Two Down, Bun To Go (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 3)

by H. Y. Hanna

  “Still, you have to admit, it gives Jim a very good motive,” I said gently.

  “Oh yeah, let’s just all jump on the homeless guy! Why not?” snapped Seth. “Because they’re always criminals anyway, right? Because all homeless people are just drunks and drug addicts and losers!”

  Cassie gave me a startled look. I put my hands up soothingly. “It was just a thought, Seth. I mean, you have to consider all possible suspects in a situation like this…”

  Seth passed a hand over his face. “Sorry… sorry, Gemma. It just makes me so mad… If you’ve spoken with some of these people like I have and heard their stories… A lot of them are just unlucky and have been kicked to the gutter and now they’re trying their best to climb out—but they’re struggling because of the system and other people’s prejudices... It’s just incredibly unfair! And now with something like this, I can just see the police honing in on the first homeless man in the neighbourhood.”

  “Well, actually, they’re honing in on you,” I said dryly. “And I’m just trying to find out who the real murderer is so you can be released from the charges.”

  Seth look shamefaced. “I know. Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I just… the last forty-eight hours have been pretty rough and it’s all getting to me a bit.”

  “We’ll let you get some rest now,” said Cassie, standing up. “Come on, Gemma.”

  Giving Seth a pat on the shoulder, I turned and followed Cassie out of the room. We walked slowly back towards the college entrance, our breaths coming out in clouds of steam in the chilly night air.

  “I’ve never seen Seth like that before, have you?” said Cassie, breaking the silence.

  I glanced at her. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he’s usually so mild and sweet and patient,” said Cassie. “I’ve never seen him get so passionate and even… aggressive about something. I mean, I thought his chamber music obsession was bad but this is something else…

  “Do you remember,” she continued, “that one time in college when he found a bunch of students teasing one of the first years who had a stammer? They were being pretty cruel and making fun of the poor fresher. Seth really lost it. Punched one of the other students. They had to call the porters to come and calm him down. He just can’t bear to see people abusing the weak and disadvantaged.” She looked at me. “And now, this is the same thing. It’s like this charity taps into what he believes in and he’s taking it so personally.”

  I walked silently, deep in thought. Cassie was right. It had been bothering me too. I had always thought that I knew Seth but tonight I’d seen a new side to him. I thought back to that dinner with Devlin and the way I had insisted I knew Seth and what he was capable of. I felt a flicker of unease. Maybe I was wrong?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I usually had a lie-in and a bit of a lazy morning lounging around in my pyjamas on Mondays—it was my one day off from the tearoom—but this Monday, I was up and dressed early as I’d offered to drop my mother and Helen Green at the bus station for the start of their big adventure. I stood waiting patiently in the hall as my mother flitted around, fussing over her luggage and giving last-minute instructions.

  “And don’t forget to water the herb pots in the kitchen window… and the palm here in the hallway needs some water too… and remember to put out the rubbish on Wednesday… oh, and if your father rings, tell him I found his reading glasses by the bathroom sink—he is so dreadfully forgetful—he must have forgot to pack them…”

  A clatter in the living room made us turn around.

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “Oh, it must be that naughty Muesli again!” said my mother in exasperation. “She’s developed some sort of a fixation with one of the floor vents in the living room. She won’t leave it alone.”

  I peeked into the living room. In the far corner, Muesli was huddled over the floor vent, which was covered with an ornate Victorian cast iron grille. Her head was cocked to one side and she was batting at the grille, which made a clatter each time it shifted in its frame.

  “I wonder if she can smell something in the crawl space beneath the house and she wants to get down there to investigate,” said my mother, coming to peer over my shoulder.

  I went over to the little cat and waved my hand. “Leave that alone, Muesli… Shoo!”

  “Meorrw!” said Muesli indignantly. She gave me a baleful look, then turned and stalked off.

  I tapped the grille with my toe. It shifted slightly in its frame—probably a bit loose—but it seemed okay. I’d ask my father about it when he got back from South Africa.

  “Oh heavens—is that the time?” my mother gasped, looking at the clock in the hallway. “I’m going to miss the ten o’clock coach, Gemma!”

  We bundled ourselves into the car and—pausing only long enough to pick up Helen—I drove to Gloucester Green, where Oxford’s central bus station was located. Parking was a bit of a nightmare and I had to park a fair distance away, then help my mother and her friend with their bags. I was glad they had decided to forgo the knapsack option although I wasn’t too sure about their choice of luggage. They couldn’t have picked anything else that screamed “Rich, naïve Western tourist!” more loudly. In fact, Helen’s fancy wheeled case looked like a cousin of R2-D2, complete with 180-degree spinner wheels, impact resistant polycarbonate casing, and slick aluminium frame.

  “Oh, I’m so worried I might have forgotten something… I’ve got my ticket and passport, haven’t I?” fretted Helen as we stood next to the airport express coach, waiting for the luggage to be loaded into the belly of the vehicle. She began rummaging through her handbag for the twentieth time. “I’ve got my passport here but… where’s the ticket?” she gasped.

  “Oh, I told you, remember? We’re using e-tickets now,” said my mother loftily. “It’s all in their computers. You just give them your passport and they scan it and find your ticket attached.”

  I hid a smile of amusement. For someone who had only entered the online world properly four months ago, my mother was acting like a top authority on the subject.

  “Well, I still wish there was some sort of ticket,” grumbled Helen. “I feel so naked travelling this way.”

  “Don’t forget to send me a text or email when you arrive in Jakarta,” I said to my mother. “Just so I know you got there and everything is okay.”

  “Oh, stop fussing, darling… I’m sure we’ll be fine,” said my mother, busily thumbing through a brochure on Treasures in Jakarta. “Oh, Helen, listen to this! There’s a market in Jakarta where you can see and touch live eels!”

  “Mother—did you hear me? Don’t forget! I’ll be worrying otherwise… and remember that you need to haggle in Asia. Don’t just pay the asking price—make sure you bargain. They expect Westerners to be easy game so they’ll probably try to rip you off, especially in the tourist areas.”

  “Yes, yes, darling,” said my mother distractedly. “We’ll be fine. Oh, they’re boarding! Come on, Helen! Krakatoa, here we come!”

  She gave me a hurried kiss on the cheek, then joined the line of people scrambling up the coach steps. I stood and watched until the coach had rumbled out of the bus station. It was a bit weird—like some kind of strange role reversal—me standing there watching my mother go off on some independent travel and worrying about her. I turned away at last, then paused. The parking on the car was still good for some time and my stomach was growling. I hadn’t had breakfast yet. Rather than go home to a boring bowl of cereal, I decided to be indulgent and treat myself to breakfast in town.

  Besides, after days of gloomy skies and heavy fog, there seemed to be a welcome break in the winter weather today. The skies were a watery blue and there was even a peek of sunshine from behind the clouds. It was a pale, weak sunshine but sunshine nonetheless. I smiled to myself, feeling my spirits lift, and decided that a brisk walk in the fresh air was just what I needed.

  I wandered from the bus depot area into the main square of Gloucester Green.
Despite its name, it actually bore no resemblance to the typical village green with the patch of grass and the duck pond. It was more in the style of an Italian piazza, with a row of tall, elegant red brick apartment blocks fronting two sides of the square, and cafés and boutique stores on the ground floor. The other side of the square backed onto George Street, which was a bit like Oxford’s version of the West End—filled with cinemas, theatres, and eateries.

  I bypassed the restaurants on George Street, heading for the junction with Cornmarket, the main pedestrianised thoroughfare through the centre of town. There was a McDonald’s on Cornmarket—a place I knew well from my student days—and I was heading for the guilty pleasure of an Egg McMuffin. I smiled wryly as I imagined Abby Finch’s face—she’d probably have an apoplexy, as they said in the olden days, if she knew about the non-gluten-free-full-of-white-flour-high-fructose-cholesterol-laden meal I was heading for.

  As I was about to enter the Golden Arches, I passed a tall, thin man in an old anorak and faded jogging pants, with a lanyard around his neck. He was holding a bunch of what looked like thin, non-glossy magazines and I realised that he was a Big Issue vendor. They’d become a common sight in cities around the U.K.: selling the street newspaper gave the homeless a chance to earn a legitimate income and meant that they could have a better chance of reintegrating back into society too.

  I smiled at him and was automatically reaching for my purse when I saw that, like many of the homeless in Oxford, he was accompanied by a dog: a stocky little Staffordshire bull terrier, its mouth wide open in a typical “Staffie smile” and its tail wagging wildly. It jumped up as I approached them and shoved its nose into my crotch.

  “Whoa! Sorry ’bout that! Ruby can be a bit enthusiastic, like,” said her owner with a grin.

  I grinned back, rubbing her ears. “Don’t worry. I like dogs. She is gorgeous! How old is she?”

  “Nearly six, I reckon,” he said. “Though you’d never know it from the way she be’aves. Still like a pup, she is.”

  I crouched down to give Ruby a belly rub. The Staffie rolled onto her back, closing her eyes as one back leg twitched whilst I stroked her exposed stomach. I laughed at the expression of utter bliss on her face.

  “She looks very well,” I said.

  He drew himself up proudly. “Always look out for ’er first, I do. Always make sure that Ruby’s fed and got a warm place to sleep. And there’s kind charities that provide free vet care for dogs that are livin’ on the streets with us.”

  “She seems really happy,” I said, rising to my feet and rubbing her ears again. I thought of all the dogs belonging to wealthy families who languished alone and neglected in homes and gardens all day. This dog may never have known the luxury of a faux fur bed or organic dog food, but it had constant love and companionship, and I wondered if it was happier than a lot of “pampered” pets out there.

  “I’m Owen,” said the man, offering his hand with a smile. “Can I interest you in a copy of the latest Big Issue?”

  “Oh yes, of course… that’s what I came over for, actually. I got side-tracked by Ruby.” I chuckled as I gave him the money. I flicked through the magazine quickly, then said casually, “I see that the murder at Wadsworth College didn’t make it into this issue.”

  His face darkened. “Bad business, that,” he said grimly. “Police were ’ere yesterday, questioning a bunch of us street people…”

  “Why? It happened in a college, didn’t it?” I said innocently. “Why would the police think you know anything about it? Surely they’re not immediately assuming that the homeless are involved?” I said with exaggerated indignation.

  It worked. I could see that I had gained his sympathy. And loosened his tongue.

  “It’s always easy to blame the ’omeless,” said Owen, making a face. “But fair’s fair—in this case, seems they ’ad a good reason. Some bloke caught on the camera outside the college—looked like a tramp—so they were showin’ us a picture taken from the footage and askin’ us if we knew ’im.”

  “Did you?” I asked, trying to conceal my eager interest.

  He shrugged again. “Could be. ’ard to tell—real grainy picture, it was. But I reckon it looked like Jim. Same red ’air and ’e’s a big bloke, real tall.”

  “Do you think he could be involved? I mean, do you know him well? Does he seem like the type who could… um… you know, hurt someone?”

  “Who knows? You can never tell, can you? I learned long ago to stop askin’ people ’bout their past. Some of us ’ave ’ad it real rough.”

  “Yes, I can imagine,” I said with genuine sympathy. I thought of Seth’s words from the night before. “I suppose it’s understandable that a homeless person might react violently to something—”

  “Didn’t say that,” Owen said quickly. “Don’t think you can ever justify violence. Take Ruby ’ere—she was beaten by ’er previous owner ’cos ’e was pissed off that she’d chewed up ’is shoes. There en’t ever any call for that! No matter ’ow angry you are.”

  I looked up at him—at this thin, balding man with his tattered clothes and stubbled chin—and yet who had more integrity and natural dignity than a member of the House of Lords. I felt something tighten at the back of my throat.

  “You’re right,” I said, leaning down to rub Ruby’s ears again. “But sadly I don’t think many people share your view.”

  “Ah, well, more’s their loss,” he said with a smile.

  I smiled back. “By the way, are you familiar with the Domus Trust?”

  His face brightened. “Oh, yeah. Great charity, they are. New but doin’ a lot o’ good work. They’ve got this scheme to build affordable ’ousing, so us ’omeless ’ave a chance to get off the streets. Actually, that bloke, Jim, was involved with ’em—it’s ’ow I got chattin’ to ’im. ’E came down here from the north a few weeks ago and I’d seen ’im around, but ’e’s not real friendly, like, so we didn’t speak much. Then ’e came and asked me if I’d be interested in applyin’ for a unit if they approved the project.”

  I looked at Owen in surprise. “But surely… wouldn’t everyone want a place? Why would you even need to ask?”

  “Ah, well… Not everyone wants to get off the streets, you know. Some of us are used to the freedom of livin’ rough.” He looked down and gave Ruby a pat. “And there’s those of us with pets. I mean, would they let Ruby come stay with me in this ’ousing? I en’t goin’ nowhere without Ruby. I’d rather sleep on the streets than ’ave ’em take ’er away from me and put ’er in a shelter.”

  “I hope they can work it out,” I said sincerely. “Hey, listen—I was just going into McDonald’s. Can I get you anything? A burger and a cup of hot coffee? And I’ll get something for Ruby too.”

  His face split in a toothy grin. “That’s real kind of you, miss. ’ot drink wouldn’t go amiss in this weather…” He rubbed his chapped hands together. “I’m partial to a ’ot coffee. And a burger would be real nice.”

  “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

  I had just missed the breakfast menu but I didn’t mind as this meant I could pick up a bigger meal for Owen. I ordered him a Big Mac meal with all the trimmings, together with a chocolate muffin, an apple pie, and a hot cup of coffee. And a side order of chicken nuggets for Ruby. The smell of the thin, crispy fries was making my mouth water and I had to resist pinching a few on my way out.

  “Cor! This ’ere’s a real treat!” said Owen, grabbing the paper bag when I returned to him.

  Ruby looked up hopefully, her nose working overtime. Owen put his hand in the bag and drew out a chicken nugget, holding it above the dog’s nose.

  “Look at this, Ruby girl! Chicken nuggets, eh? Now, you show the nice lady your manners. Sit.”

  The Staffie dropped her bum on the ground, squirming in place, barely able to contain herself. Owen laughed and gave her the nugget. It was gone in less than a second and the dog licked her chops and looked up eagerly for more.

  I laughed as well.
“Maybe I should have got her two boxes. Well, I hope you enjoy them.” I bent down to give Ruby a final pat, then as I was turning to leave, a thought occurred to me.

  “By the way, you wouldn’t happen to know where I could find Jim?”

  I wondered if he would ask why I wanted to know, but luckily Owen was busily tucking into his burger, too distracted to wonder at my question.

  “’E likes the patch down by the canal,” he said with his mouth full. “Down near Jericho, I think. Might find ’im there.” He paused and gave me a look. “But I’d go carefully, if I were you. Jim don’t like strangers much.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Oxford canal started from Hythe Bridge Street, which was at the bottom of George Street, near Gloucester Green. This was handy as my watch told me that my time was nearly up for the parking. I could swing by the bus station, add more money to the parking meter, and then head on down to the canal.

  The whole thing shouldn’t have been more than an extra five-minute detour but as I was crossing the wide expanse of the piazza square, I suddenly heard the most dreadful noise. It was somebody singing, I realised. No, squawking would have been a better word. I looked around with a mixture of disbelief and annoyance, trying to see who was making that terrible racket. Gloucester Green was popular with many of the homeless folk and buskers, and you could usually find a few huddled against the buildings at the sides of the square, but the street musicians I’d come across here before were usually pretty good. This singer was so awful, on the other hand, you almost wanted to pay her to stop.