A Scone To Die For (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1) Read online

  “So the police didn’t tell you anything?” said the female fellow to me, bringing the conversation back to the murder mystery.

  “Not really.”

  “Do they know anything about the victim?” asked Hughes. “Do they know where he was from or what he was doing in Oxford?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask the police that. They weren’t exactly forthcoming with me.” That, at least, wasn’t a lie. I paused, then looked at Hughes straight in the eye. “I’m sure they’ll be looking into his background and movements, to see who might have had a motive—and opportunity—to kill him.”

  Hughes dropped his eyes from mine and busied himself cutting up some roast potatoes. The conversation on the table shifted to the rise of crime in Oxford and I could see that Hughes looked relieved. He contributed little more to the conversation and excused himself as soon as dessert was served.

  I watched him leave the hall. He knew something about the American’s murder—I was sure of it. As soon as politeness allowed, I made my own excuses to Seth and the other fellows and left the hall. As I was walking towards the college gate, I pulled my phone out of my handbag and flicked to the photo gallery, looking at the picture I had taken of the Matriculation photo again. I zoomed in and focused on the young man next to Washington. Yes, it was definitely Geoffrey Hughes—with a lot more hair—but with the same serious expression.

  A surge of excitement gripped me. I thought of Devlin. I knew I ought to tell him about this. It could have been a valuable lead. Then I remembered his cold, brusque attitude and his off-hand manner towards me. It was like a dash of cold water. And I recalled my vow not to volunteer any more information to him.

  Let Devlin figure out the connections himself, I thought mutinously. He’s not going to get help from me in this investigation!

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Gemma? Gemma, are you up yet? They’ll be here any minute.”

  “Hmm?” I opened one eye and squinted in the sunshine coming in through a gap in the curtains. There was muffled knocking at my bedroom door, then my mother’s voice came again. “Gemma, darling… It’s nearly ten o’clock.”

  “WHAT?” I sat upright in bed. Ten o’clock! How could I have slept so late?

  I rubbed my eyes. The recent weeks—since the opening of the tearoom—must have been more exhausting than I’d thought. With weekends being the busiest days in the tourist trade, I hadn’t had a lie-in since I arrived back in England and the only reason I didn’t have the alarm set for this morning was because I’d gotten a message from Devlin last night saying that the police wouldn’t be done with the tearoom until lunchtime. So no business again today and no need to get up at my usual time. Still, I hadn’t intended to sleep this late!

  My bedroom door opened and my mother stuck her head in. She raised her eyebrows slightly at my dishevelled state. “If you hurry, dear, you’ll still have time to shower before they arrive.”

  “Before who arrives?” I asked, yawning.

  “The book club, dear! Remember I told you about it at dinner on Friday night? I’m hosting the meeting this month. How lucky that you had to close the tearoom today—it means you can attend the meeting!”

  She shut the door behind her. I flopped backwards on the bed with a groan. Argh! I’d forgotten all about the book club meeting. Now there was no way of escaping—not without upsetting my mother. I sat up again and got out of bed with a sigh. I might as well make the best of it. It wasn’t as if I had anywhere else to be this morning.

  I showered, dressed, and got down to the living room just as the first members were arriving. My smile faltered slightly when I saw Mabel Cooke march through the front door. I could see from the gleam in her eye that she wanted to grill me about the murder but I managed to forestall her by hastily telling my mother that I would take care of the refreshments. Ten minutes of skulking in the kitchen, however, was as much as I could stretch it to. Thankfully, by the time I returned to the living room with the tea tray, everyone had sat down and Mabel was too busily engaged in gossiping with another lady to notice me quietly join the group.

  In general, there are two kinds of book clubs: those whose members are “serious” readers and spend their time ferociously dissecting the text for hidden nuggets of meaning that the author probably never intended, and those of the more social kind, where members simply want an excuse to meet and exclaim over each other’s hairstyles and gossip about their kids and neighbours. I quickly realised that my mother’s group was of the latter variety when twenty minutes had elapsed and we still hadn’t even mentioned the title being read.

  Most of the members were from my mother’s social circle, dressed in scarily similar Marks & Spencer cashmere twinsets, court pumps, and pearls, but one woman stood out like a black swan in a flock of white ones. She was a lot younger than the others—closer to my own age—and decidedly glamorous, in a sensual sort of way. She arrived in a cloud of designer perfume, dressed in a silk sheath dress which highlighted every one of her ample curves and complemented her creamy white skin. Her eyes were green and expertly accentuated with mascara, and her hair fell to her shoulders in glossy red waves. Real red—not something out of a bottle. I found it difficult not to stare. It was rare to see such a glamorous, attractive creature outside the pages of a fashion magazine.

  My mother introduced her as Justine Smith—a recent new member of the club—and as she greeted everyone in a pleasant drawl, I realised that she was American. I was pleased when I managed to find a seat next to her.

  “So you are new to Oxford?” I said.

  “Oh no,” she said. “I’ve been living here for years. I have a house around the corner, actually.”

  “I think I’ve seen you,” said my mother as she paused beside us to offer a plate of shortbread biscuits. “The large Regency townhouse in the crescent? You were unloading shopping from a big, black car at the front.” My mother shook her head in admiration. “How on earth did you manage to get such a fantastic parking bay? Right in front of your house too! I was just speaking to Dorothy and she’s been telling me what a nightmare it is to apply for an extra permit for on-street parking.”

  Justine gave a coy smile. “I guess I just got lucky.”

  My mother shook her head again and moved on to the ladies at the next sofa. I looked back at Justine. Somehow I had a hard time fitting her in my mother’s social circle. I wondered what had prompted her to join the book club. Something of my thoughts must have shown in my expression. She gave me a smile and said, “I thought it was time I became a bit more cultured.”

  She laughed. She had a deep, throaty laugh, and a graceful, self-assured manner. I felt suddenly gauche and unattractive next to her expensive sophistication.

  “I’m not sure how much literature you’re going to get,” I said ruefully, glancing at the others who were busily chattering.

  My mother and two friends were discussing the best way to store smoked salmon, Mabel was instructing another elderly lady on the best type of bran to have for breakfast, and three other ladies were aggressively comparing pictures of their grandchildren.

  “What book is the club reading anyway?” I asked.

  “Persuasion by Jane Austen.”

  “Oh—my favourite Austen book!” I said in delight.

  She gave me a lazy smile. “Really? I thought most people’s favourite was Pride and Prejudice.”

  “Oh, I like Darcy… which girl doesn’t? But you can’t beat Captain Wentworth for the most romantic letter of all time. Besides…” I hesitated. “I think there’s something so poignant and beautiful about Anne Elliot’s story—the story of second chances and starting again.”

  She looked at me in amusement. “Yeah, it’s nice in a book. Shame it doesn’t happen like that in real life.”

  “You’re very cynical.”

  “Let’s just say, I believe in the saying about a leopard not changing its spots.”

  “People aren’t leopards.”

 
“Oh, they’re not that different.” She gave a derisive smile. “You are who you are—and you don’t change.”

  “I don’t believe that. People change all the time!” I said hotly. “They start again, re-invent themselves…”

  I trailed off as I saw her looking at me curiously. I realised that I was probably over-reacting. I took a deep breath. Maybe Justine had hit a nerve. The tearoom was my “second chance”—my chance to start all over again, now that I was older and wiser. I wanted to believe—needed to believe—that I could be completely different to the “old me” and still find success and happiness.

  We were interrupted at that moment by my mother calling to me from across the room. She had her iPad in her lap and was frowning at it.

  “Gemma, darling, what is my Apple ID password again? I thought it was ‘gemmarose’ but it’s not letting me in.”

  “Did you capitalise the ‘G’?” I asked. “Remember, your Apple ID password needs the first letter to be a capital.” And well done for broadcasting your password to everyone in the room, I thought.

  “Ah…” My mother tapped haphazardly at her iPad. “Oh, yes! Got it! Here, look…” She turned to Dorothy Clarke, seated next to her. “See, you can get The Times newspaper now in the iPad. Isn’t that clever? So you don’t have to have a paper delivered every day…”

  Dorothy leaned over to look. “Oh, marvellous, Evelyn. Technology is amazing, isn’t it? Maybe I ought to get an iPad. My daughter keeps telling me to join this Face-thing where you can see your friends’ pictures on the computer.”

  “Oh, yes, I know all about Facebook. Helen helped me do that last week. I’ve got six friends on it, you know,” my mother said proudly. “And they’re so lovely. They like everything I say. This morning I posted a message about the shocking murder at Gemma’s tearoom and I had ten people liking it within an hour! Though I’m not sure why I had ten ‘Likes’ when I only have six friends but—”

  “Mother!” I looked at her in disbelief. “You shouldn’t be telling random people on Facebook about the murder!”

  Dorothy gave an exclamation and looked at me. “Why, Gemma! I had no idea that it was your tearoom when I saw the six o’clock news last night! A murdered American tourist! How ghastly!”

  I felt Justine stiffen next to me.

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s the reason I’m here today. I would normally be working on a Sunday, but we had to close the tearoom because the police are still working the crime scene.”

  Dorothy leaned forwards, lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper. “Were you the one who found the body?”

  I sighed. I was beginning to feel like I ought to walk around carrying an FAQ with answers such as “Yes, I found the body”, “No, I don’t know who the police suspect”, “Yes, he was found with a scone in his mouth”, “No, I’m afraid we’re fully booked this week but I can take reservations for next week” (okay, the last one was wishful thinking).

  “I heard on the news that the police have a suspect in custody already,” said one of the other ladies.

  “Rubbish,” said Mabel tartly. “They don’t have anybody in custody. They just have a few outlandish theories—which is hardly surprising when you consider that useless excuse for a sergeant that I met. Really! That boy couldn’t find his own willy if it wasn’t zipped up in his trousers! The police have no idea what they’re doing.”

  “I’m sure I heard that they had a suspect,” said the other lady stubbornly. “Somebody who had attacked the American in a pub or something…”

  Mabel sniffed. “Yes, they’re trying to pin it on Glenda Bailey’s great-nephew.”

  “The police suspect Mike Bailey?” I said.

  “Yes, and all because they found some scones at his place that were from the tearoom!” Mabel shook her head in exasperation. “Glenda had to call and explain that she was the one who had given them to him.”

  I frowned. “But surely that wouldn’t be enough for them to suspect him? I mean, several people bought scones from me on Friday.”

  “It’s because of that fight in the pub,” one of the other ladies spoke up. “My son was there with his friends and he told me that Mike Bailey punched the American in the face!”

  Mabel waved a hand dismissively. “Mike has a temper on him—but he’s not a murderer. I’ve known him since he was a child. He needs a good telling-off and his mouth washed out with soap—but he’s not the type to kill anyone.”

  Maybe not on purpose, I thought to myself. But I wouldn’t put it past Mike to inadvertently hurt someone badly in a fit of temper. It wouldn’t be the first time someone got killed by mistake when people lost their tempers and things got out of hand. Besides, who was to know what anyone was really capable of?

  I remembered Cassie telling me how Mike had become increasingly bitter in recent months, ever since he had lost his job at the car factory due to an American takeover of the company. He was the type who always needed to blame someone for his misfortunes, and in this case, a rich American conglomerate would have been the perfect scapegoat. It would have given him even more reason to feel wronged and victimised: the small man fighting an unfair battle against the powerful corporate giant.

  Yes, Mike Bailey could easily have been nursing a grievance. And with the way Washington was taunting him on Friday night, it would have hardly been surprising if Mike decided to get vengeance on a personal level, against one smug American.

  “Well, I heard that the American choked on a scone,” said another lady. “Fancy that!”

  “Yes, it must have happened sometime between seven-forty-five and eight-forty when Gemma discovered him,” Mabel said.

  “How on earth could you know that?” I blurted out. “I doubt the police have even had the post-mortem report yet.”

  “Because he called the hotel reception at seven forty-five asking for his bathroom lightbulb to be changed. Frances Moore’s niece works at the Cotswold’s Manor Hotel. She told Jane Addison—who told Judith Powell—who told me at church this morning.”

  I could see Justine looking at Mabel with a mixture of astonishment and wonderment. Personally, I wasn’t surprised. In fact, I was more surprised that Mabel hadn’t found out what brand toothpaste Washington used and what size shoes he wore. On second thoughts, she probably had.

  “I hear that the detective on the case is very good,” Dorothy spoke up. “Detective Inspector Devlin O’Connor. I recognised his name when they mentioned him on the news last night. There was a piece about him in the papers earlier this year; it was to do with a murder up North… Leeds, I think it was… and no one had been able to solve it for seventeen years. Well, he cracked it.”

  My mother gave me a sharp look. “Devlin O’Connor? Is that—?”

  “Yes,” I said evenly.

  She seemed about to say something else, then glanced around and thought better of it. I saw Mabel watching us shrewdly

  One of the other ladies spoke up. “You know, I remember reading that article too. And I seem to remember some scandal associated with that case—wasn’t there a rumour that he’d got involved with one of the suspects or something? A very attractive young lady. And they were questioning his impartiality in the investigation—although he did solve the case in the end and bring the murderer to justice…”

  “If it’s the Devlin O’Connor I’m thinking of, I’m not surprised,” said my mother, compressing her lips.

  I felt a flare of annoyance, although I didn’t know why. It wasn’t like I felt any loyalty to Devlin.

  “Well, a good-looking lad like him—I shouldn’t wonder if he has a weakness for a pretty face,” Dorothy tittered.

  “Is there any man who doesn’t?” said another lady and everyone laughed politely.

  Mabel folded her arms. “Inspector O’Connor may be good but there will be things he doesn’t see because he’s not a real local. We know Oxford, we live here, we’re involved in the village communities, we know who to talk to… I think we have an advantage that the police will n
ever have.”

  I looked at her in puzzlement. “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Florence and Glenda and Ethel and me,” said Mabel, as if it should have been obvious. “We’ve decided we are going to conduct our own investigation.”

  I gaped at her. “Your own investigation?”

  “Yes! We’re not going to let the police arrest Glenda’s great-nephew when he’s innocent. This isn’t a simple murder—there’s a mystery behind this and we’re going to find out what it is. After all, if Agatha could do it, so can we.”

  “Who’s Agatha?” I said, really lost now.

  Mabel looked at me impatiently. “Why, Agatha Christie, of course!”

  “Er… But Mabel, you do realise that those are all just fictional stories? I mean, she made them up, so of course she knew who the killer was and how the murder was committed. She didn’t actually solve any real-life murders.”

  Mabel waved this way as if it was a minor detail. “I’m sure the principles are the same, dear. When I get back to Meadowford-on-Smythe later, I’m going to speak to Inspector O’Connor myself.”

  Heaven help Devlin, I thought with a flicker of malicious amusement. It was a bit of retribution for his brusque manner towards me. He was going to suffer at the hands of the Old Biddies… and I was going to enjoy watching it.

  “Ooh, Mabel—you must tell us what you find out from the police.”

  “Yes, and don’t forget to mention that Mr Thomas’s gnomes have been going missing from his garden—that might be significant.”

  “What about the sewage leak last month? I thought that was very suspicious.”

  “Yes, yes, the smell was awful.”

  “Do you think maybe it was a ritual killing? I mean, you hear about people getting involved in all sorts of dreadful cults—”

  “Aren’t we all rather jumping at conclusions?” my mother spoke up. “I mean, it sounds like the police have a strong suspect in Mike Bailey already and there’s no need for much further investigation.”