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

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  I was woken up the next morning by the distant sound of tolling bells, followed by a much closer sound: Muesli scratching at the bedroom door and meowing to be let out. I threw on a dressing gown and followed her downstairs and out to the garden, where I stood, breathing deeply of the fresh morning air. It looked like it was going to be a beautiful day with the sky already a brilliant blue, marred only by a few wisps of white clouds.

  On an impulse, I decided to go for a walk before breakfast. The tearoom didn’t officially open until 10:30 a.m. and I still had plenty of time. Quickly getting dressed, I left the house and started down the towpath beside the river. Unconsciously, I found myself following the same route as I had done yesterday morning: the wide path along the north side of Christ Church Meadow, up Dead Man’s Walk, into Rose Lane, and then finally out onto the High Street. From there, I wandered slowly towards Magdalen Bridge.

  As one of the main roads leading into Oxford, Madgalen Bridge and the High Street had been quickly re-opened yesterday, and now everything looked back to normal. Well, almost normal. There were certainly more people than usual congregating around the balustrade where Charlie Foxton had gone off the bridge into the water: tourists and locals coming to gawk and gossip about what had happened. The police had finally given a press conference last night and there was no doubt now that they were treating this case as murder.

  Still, you can’t really blame people for their curiosity, I thought as I watched the tourists leaning over the side of the bridge and staring at the river below. After all, what was I doing here? Why had I come back?

  I wandered over to the side of the stone balustrade and peered in my turn over the edge at the murky green water below. The Cherwell was a small tributary which ran under Magdalen Bridge, down past Christ Church Meadow, to join the Thames at the south end of the city. The surface of the river was calm and serene now, but I couldn’t help seeing again, in my mind’s eye, that body floating lifelessly in the water. Hastily, I jerked my eyes back up and found my gaze drifting to the opposite bank, where several neat blocks of housing lined the side of the river. One of these was a large purpose-built block, with symmetrical balconies and windows, several with pretty window boxes bursting with spring blooms.

  Something on the top level caught my eye. I squinted into the distance. There seemed to be some kind of winking, flashing light… After a moment, I gave up trying to work out what it was and turned away. I cast another troubled glance around the bridge, then turned and started walking back up the High Street. If there were any clues as to what had really happened yesterday morning, they were not to be found here.

  A couple of hours later, I was cycling down the main street in Meadowford-on-Smythe and pulled up in front of the Little Stables Tearoom.

  “Morning!” I said as I breezed into the kitchen and deposited my things on the side table.

  Dora looked up anxiously from the large wooden table. “Oh, Gemma—I’ve been waiting for you to come in!”

  I paused and looked at her in surprise. Her face was strained and her eyes wide with worry.

  “Is something the matter?” I asked.

  “It’s Miriam,” Dora said. “The police are arresting her for the May morning murder!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “What? Why?” I looked at her in puzzlement.

  Dora plucked at her apron nervously. “The police came for her last night. We’d got back from seeing her mum at the nursing home and were just about to have a cup of tea when the detective sergeant turned up on her doorstep. He said they wanted her for questioning—”

  “Oh, that’s nothing to worry about,” I said soothingly. “I’m sure they’re questioning everyone who might be connected to the victim. Since Miriam was his scout, it’s only natural that the police should want to speak to her.”

  Dora shook her head vehemently. “No, you don’t understand, Gemma—this wasn’t just ‘helping with enquiries’. I could tell from the way the sergeant was speaking to her. They’re treating her as a suspect, not as a witness!”

  “But why would they do that? They must have a good reason.”

  Dora shifted uncomfortably. “They do. The barbecue skewer used to kill Charlie belonged to Miriam.”

  I stared at her. “What? How can that be?”

  Dora threw her hands up. “I don’t know! Miriam doesn’t know either! That’s what we told the sergeant but he just kept badgering her… and we were so shocked to find out that Charlie had been murdered… Murdered! Did you know that he had been murdered?” she demanded.

  “Y-yes, I did, actually,” I admitted. “But I wasn’t sure whether to say anything yesterday. The police hadn’t announced it officially yet and I didn’t want to upset Miriam any more than—”

  “We thought it was an accident! Poor Miriam was beside herself… and then she realised it must have been for that party Charlie and Damian were having… although it was really for Tanya’s costume and she had given it to the Russian girl and that’s when she had last seen it… that’s what she told the sergeant—”

  “Whoa… whoa…” I held my hand up. “I’m sorry—I’m hopelessly lost now. Can you start from the beginning?”

  Dora took a deep breath. “The police questioned Tanya yesterday afternoon and she identified the weapon that was used to stab Charlie as a barbecue skewer that belonged to Miriam.”

  “But how could she know that?” I asked.

  “Because—it’s a bit of a long story—Charlie and Tanya decided last week to have a party on Thursday night; that was the night before May morning. It was a fancy dress party and Tanya said she wanted to go as a warrior princess—someone called Xena or something like that—and she wanted a sword to go with her costume. Well, Charlie remembered when he was chatting to Miriam before that she had mentioned collecting things with a Middle Eastern theme, so he asked her if she had anything that Tanya could use as a prop. And Miriam said, yes, she had a set of barbecue skewers she had bought years ago which were designed to look like Arabian swords, with jewelled handles. So she took one into college earlier in the week for Tanya to borrow.”

  “Okay… so wouldn’t Tanya be the last person who had the weapon?”

  “Yes, but Tanya says that she changed her mind and decided to not to go as a warrior princess after all. So she didn’t need the sword-skewer prop anymore and she left it in Charlie and Damian’s sitting room, to return to Miriam. She says she never saw it again after that.”

  “And Miriam hadn’t picked it up?”

  “No. Miriam said when she went into Charlie and Damian’s room on Thursday morning, she didn’t see the skewer there. Both the boys were out so she didn’t see them—and in any case, she wouldn’t have thought to ask for it, since she didn’t know that Tanya had changed her mind about her costume. She just assumed that it was still with Tanya.”

  “So… it’s Tanya’s word against hers, really,” I said. “The problem is, nobody knows what happened to the skewer after Tanya left it in the boys’ room and the police will say that they only have Miriam’s word that she didn’t take it back. She could have picked it up on Thursday and taken it away—but claimed that she never saw it.” Then I had another thought. “How are they sure it’s Miriam’s? I mean, couldn’t it be a skewer that looks like hers?”

  “I suppose it could,” said Dora doubtfully. “But they’re fairly unique. They’re vintage. And anyway, the sergeant showed Miriam a picture of the weapon and she agreed that it looked like one of her skewers. He asked to see the rest of the set and she gave them to him—he’s taking them back to the station for Forensics to compare to the weapon, but he’s pretty sure that they’ll match.”

  I bit my lip. I didn’t want to say it to Dora but it didn’t look good for her friend. Being linked to the murder weapon was always a bad thing. Still, I dredged up a smile and said as cheerfully as I could:

  “Well, there must be a… a misunderstanding or something. I’m sure the police will get to the bottom of
it—”

  “We can’t just wait for the police,” said Dora fiercely. “That detective sergeant was awful to Miriam! Treated her like a common criminal! He’s never going to give her a fair hearing! And Haverton College have suspended Miriam from her duties in the meantime and there’s even a possibility that she might lose her job, as well as her retirement benefits. Oh God, as if poor Miriam isn’t having enough troubles already with her son and her mum… This is the worst thing that could happen to her now!” Dora took a step towards me and reached out a hand. “Gemma, I was thinking… Maybe you could help?”

  “Me?” I said in surprise. “I don’t understand…”

  “You could help to find the real killer and prove Miriam’s innocence.”

  I raised my hands, palms up. “Whoa, Dora… I think you’re getting confused. That’s a job for the police. Or at least a private investigator. I’m not a professional. What you need is a detective—”

  “But you’re good at getting to the bottom of things,” insisted Dora. “In fact, I think you’ve got an advantage, not being a professional detective. You’re just the young woman who runs the local tearoom. People talk to you—they trust you and they let their guard down. Plus, you’ve got access to the Oxford colleges—you know the world of the University really well and have connections the police don’t have.”

  “That’s not really true,” I said. “You know Devlin—Detective Inspector O’Connor—used to be at Oxford with me. We were at the same college together. So he has a foot in the door of the University too.”

  “Yes, but he’s a policeman! People are always suspicious of policemen. They get nervous around them. They won’t talk to them the same way they talk to you. Besides, this isn’t the first time you’ve helped with a murder case,” Dora added earnestly. “You’ve done it before. Several times, in fact! The villagers are always talking about it: how you solved that American tourist’s murder here in the tearoom… and that girl who was poisoned at the art gallery… and then the murder of Professor Barrow from my old college… and even at the recent village fete, you were the one who found out the truth about Dame Clare’s murder at the cat show!”

  “Well, I… okay, yes, I did get involved in those cases and dig up some answers, but… but a lot of it was probably luck,” I said lamely. “And it wasn’t just me. I had a lot of help from—”

  “Us!” came four eager old voices.

  I turned to see the Old Biddies sticking their heads through the half-open kitchen doorway. I wondered how long they had been there, listening to our conversation.

  “Oh yes, Gemma could never have solved all those cases without our help,” said Mabel smugly, coming into the kitchen, followed by Glenda, Florence, and Ethel.

  I gave them an exasperated look. Actually, I had been going to say that I had a lot of help from the police, and from Devlin in particular. The Old Biddies had certainly tried to help, but half the time, their efforts just seemed to land me in the worst predicaments—and then abandon me there!

  “Of course we’ll help your friend clear her name,” Mabel said to Dora, rolling her sleeves up briskly. “It’s obvious that she has nothing to do with this murder but the police have no idea what they’re doing—as usual! We will start an investigation—”

  “Wait, hang on,” I cut in hastily. “This isn’t a game. This is a real murder we’re talking about. And the police are the ones who are in the best position to investigate—”

  “Pooh! What do the police know?” said Mabel with a contemptuous wave. “I’ve met that detective sergeant and he is as useless as a chocolate teapot. He couldn’t find a pair of knickers in a lingerie store!”

  I winced. I didn’t particularly like Devlin’s cocky young sergeant either but that seemed a bit harsh.

  Dora put a hand on my arm and said quietly, “Gemma, I… I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important. Miriam is my closest friend, and right now she needs someone on her side. I really believe you can help her. Will you at least think about it—please?”

  I was moved by Dora’s plea. Knowing how proud she was, and how much she hated asking anyone for anything, I realised suddenly how much it cost her to swallow her pride and ask for help like this.

  I squeezed her hand. “All right, Dora, I’ll try my best. But I don’t want to get your hopes up—”

  “All we need to do is go to Haverton College and speak to the other students,” said Mabel loftily. “They all live together in those dormitory staircases—I’m sure they’ll know all the secrets and scandals.”

  “You can’t just walk into a college and start interrogating people,” I protested. “That’s what I mean. We’re not CID and we don’t have the authority to question people. We’ll be lucky if the college porters don’t throw us out!”

  “Who said anything about questioning people, dear?” said Mabel. “We are just going to have a little chat with them. People love chatting, especially if you ask them about themselves. And they’re much more likely to give something away or reveal a clue when you are just chatting with them, than when police are questioning them in a serious manner.”

  Well, maybe she was right. As I went about my duties for the rest of the morning, I mulled over what Mabel had said. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to visit Haverton College and try to speak to some of the students there. I was unlikely to get any time today, though—the tearoom seemed to be even busier than usual. I rushed around with Cassie, serving large groups of tourists, many of whom had been enticed by the beautiful spring weather out into the Cotswolds countryside.

  Meadowford-on-Smythe, with its winding cobbled lanes and pretty thatched-roof cottages, was one of the most popular destinations for visitors to the area, especially given its proximity to Oxford. It was a short bus ride from the University city centre and, for the foreigners, it was the perfect postcard English village, with its historic pub, lovely village green, and the charming old church with its elegant steeple silhouetted against the rolling Cotswolds hills in the distance. Tourists loved ambling down the village high street, peering into the windows of the antique and craft shops, and then rounding it off with some delicious baking and traditional English tea at my quaint little tearoom.

  My business had only been going for about six months, but already the Little Stables Tearoom was building quite a reputation for itself in the area. There had been so many times when I had wondered if I had done the right thing: going against all advice by giving up my high-flying executive job in Sydney to come back to England and start this venture. And as if risking my career and my savings weren’t bad enough, I had to deal with a lot of social disapproval as well. As my mother had put it so succinctly at the time: “You didn’t go to Oxford University just to become a tea lady!”

  Still, I was really pleased to see that my mother had changed her tune since and even seemed proud of what I had achieved. And looking around the dining room now, with its happy hubbub of laughter and conversation, and the contented smiles on people’s faces as they tucked into the delicious cakes and scones, I felt a wonderful glow of pride that I had never felt back in my corporate career.

  “Don’t forget—you’re delivering that catering order to the college in Oxford,” said Cassie as she came up to me at the counter.

  “Oh, my God, I’d completely forgot!” I smacked my forehead.

  This was a great coup—our first catering order from an Oxford University institution. The college was holding a special High Tea for their alumni and I had been delighted when the Little Stables Tearoom had been contacted and asked to provide the food. It seemed that word was really spreading about my tearoom and its delectable baking.

  “Thank goodness you reminded me. I’ll go and load up the car now,” I said to Cassie.

  “I’d come and give you a hand, but I’d better not leave the dining room,” said Cassie, eyeing the full tables around the room.

  “Don’t worry—I’m sure I’ll manage.”

  I had stopped off in North Oxford on the way into
the tearoom that morning and swapped my bicycle for my mother’s car, and I loaded it carefully now with trays and boxes of cakes, buns, and delicate finger sandwiches, trying to jostle the food as little as possible. The toasted teacakes with apricot compote smelled absolutely heavenly and the Victoria sponge with luscious fresh strawberries looked so delicious that I had to restrain myself from dabbing a finger into the soft whipped cream to steal a taste.

  Parking in central Oxford was always a bit of a nightmare and my heart sank at the thought of finding anywhere near the High Street, but thankfully the college had a few parking spaces reserved for “Trade”, off the lane running along the side of the college grounds. A lovely old gentleman, who was the Steward at the college, came and helped me unload the food, then showed me the beautiful Georgian dining room where the High Tea would be served. He had even rustled up several multi-tiered cake platters to display my scones, cakes, and finger sandwiches, and brought out the college’s prize silver tea service.

  “My goodness, this looks amazing!” I commented, staring in admiration and thinking that it made my offerings at the tearoom look rather drab in comparison.

  “Well, people do love the old-fashioned etiquette and traditions, don’t they?” said the Steward. “It’s part of the charm of the English way of life. And in a place like Oxford, we excel at keeping the old traditions alive!” He beamed at me.

  After thanking him for his help, I made my way back out of the college and headed for my car. However, just as I was about to get in, a loud creaking caught my attention. I glanced up. On the opposite side of the lane ran a long stone wall and I realised belatedly that it marked the boundary of the next adjoining college. That must be Haverton College, I realised, as I remembered where I was on the High Street. Like many Oxford colleges, Haverton had a main gate leading into the front quadrangle of the college, but also one or more smaller gates leading out of the back or side. The creaking had come from one of these side gates: a heavy wooden door embedded in the stone wall, obviously leading into the back of the college.