of the Oxford experience.

  Scouts also performed an important unofficial role in many cases, providing a nurturing presence for the students—especially the Freshers who might be away from home for the first time in their lives, and feeling lonely and bewildered in their new surroundings. Having a caring, older presence nearby could really help with homesickness. Still, I had a bit of a hard time imagining Dora in a soft, motherly role. I imagined that her students would have been too terrified to leave a speck of dust anywhere for her to find! Miriam Hopkins, on the other hand, looked just the sort of gentle, comforting type to provide a substitute mother figure.

  “So the boy who was killed this morning lived on one of your staircases?” I said to Miriam.

  She nodded, her face clouding. “He was a lovely boy. Charlie was his name. Charlie Foxton.”

  “It was Charlie?” Dora looked at her friend in dismay. “Oh, I’m sorry, Miriam—I didn’t realise. I know how fond you were of him.”

  Miriam sighed. “I just can’t believe that he’s dead. Such a stupid thing to do—jumping off the bridge like that! I know the students do it on May Day every year but I thought Charlie would have had more sense. The police are always warning students how shallow the water is in the Cherwell and how easy it is to hurt yourself. Oh, it’s such a waste! Such a waste!”

  I looked at her in surprise. It didn’t sound like Miriam realised that Charlie had been murdered. It was strange how gossip worked, some people getting all the information and others remaining completely ignorant. Still, I would have thought that with Miriam working at the same college, she would have heard most of the rumours going around.

  “Have the police been to the college?” I asked carefully. “Did they give any more information on exactly what happened?”

  “I’m not sure. I had a day off today so I haven’t actually been into the college at all. I just happened to hear about the death on the radio as I was driving up to Meadowford this afternoon and I was shocked when I heard Charlie’s name.”

  Ah, that explained it. I hesitated, wondering if I should enlighten her. She was so upset already, I didn’t want to share more unpleasant news. Besides, so far, the statements released by the police only mentioned that “a student had died in an incident involving a fall from Magdalen Bridge on May morning”. There had been no mention of stabbing or murder. I decided that it was better if I kept the information to myself for now.

  Dora made an exasperated noise. “These Oxford students… they’re supposed to be the brightest in the land and many of them seem to have no common sense at all! Last year, there was one silly chap who decided to do a backflip as he jumped off the bridge and he struck his head against the side of the balustrade as he was going down. Ended up in Emergency and was lucky he didn’t lose his life. The problem with them is that they’ve had too good a life and think nothing can touch them. It’s the arrogance that comes from having too much, too young. They’re rich, they’re good-looking, they’re in one of the world’s best universities—”

  “Oh, no, Charlie wasn’t like that,” said Miriam quickly. “I mean, he did come from a very wealthy background—and yes, he did dress like a bit of a fop sometimes—but underneath it all, he was a really nice lad. He was always so polite and treated me so nicely. Sometimes, after I’d finished cleaning his room, he would ask me if I’d like a cup of tea and get me to sit down and have some biscuits with him…” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “I think maybe he was just lonely, although he would never say it. You know he was an orphan—he lost his parents in a car crash a few years ago. I think he felt comfortable with me and didn’t have to put on an act, like in front of his friends. I imagine that he might have been worried about being teased by his friends if he’d admitted that he was missing his mother or something like that.”

  She gave a sad smile. “Charlie was so sweet: he always gave me these little presents at the end of each term—luxury chocolates and perfumes and silk scarves… and last year, he even bought me a bouquet of flowers for Mother’s Day! I was too embarrassed to accept, but he said he had no one else to give them to…” Her voice choked up for a moment and she swallowed quickly.

  “Charlie had a girlfriend, didn’t he?” I asked gently.

  Miriam’s face darkened. “Yes, a Russian girl, Tanya. She’s a student at Haverton as well—although not on one of my staircases. Thank goodness,” she added acidly. She glanced at Dora. “Now, she would fit your stereotype perfectly. An absolute spoilt princess, that one is. And never a smile on her face! I just don’t know what Charlie saw in her. Plenty of nice English girls about.”

  “Had they been together long?” I asked.

  “Well, I’m not sure when they became ‘official’, as it were, but I think they’ve been together for nearly a year? At least six months, anyway. It was hard to tell because they seemed to have the most dreadful rows—I used to hear them sometimes when I came to clean Charlie’s room. Terrible screaming matches. Well, usually it was the girl screaming at Charlie, saying that they were finished and it was over. But then they would seem to make up again a few days later and the next time I saw them, she’d be sitting in his lap and all over him.”

  “Some relationships are like that, I guess,” I said. “The couple enjoy the drama of fighting and making up.”

  Miriam compressed her lips. “Well, I don’t think it was good for Charlie at all. He really needed some peace and stability in his life, especially with his mother gone, not all them hysterics! I think the girl was a bad influence on him—her and that dreadful Damian.”

  “Damian?”

  “Charlie’s roommate. Damian Heath. He and Charlie shared one of the larger suite rooms at the top of the staircase. They each have a bedroom and share a sitting room.” Miriam made a face. “Damian is a bad sort. Always getting into trouble. He never looks you in the eye and there’s always something a bit… well, dishonest about him. I really don’t understand why Charlie was
friends with him—and they seemed to be such good friends too! Apparently, they met as Freshers in First Week and got on so well that they asked to room together in the second year. But Damian was always getting Charlie involved in some trouble or other. Like the wild parties they had—I’m sure they were all Damian’s doing!—and their rooms would be in an absolute state the day afterwards… The cleaning up I had to do…” She shook her head with remembered annoyance, then her expression hardened. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Damian had egged Charlie to jump off Magdalen Bridge. It’s just the sort of fool thing that boy would do.”

  Miriam glanced down at her watch suddenly and sprang up with a cry. “Oh! Dora, we’d better get going…”

  “I’m done,” said Dora, wiping the table. “I just need to wash up—”

  “You two go on—I’ll clear up here,” I said.

  “Thank you, dear,” said Dora gratefully, taking off her apron. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.” She gave me a stern look. “And I hope you haven’t got any plans for tonight, young lady. You look completely done in. You should go home to rest.”

  I stifled a yawn. “Oh, don’t worry, Dora—I’m going straight home after this and just having an early night. Getting up at dawn this morning has really taken it out of me.” I gave a rueful laugh. “I guess I’m not as young as I used to be and just haven’t got the stamina anymore. It’s sad how much I’m looking forward to getting into bed!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Muesli was waiting at the door for me when I finally got back to my cottage and proceeded to tell me—in loud plaintive meorrws—how long she had been waiting, how hungry her little tummy was, and how inconsiderate I was to be so late.

  “All right, all right… it’s coming,” I said as I hurried into the kitchen to prepare her dinner.

  The little cat scampered after me and twined herself around my legs as I got her food ready, adding an impatient “Meorrw!” every so often to hurry me up. Finally, I set it down and she crouched next to the bowl to eat. The kitchen was soon filled with the sound of dainty munching, coupled with a loud, contented purring.

  I stood and watched Muesli for a minute, a smile on my face, then I wandered out into the sitting room and collapsed on the sagging old couch in the corner. It was a faded, floral two-piece that had come with the cottage and felt like it was missing most of its springs, but honestly, I was so tired at that moment, I could have happily sat down on a fakir’s bed of nails.

  Tilting my head back, I closed my eyes and gave a huge sigh. Then I opened them again and looked around with appreciation. Yes, the place was an absolute mess with cardboard boxes piled haphazardly everywhere, not to mention the threadbare curtains, cracked walls, and crooked windows… But it’s mine, I thought with a little thrill of pleasure. This was my very own space, where I could do what I liked, have things my own way, and not have to worry about sharing or fitting in with the whims of others.

  And not having my mother popping up constantly, meddling in my life, either, I thought with satisfaction.

  The sound of the front doorbell interrupted my thoughts. Who could that be? I wasn’t expecting visitors. I heaved myself off the couch and went to the door. It swung open and I wondered if I was seeing things. There seemed to be an enormous—and I mean enormous—palm tree standing on my doorstep, its spiky fronds splaying in every direction. A minute later, I was sure I was hallucinating because the palm tree spoke with my mother’s voice:

  “Darling—look what I got for your new home! Isn’t it marvellous?”

  “Mother?” I said uncertainly.

  My mother’s head popped out from behind the tree. I realised that it was so big, it obscured most of her body.

  “Such a bargain, darling! I just got it at the garden centre this afternoon—they’re having a ‘Burst Into Spring Sale’ at the moment and, as soon as I saw this, I knew it would be perfect for you!”

  I stood back in bemusement as my mother marched into the cottage, propelling the enormous potted palm on a portable trolley in front of her.

  “Mother, I don’t have space for that…” I protested as I shut the door and followed her into the sitting room.

  “Oh, once this goes into a corner, you’ll hardly notice it. Now… where would be a good spot? Ah! By the window would be perfect.”

  I watched helplessly as she shoved the gigantic palm tree into a spot by the windows, where it blocked half the light coming into the room.

  “What on earth is it?”

  My mother turned to me and said enthusiastically, “It’s a sago palm, darling, and it’s a wonderful houseplant; so easy to care for! It’s from an ancient botanical family, you know—dating back to prehistoric times!”

  Yeah, and this one looked like it had come straight out of the Jurassic era as well. I’m not joking—it was practically the size of a dinosaur and was bristling all over with spiky leaves, like a giant green porcupine.

  “Mother, I wasn’t really planning on having any indoor plants,” I said. “You know, I was going for a more… uh… minimalist sort of style—”

  “Oh, nonsense, darling! Everyone knows that a house isn’t a home until you have some indoor plants. They clean the air and absorb all sorts of toxins—and they help to maintain the humidity, so your skin doesn’t get too dry. And they make you feel happier too! Did you know, I read a report that said researchers at Kansas State University found that patients in hospitals who had plants in their rooms recovered so much faster and needed far less pain medication than those without any indoor greenery. Fancy that!”

  “Well, couldn’t I have something smaller… like… like a miniature bonsai tree?” I said desperately.

  “But that wouldn’t be enough to purify the air! They say you need one large plant per 100 square feet.” She looked around the cottage. “This is quite a small place but you could probably do with a few more—you can’t have too many, anyway. Take a deep breath, darling, breathe, breathe…” my mother instructed me, inhaling and exhaling noisily and waving her arms like a conductor directing an orchestra. “There! Can’t you feel how much fresher the air is in here already?”

  What I felt like was a pounding headache coming on. Still, I obediently took a few sniffs and agreed that the air seemed refreshed already. My mother nodded her satisfaction and then began going around the cottage, peering into cupboards and running a finger over surfaces to check for dust.

  “Really… this place is so dreadfully shabby, Gemma. I can’t understand why you would want to move here when you have a perfectly lovely room back home with us in North Oxford.”

  I sighed. How could you explain that while you were grateful your parents welcomed you back into the bosom of the family home, living in such close quarters with them (especially with someone like my mother) was enough to drive you bananas?

  “It’ll look a lot better once I’ve unpacked and tidied the place up, Mother,” I assured her. “And I might get some new curtains and a couple of pieces of furniture from the weekend markets in Meadowford. It’ll be a really cosy little cottage. You’ll see.”

  “Hmm…” My mother didn’t look convinced. Then she brightened. “Oh, I almost forgot—I brought you some soup, darling.”

  As she took out a thermos flask from a plastic bag and proceeded to pour some home-made chicken soup into a bowl, I realised suddenly that I was starving. Aside from a couple of hastily eaten jam tarts with Cassie earlier that afternoon, I hadn’t eaten anything all day. I sat down gratefully in front of the steaming bowl of hot soup and felt much more charitable towards my mother.

  “Now, don’t forget about the dinner on Wednesday night,” my mother said as she cut up a stick of crusty French bread that she had brought.

  “Dinner?” I said, reaching for a chunk of bread.

  “Yes, darling, don’t you remember? I told you about it last week. Professor Obruchev—he’s the world expert on the History of the Russian State. He’s published a twelve-volume definitive account of the early nineteenth-cen
tury national history of Russia. Such a learned man,” my mother gushed. “Your father has been corresponding with him for years and they’ve even co-authored a few journal articles together. Well, he’s coming to visit Oxford for the first time—in fact, he’s arriving tomorrow—and I’ve invited him to dinner on Wednesday. I know he’d love to meet you.”

  My father, Professor Philip Rose, was an Oxford professor and, ever since I could remember, there had been a steady stream of scholars who came to visit from overseas and were entertained at my parents’ house. This promised to be another of those evenings of dry academic conversations at the dining table. Still, I had been so busy lately that I hadn’t seen much of my parents and I felt a bit guilty about that.

  “Sure, I’ll be there,” I said. “I might be a bit late, though, as I’ll have to come back here first to feed Muesli.”

  “Oh! Muesli—that reminds me!” My mother got up and went to her handbag. “You haven’t forgotten that her first therapy visit is on Monday have you? It’s at the Magnolia Court Nursing Home, just on the other side of Magdalen Bridge.”

  I groaned inwardly. I had forgotten about the therapy visit. To be honest, I still wasn’t convinced that enrolling Muesli in the Therapy Cats programme was a good idea. Most of the time, my mischievous little feline seemed to do things which raised my blood pressure, not soothed it. I was really dreading our first visit and wondered what mayhem Muesli was likely to cause. Still, my mother had been so enthusiastic about volunteering for the programme that I had gone along with things. I did feel a little peeved though. Monday was my one day off a week and it would have been nice just to spend the morning lazing about my new cottage…

  “Would you like me to come along with you, dear?”

  “Oh, no,” I said quickly. “No, I’ll be fine. Thanks, Mother.” Wrangling my cat was hard enough—I didn’t need to add my mother into the mix.

  To my relief, she didn’t argue and left soon afterwards, wheeling the trolley behind her.