A Scone To Die For (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1) Page 7

  “Oh, I’m sorry for your loss,” the woman said, her eyes softening in compassion.

  I winced. I didn’t feel particularly good about lying and playing on the woman’s sympathies. Suddenly I remembered one of the continual arguments Devlin and I used to have as students: he had always been a firm believer in the ends justifying the means, whereas I had always insisted on idealistic ethics. Now, as I thought of how glibly I had lied, I wondered if age and experience had changed me. Maybe I agreed with Devlin after all.

  “Thank you,” I said quickly. “We couldn’t find his Matriculation photo amongst his things and I’d love to see what he looked like as a student. I was hoping I could find him in one of the photos here.”

  “You can order a replacement from Gillman & Soame, you know,” she said. “They keep a wonderful archive.”

  “Er… yes… we’ll probably do that. But I thought—since I was in the neighbourhood—I’d just pop in and see if I could find him here in the college archives…?” I trailed off hopefully.

  The woman nodded. “Oh, yes, certainly. We keep a record of almost everything. The archive holds all the minutes of the college meetings and college clubs and societies, as well as documents related to the college finances and building projects. There are also copies of the college publications and photographs of events in the college history. And of course, we also have a copy of the Matriculation photos from each year, dating back to 1954.” She looked at me enquiringly. “If you give me the year your uncle matriculated, I can help you find it.”

  “Um…”

  Flip! How was I going to get out of this one? The minute she started asking for details like my uncle’s name and year of matriculation, she’d know I was fibbing. To my relief, the phone on her desk rang at that moment and she picked it up. From the sound of the conversation which ensued, there was a problem in the bursar’s office—something to do with missing records.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said as she put the phone back in its cradle. “I have to go and sort this out.” She gave a sigh of exasperation. “This is the fourth time this week they’ve had this issue and I think if I don’t go myself, they will never resolve the problem.”

  “That’s all right.” I gave her my most winning smile. “Maybe I could just take a peek at the photos myself?” I gestured to the other side of the gallery. “Is that them hanging along the walls?”

  “Well…” She looked behind herself doubtfully. “I’m not really supposed to let anyone have access to the gallery unsupervised.” Then she smiled. “But I’m sure it’ll be fine with you. Yes, most of the photos are hanging on the walls, although some of the older ones may be in that cabinet in the far corner. Just please make sure you’re very careful about not rearranging anything—they’ve been painstakingly categorised and ordered.”

  I promised to take great care and, as soon as her footsteps had faded down the stairs, I whisked across the gallery. The photos covered most of the length of the long wall and were hung in chronological order. I paused in front of the first one and hesitated. Where should I start? I had no idea when the American had matriculated. If he had been here as an undergraduate, that would have been about twenty to twenty-five years ago, but if he had come to Oxford to do a graduate degree, he could have been older and been here much more recently.

  I decided to start my search first at the photos from twenty-five years ago. I walked along the wall, studying them carefully. There was no face remotely like his. I moved on, trying the later years, going through them systematically.

  Bingo.

  I paused at the Matriculation photo from fifteen years ago and stared at a young man sitting in the front row. He had been much thinner then, his jowls less fleshy, but it was unmistakably him. He was sitting between a serious-looking young man with a receding hairline and a gangly young man squinting at the camera.

  I threw a glance over my shoulder, then reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. I held it up at arm’s length and snapped a replica of the Matriculation photo with my phone’s camera. I checked the shot, making sure that every face was clear. Then I remembered something else. All Matriculation photos were usually accompanied by a sheet of paper, listing all the names of the students in order. Carefully, I turned the framed photo over. It was there, glued to the back of the mounting board. I snapped another shot with my phone, then returned the photo to its original position on the wall.

  I dashed back across the room, scribbled a quick note of thanks to the archive librarian, then hurried down the staircase, hoping that I wouldn’t encounter her on the way up. I didn’t. I got out of the library undetected and returned to the main quad with a sigh of relief.

  Mission accomplished.

  Except… what had I really accomplished? All I knew now was that the American had been at Gloucester College as a graduate student. And I also have his name, I thought. I pulled my phone back out of my pocket and checked the list of names, matching it against the photo. I found him, seventh along the front row from the left: “B. Washington”. I wondered what the “B” stood for. The police would know, of course. My little bit of detective work wasn’t really worth much when I knew that Devlin could have easily found out the victim’s name by going through the man’s personal items at the hotel.

  But I didn’t have police access to things and I had found out this information myself. I felt absurdly proud of that. And the police might not necessarily know of Washington’s connection with Gloucester College and the University. Unless they found that folder I saw on Friday…

  Deep in thought, I didn’t notice the young man coming towards me until I almost bumped into him just outside the Porter’s Lodge.

  “Seth!”

  “Hey Gemma… what are you doing here?”

  “I was… um… doing some research.”

  Seth’s gaze sharpened. “Is this about the murder?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Cassie rang and told me what happened this morning. And I have no doubt that it will be on the six o’clock news tonight. But I thought the police were investigating—?”

  “They are. I’m just doing a bit of my own investigating.”

  Seth raised his eyebrows. Then he glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to give a tutorial to a bunch of first-years now, but listen, would you like to come to High Table tonight? I haven’t taken a guest yet.” He grinned. “If I take you, I’d gain some brownie points for bringing the prettiest guest to Formal Hall.”

  “Flattery doesn’t work on me, Seth Browning,” I said dryly. I was about to refuse, then I paused. Perhaps visiting High Table wouldn’t be such a bad idea. I might get a chance to speak to some of the older dons who might remember Washington. Another long shot but worth playing. I gave Seth a smile.

  “All right, you’re on. I’ll have to dash back and change, though,” I said, looking down at my jeans.

  It was part of the custom at Oxford that many of the colleges held two sittings for dinner: an earlier “Informal Hall”., which was a more casual meal, and a later “Formal Hall”., which was a more ceremonial event. And one of the rules of etiquette for Formal Hall was changing for dinner: men had to wear a smart jacket and tie, and women something suitably dressy, together with their black gowns. “Formal Hall” was a unique experience, from the pre-dinner reception drinks in the ante-chamber and the solemn saying of Grace in Latin before the meal, to the leisurely three-course dinner, served by uniformed college staff, accompanied by wine and port. It was something that I had taken for granted during my years as a student and it was strange to think of experiencing it again.

  “Will I have to dig out my old gown?”

  “Well, you know they like it if you’re a member—even an ex-member of the University—but you could always pretend you’re not one of us.” Seth grinned.

  I rolled my eyes. “Okay, I’ll see you back here at seven.”

  “Great! Got to dash now. See you later!”

  I watched him hurry off across the
quad. Suddenly I was looking forward to dinner very much…

  CHAPTER NINE

  I surveyed myself critically in the mirror. I was out of practice at this. Eight years of living in Australia had made me lazy about dressing up. The Aussies championed the more casual way of life—even the wealthiest billionaires and high-society figures often hung out at the local cafés dressed in faded jeans and flip-flops. The easy-going, relaxed nature of Down Under had suited me to a comfy old T-shirt but my mother—who is of the pearls and twinset brigade—had despaired every single time she had seen me when I had come back to visit, horrified at my lack of ladylike presentation.

  Well, tonight she would have been pleasantly surprised. In my fine crêpe wool dress, sheer black tights, and stiletto heels, my short pixie crop brushed to gleaming, complemented by soft plum lipstick and classic black eyeliner, I looked the picture of stylish elegance.

  I picked up my favourite pale pink pashmina and then, on an impulse, turned and went back to my wardrobe. From the deepest recesses, I dragged out a large black robe with voluminous sleeves and a gathered, stiffened yokel at the back. This was my Oxford scholar’s gown. It had once been part of my life almost every day when I had been at Oxford, especially part of the ritual of attending dinner in Formal Hall. I stared at it for a long moment, then slipped it on and looked at myself once more in the mirror.

  Strange how putting on something can instantly change the way you feel. Suddenly, I felt part of the University again—as if I was reclaiming a lost identity. I knew that I didn’t have to wear it, but I decided to keep it on. I smiled at my reflection, picked up the pashmina again, and turned and left my room.

  “More wine, Miss Rose?”

  I turned to the elderly don next to me, who had introduced himself as Professor Edmund Wilkins, and gave him a smile. “Thank you.”

  I watched as he refilled my glass. So far, the experience was slightly surreal. It would have been strange anyway coming back to Formal Hall after all this time… but sitting at High Table just made it weirder. As an undergraduate, I had never been to High Table; in fact, I had never really paid it that much attention. It was simply the place where the members of the Senior Common Room sat during dinner; a table separated from the rest, on a raised platform at one end of the hall. Now that I was up here, it felt strangely “wrong”. I looked down across the hall. I knew that this wasn’t my own college and this wasn’t the dining hall I had been used to, but still, there was a sense of not being where I should be. I felt like I ought to be down there, sitting at the long tables, eating with the other students…

  The old don set the wine bottle down and glanced sideways at my gown. “So are you a member of the University, my dear? I don’t seem to remember Seth bringing you before.”

  “Yes, though this isn’t my college.” I gestured to the students below us. “I was just thinking to myself that I feel like I ought to be down there. I can’t believe that it’s been over eight years since I was last at Formal Hall. In a way, it feels like I never left.”

  “Yes…” Professor Wilkins turned his eyes to the rest of the dining hall. “I’ve been at Gloucester College for nearly forty-seven years now—came here as an undergraduate and never left.” He gave a dry chuckle. “I’ve seen so many students come and go, I feel like I’m beginning to see the same faces again.”

  “You must have a good memory then,” I said, smiling.

  “One tries. Of course, some students stand out more than others.” He looked at me curiously. “So are you back at Oxford doing further studies?”

  Seth laughed from across the table. “She’s back at Oxford serving tea,” he said. “Gemma’s taken over a tearoom in one of the Cotswolds villages.”

  “Running a tearoom?” said one of the female dons from farther down the table with an incredulous laugh. “Are you serious?”

  I felt myself flushing and raised my chin. “Yes,” I said.

  “What did you read at Oxford?” she asked insolently.

  “English.”

  “I suppose you’re putting your education to great use at the tearoom,” she said with a snide smile.

  I felt my jaw clenching and deliberately tried to relax it. Seth looked from me to the female don and back again, and said hastily:

  “Well, I think Gemma’s doing a fantastic job with the tearoom. And she’s got the most smashing scones.” He turned back to Professor Wilkins. “Edmund, you must go and try them, if you haven’t yet.”

  The old don nodded amiably. “What is the name, my dear?” he asked me.

  “The Little Stables Tearoom,” I said.

  “You’re the owner of the Little Stables Tearoom?” came a sharp voice from farther down the table.

  I turned to see a thin man, with a balding head and wired-framed glasses, looking intently at me. Although Seth had made a round of introductions in the Senior Common Room earlier, I hadn’t spoken to this particular don. He had kept to himself, nursing a glass of dry sherry and not making eye contact with anyone. This was the first time he had attempted to speak to me all evening.

  “Prof Hughes, now you ought to get some scones into you, old boy,” said Professor Wilkins jovially. “You’re always such a sack of skin and bones. You need a bit of fattening up!”

  Hughes? I thought of that signature on the American’s letter and I looked at the man with new interest. I noticed that his face seemed strangely swollen and the skin around his eyes was puffy and red.

  “Wasn’t the Little Stables Tearoom on the news this evening?” another female fellow said suddenly. “A suspicious death?”

  I coloured slightly as I saw everyone on High Table turn to look at me. “Yes,” I admitted. “There was an unfortunate incident this morning. Um… One of the customers—an American tourist—was found dead in the courtyard.”

  There was a series of gasps, coupled with looks of sordid curiosity.

  “Were you the one who found him?” asked the female fellow.

  “Yes… unfortunately.”

  She gave a delicate shudder. “How frightful!”

  “Do the police think it’s murder?”

  “Do they know what happened?”

  “Have they got any suspects?”

  I was very conscious of Hughes’s eyes boring into me. I decided to be less than honest.

  “I’m not really sure. The police have started an investigation, of course. Did they say anything on the news?” I glanced back at Hughes.

  “No, they merely said that it was being treated as a suspicious death,” he said shortly.

  “Well, this is rather exciting!” cried another of the dons. “It’s like one of those murder mysteries on the telly! Our very own Inspector Morse or Midsomer Murder!”

  The others at the table joined in eagerly with the speculation.

  “I’d bet on them finding that it was a jealous ex-mistress.”

  “Or a blackmailer! It’s always a blackmailer—”

  “No, I think it was industrial espionage. He was American, right? He was probably selling trade secrets to some company in the U.K. and got silenced.”

  “It was very likely something much more prosaic,” said Professor Wilkins with another dry chuckle. “Like a mugging gone wrong—a homeless drunk, perhaps, cracking him on the head with a wine bottle…”

  I noticed that Hughes had remained silent through all this wild conjecture. I caught his eye and said, “Do you have any theories, Professor Hughes?”

  His eyes slid away from mine. “Me? No, why should I? I don’t even know the man.”

  Liar, I thought. I didn’t have any proof but I was willing to bet that “Hughes” was the signature on that letter I had seen in the American’s folder. He would be about the same age as Washington—they had probably been at Oxford around the same time. What were the chances that Hughes was the person Washington had come back to his old college to see?

  “I’m sure it was something like industrial espionage,” said one of the younger fellows again. He
nodded eagerly. “He probably got involved with some organised crime syndicate and thought that he could handle things—but then found himself sinking deeper and deeper—”

  Seth burst out laughing. “I think you’ve been reading too many spy thrillers, Gordon!”

  The young fellow looked indignant. “It happens in real life too! Maybe he thought he could stay aloof, but it backfired. You know what they say—once you get your hands dirty, you can’t ever wash them clean again.”

  “Sounds like something your favourite philosopher would say,” said Professor Wilkins with a nod to Hughes. “What’s that line again? About the abyss.”

  Hughes hesitated, then quoted, “And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”

  “Nietzsche,” I said, recognising the quote.

  Hughes looked at me with new interest. “I thought you said you read English, not Philosophy?”

  “Yes, but I always liked Nietzsche—from a language point of view, if nothing else—he had a real way with words.” I paused and added, “My favourite quote of his is: ‘And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music’.”

  The old don turned to me with a chuckle, “My goodness, you and Prof Hughes ought to get together sometime. He is obsessed with Nietzsche—”

  “I’m not obsessed,” said Hughes sharply. “I just happen to admire him and agree with a lot of what he says.”

  “And have his quotes all over your office, on your answering machine, in your research articles, and in the signature at the end of your emails?” scoffed the young fellow. “I’d say that you’re obsessed, Hughes! You should have made Philosophy your subject, and become an expert on Nietzsche, instead of going into Pharmacology.”

  “Don’t encourage him even more,” said another fellow, rolling his eyes.

  Hughes looked slightly embarrassed. “I’m quite happy in my field,” he said stiffly.