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

by H. Y. Hanna

  Lincoln crouched down and removed the shoe, then turned my foot over, trying to see the damage. I hobbled on my right foot next to him, feeling stupid and embarrassed. Lincoln touched my foot with a gentle hand and I gasped with pain, tears coming to my eyes.

  “You’ve got a nasty cut,” said Lincoln grimly. “I can’t see properly in this light but if it’s deep, you might need stitches. Anyway, the first step is to get it cleaned and then we can have another look. I need to examine it properly.”

  Lincoln’s voice had changed, become calm and authoritative—the doctor taking over—and I found myself meekly following his lead as he put pressure on the wound to stem the bleeding, then used his handkerchief to make a rough bandage. Then he directed me to put an arm around his shoulders as he supported me back through the tunnel. I hopped feebly alongside him and was glad that there weren’t many people out and about in the college to see us. I was feeling like a clumsy fool.

  We finally staggered into the Porter’s Lodge and I saw a middle-aged man in a sombre brown suit, with a receding hairline, hurry out from behind the counter.

  “Dear me…” He tutted. “What have we got here, sir?”

  “Miss Rose has had an accident,” said Lincoln crisply. “I’m a doctor. Have you got a first aid kit?”

  “Certainly, certainly…” The porter hurried back behind the counter and returned a few moments later with a large plastic box bearing the symbol of a red cross. I gritted my teeth as Lincoln carefully swabbed and cleaned the wound, then applied antiseptic cream and a clean bandage.

  “It looks okay,” he announced, looking back up at me with a smile. “No need to go to A&E.”

  “Where did this happen?” said the porter, hovering around us.

  “In the Cloisters.”

  “In the Cloister…?” He looked closely at Lincoln. “Erm… pardon me, sir, but didn’t I just see you run through here a few moments ago? You went out of the gate and then came back in…”

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Lincoln blandly. “I wanted to catch one of the other guests, who had left first, and ask him something. But when I got outside, I saw that he was already gone so I came back.”

  The porter looked from Lincoln to me. “May I ask what you were doing in the Cloisters, sir? I understand you’re with the Oxford Society of Medicine party—that dinner was taking place on the other side of college.”

  “We fancied some fresh air after the meal and thought we’d take a stroll around college.”

  “Ah, right…” He still looked doubtful. “Can I get you folks a taxi?”

  “Can a taxi come down the lane here?”

  “Certainly, sir. In fact, we have one particular taxi driver who is sort of ‘on standby’ for the college—we always give him a call first when we need a car and he is normally here within a few minutes, if he’s not on a job.”

  I looked at the porter in mild surprise. “Really? Things must have changed since I was at Oxford—I don’t remember ever using a taxi much. Most people just got around on bicycles or public transport, if they didn’t drive.” I laughed. “Gosh, you must have very pampered dons here at Wadsworth if they order taxis often enough to have a man on standby.”

  “Oh, well, it was one don really who often used taxis—Professor Barrow—he wouldn’t drive after a bad accident years ago and, of course, he was a real stickler for punctuality, so he didn’t like waiting on the off-chance for any taxi off the street… He was a gentleman of the old school, was the professor—always set great store by proper etiquette and appropriate dress… and students being late to tutorials was one of his great bugbears… blimey, I can remember once having to go all over college looking for a first-year who…”

  He rambled on, whilst Lincoln and I exchanged a smile. My goodness, I had never heard a man talk so much. He was almost like a gossipy old woman!

  Then I paused. Was this Clyde Peters? I remembered Seth’s description of the garrulous head porter. I was sure it was him. Perhaps I could turn things to my advantage. I took a gamble.

  “Actually, it was me who wanted to go to the Cloisters,” I said, giving him a shy smile. “I heard about the murder on Friday night and I guess I was being nosy. Were you here when it happened?”

  The man drew himself up and puffed his chest out in self-importance. “I was, Miss. I was the one who found the killer with the body.”

  I gave a mock gasp. “Oh my God! Really? Did you have to restrain him?”

  “No,” said Clyde Peters, sounding almost regretful. “’Twas that young Chemistry don over at Gloucester. I think he was in shock. Just stood there, holding the knife and looking down at the body. But he looked guilty, all right.”

  I gave the head porter a look of exaggerated admiration. “If it hadn’t been for you, he might have got away! How did you happen to be there?”

  “Ah, well…” Clyde Peters’s gaze slid away from mine. “I guess it was just luck, Miss. I was doing a round of the college, you know, and happened to pass by the Cloisters. Anyway—” He clapped his hands together briskly. “I’ll go and ring for your taxi now.”

  Lincoln thanked him, and ten minutes later, we were riding in the back of a cab, on the way to my parents’ house in North Oxford. My foot was still throbbing, but I barely noticed. My mind was still back in the Wadsworth College Porter’s Lodge.

  Why had the head porter really been in the Cloister? I knew he said he had been doing a round of the college, but that struck me as odd. Porters didn’t routinely do “rounds” of the colleges at night—not unless there had been reports of a really rowdy party which had gone on beyond curfew and needed to be shut down. There had been some parties in the college last Friday night—I’d seen some of the student party-goers myself—so the porter could have been checking up on them. But in that case, why had he been in the Cloister? All the student rooms were on the other side of the college; there would have been no reason for him to “happen to pass by” the Cloisters, as he had put it.

  So the man had been lying. I thought of the way he wouldn’t meet my eyes. Clyde Peters was hiding something. The question was—what?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It was hard to keep my mind on work the next morning; my thoughts kept drifting back to the night before and mulling over the different angles of the mystery.

  “Gemma, wasn’t this supposed to have been sent last week?” said Cassie, rising from where she had been rummaging below the counter and holding up a large sealed envelope. She frowned. “The bill’s due this weekend.”

  I gasped and smacked myself on the head. “I completely forgot! Sorry.” I glanced around the tearoom, which was still fairly empty, and said, “Listen, do you mind holding the fort yourself while I dash to the post shop now?”

  “Yeah, sure,” said Cassie. “In fact, do me a favour, will you, and pick up a couple of packets of gum for me while you’re there. Ta.”

  I grabbed the envelope, slung on my duffel coat, and hastily wrapped my scarf around my neck, then stepped out into the cold. I shoved my hands into my pockets and walked briskly up the high street. Like many Cotswold villages, Meadowford-on-Smythe was centred around one main street running down its length, lined on either side by rickety old Tudor buildings with their distinctive black-on-white half timbering or stone cottages with heavy thatched roofs and tiny mullioned windows. I walked past Meadowford Antiques, the Starling Gallery, Cotswolds Olde Crafts, and the Meadowford Cobbler, and finally saw the village post shop, with its distinctive Royal Mail sign and the bright red pillar post box standing outside the door.

  A relic from the times when glitzy shopping malls and gigantic chain stores hadn’t yet dominated the nearby Oxford city centre, the village post shop was still the place to meet and mingle and get the latest gossip. As I approached, I could see why it was one of the most photographed buildings in the village and always had a few tourists posing in front of it. Even on this cold, wintry day, it looked gorgeous, with the gleaming ebony window frames accented against the
soft honey colour of the stone walls and an old-fashioned climbing rose stretched over the doorway.

  From the exterior, you expected to find a scene inside where the old bespectacled proprietor still weighed out flour on a brass scale. Instead, I stepped into a tiny space crammed with modern products and conveniences. Like many village stores before its time, the post office shop was great at multi-tasking. Aside from handling the mail, selling pretty postcards of the Cotswolds region and providing the senior citizens with their weekly pensions, it also sold the national lottery, provided a dry cleaning service, offered a rack of the latest newspapers and glossy magazines, as well as a table of fresh local produce: eggs, bread, milk, pies, cheeses, vegetables, and fruits from local farms. A row of shelves on the adjoining wall provided all the necessities of modern life—from toothpaste to USB adaptors, nappies to cigarettes. A sign above the counter informed customers that the post shop could order foreign currency on demand. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they provided dog training and website design too!

  I joined the queue in front of the counter to await my turn. At this time of the morning, the shop was crammed with villagers and a group of them were gathered by the counter, their heads together. For a moment, the sight of the woolly white hair, sensible loafers, lavender clasp handbags, and Marks & Spencer cardigans made me think it might be the Old Biddies—then I realised that these were some of the other pensioners in the village. As the line moved forwards and I shuffled alongside, I couldn’t help overhearing their conversation.

  “… and I heard that the murdered professor was a spy. That was probably why he was killed! You know the Secret Service recruits from Oxford academics—”

  “That’s not what I heard! I have it on good authority that he was part of some illicit University drinking club. It was another Oxford don who was arrested for the murder, wasn’t it? They were probably involved in an initiation ritual or—”

  “What nonsense! You’re both wrong!” a third woman piped up. “My grandson works in Oxford city centre and he says there’s been talk of a tramp seen lurking outside the college on the night of the murder. You mark my words, it will have been him. Nasty, dirty drunks and drug addicts—these homeless types are all the same!”

  “NEXT PLEASE!”

  I turned with a start as I realised that Mrs Sutton, the postmistress, had been calling to me several times. The space in front of the counter was empty and I was holding up the queue. I hurried up and handed my envelope over.

  “Sorry about that.”

  She smiled. “That’s okay, dearie. Everyone’s been doing it this morning. It seems like the whole village can talk about nothing else! Everyone’s got their theories and speculations…” She leaned forwards and peered at me curiously. “You were at the University, Gemma. Do you know anything about Wadsworth College and this professor?”

  I shook my head, saying honestly, “Wadsworth wasn’t my college and I don’t really know it that well.”

  The postmistress gave an exaggerated shudder. “It’s horrible to think about… That poor man stabbed in the neck like that and left for dead in the Cloisters!”

  “I’d say it was good riddance,” came a mutter from the other end of the counter. It was from a woman who had been examining a basket of soaps there. She turned slightly and I realised that it was Dora Kempton. She was wearing the same shabby tweed coat she had worn the day she came to my tearoom and her face looked even gaunter. She looked like she could do with a good meal. Her thin shoulders sagged under the weight of her coat.

  “What was that, Mrs Kempton?” said the postmistress pleasantly. “Did you know the murdered professor?”

  “As well as I ever want to,” said Dora Kempton, her mouth pressed into a thin line.

  “How did you know him?” I blurted out.

  She hesitated, then said, “I was a scout at Wadsworth College for over thirty years. I retired recently.”

  Scouts were another of those unique quirks of Oxford University, shared only by Cambridge (where they were known as “bedders”). Every student had a scout assigned to him or her—a sort of housekeeper who cleaned their rooms once a week and kept a motherly eye on them. It was probably a relic from the days when only men were accepted at Oxford and they required a gentleman’s valet to attend to their needs. In the early 20th century, scouts became more like domestic help, doing things like cleaning out the coal fires and carrying in water for washing. Nowadays, they mostly just vacuum the rooms, empty the bins, and clean the student bathrooms, although if you’re super lucky, you might get an extra-motherly type who would even tidy your room, fold your clothes, and do your washing up and laundry!

  Many of us got very close to our scouts. I still remembered mine fondly: a lovely lady named Jean who used to come in and quietly clean my room, and who was the first to find me that morning I woke up shivering in bed with the flu and called the college doctor for me. I was lucky that my own family lived nearby, but for a lot of students whose families might have been miles away or even overseas, having a nurturing presence in college helped to ease the feeling of being lost and alone in a strange new city. I glanced at Dora again and wondered what kind of scout she had been. Somehow, I didn’t think she was the gentle, motherly type, though perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps there was a soft heart under that prickly exterior.

  “Would you like one of those soaps?” said the postmistress, indicating the bar that Dora was holding.

  Dora Kempton hesitated, then said gruffly, “I’m not sure I’ve got enough change on me…”

  “Oh… I’ve got so many at the moment, there’s a bit of an oversupply,” said Mrs Sutton quickly. “Why don’t you take one to try for free and, if you like it, you can come back to get more.”

  Dora stiffened, putting the bar of soap back in the basket. “I will pay for my purchases like everyone else.” She gave a curt nod. “I’ll see if there are still any available when I pick up my benefit payment later this week.”

  There was an embarrassed silence as Dora turned and left the store.

  “Well, for goodness sake…!” exclaimed one of the pensioners by the counter as soon as Dora was gone.

  Another rolled her eyes. “That woman is too proud for her own good.”

  Her friend nodded. “I tried to offer her some spinach from my vegetable patch the other day, but she nearly bit my head off.”

  “What’s a little bit of sharing between neighbours now and then?” said another of the pensioners and the others all nodded vigorously.

  “Too proud,” said the postmistress, shaking her head. “I’ve met types like that before. They’d rather starve and freeze to death than admit that they need help or accept a favour from anyone.” She made a clucking sound with her tongue. “And it’s not like the state benefits give you much, poor thing…”

  “Has she just arrived in the village?” I asked.

  Mrs Sutton shook her head. “About a year now, actually, although she hasn’t made much effort to get to know anyone. She’s never invited any of us to her house. Too embarrassed to show us how bare it is, probably.”

  “I heard she had to take early retirement,” said one of the pensioners. “Not that scouts are paid that much anyway.”

  “Yes, she had to have a hip replacement, which meant she was off work for six months and then they didn’t want her back.”

  “Isn’t there anything she could do here in the village?” I asked.

  “There probably is, dearie,” said the postmistress. “But she needs to be willing to ask. Many of us would be more than happy to find something for her to do and pay her for her time—but the few times I’ve tried to offer, Dora took great umbrage.” She shrugged. “You can’t force charity on people who refuse to accept help.”

  I glanced at the clock on the wall behind her and suddenly realised the time. I had been standing here gossiping too long. “Oh heavens, I must be getting back to the tearoom.”

  “How is that going, dear?” said Mrs Sutton, giving m
e a warm smile. “I must say, Gemma, we were all so pleased when you came back to the village and resurrected the tearoom. I remember when you were a wee girl and could barely see over this counter.” She chuckled. “You used to come in here with your mother and point to one of the sweet jars on the shelf and ask if you could have one. You were especially fond of the—”

  “Fizzy cola bottles!” I said, remembering with a rush. I laughed. “Yes, you’re absolutely right! I hadn’t even thought about them till now.” I peered behind her back. “I don’t suppose you still stock any of those old sweets?”

  “As a matter of fact, we do,” she said with a smile. “You’d be surprised how many people still like them, and the tourists, of course, love them. They make great souvenirs—small, cheap, and light, and fit the image of ‘vintage England’. More than one tourist has come in here to buy a postcard and left with a paper bag full of boiled sweets or sherbet fountains.”

  Five minutes later, I left the post shop laden with my own paper bag. Aside from the chewing gum Cassie had asked for, I had also bought large handfuls of sherbet lemons, Fizz Whizz popping candy, chocolate gold coins, chewy fruit jellies, mini love hearts, and, of course, the fizzy cola bottles—giant cola-flavoured jellies, covered with sugar.

  I smiled to myself as I walked back to the tearoom. I had a feeling I was going to be sick eating these—but I was going to enjoy every moment of it.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I arrived back at the Little Stables Tearoom to find that the Old Biddies had come in and were helping out in the dining room. Cassie was nowhere to be seen. She must have been in the kitchen. We’d run out of many of the things my mother had pre-baked and so had started having to bake new batches ourselves. There was the faint smell of fresh baking drifting out from the kitchen and I looked forward to seeing Cassie’s creations.