by H. Y. Hanna
“Well, you can get the truth out of him now, can’t you?”
“Just as soon as I get off the phone with you,” said Devlin. “Mr Peters and I are going to have a little talk.”
I winced at his tone and almost felt sorry for the head porter. “And what about Richard Barrow?”
“I’ll be speaking to him too,” Devlin said grimly. “And that sister of his. I’ll be on the first train to Reading tomorrow. And I’ll be going over everyone’s alibis again. This does change everything. The very fact that Richard Barrow concealed his presence in the Cloisters that night and then ran away from the scene of the crime makes him look guilty in my book. Thanks, Gemma, for passing this along—this is crucial information for the investigation.”
“I’m glad I could help,” I said shyly.
Devlin hesitated, then said, “Actually, Gemma, I’ve been meaning to ring you as well… I wanted to say I’m sorry—about the other night. I shouldn’t have been so brusque with you.”
His apology took me by surprise. “That’s okay,” I said slowly. “I… I want to apologise too. For what I was asking—what I was expecting you to do. I mean, I understand that you can’t… that you wouldn’t... You wouldn’t be you if you had said yes,” I finished lamely.
“It’s difficult to be ‘me’ sometimes, especially when I know it will hurt those I care about.” There was a pause, then he added, “It can be hard to let go… sometimes you have a case that just doesn’t get resolved and then something comes up—months, maybe even years later—and suddenly you see a chance to close the case at last. And you feel morally obliged to do everything you can to go back and get that closure. You owe it to the victims, if not to yourself.”
I realised suddenly that he wasn’t talking about this case but about his recent recall back to Leeds. In his own way, Devlin was trying to apologise, to explain why he had left so suddenly before Christmas and been so preoccupied with his old case up north.
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s… your work. I understand. It’s what makes you such a good detective.”
Devlin would always be driven, I realised, consumed by his work and his desire to find justice. And he would probably always put his morals above his personal feelings. But in a way, if Devlin had caved in and indulged me, I would probably have admired him a lot less. It was his very integrity and nobility which was one of the most attractive things about him. This was Devlin O’Connor and this was the man I would be choosing if I decided to give my heart to him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Gemma—have you spoken to Dora yet?”
I looked up from the napkins I was folding. “No, not yet… I was going to do it on the way home.”
Cassie came over and took the napkins off me. “Go. Leave early. I’ll close up. We need Dora more than anything else.”
A few minutes later, I was bundled up in my coat and scarf and hurrying down the village high street in the fading afternoon light. Dora Kempton lived on the other side of Meadowford-on-Smythe, down by the embankment along the river. There, sandwiched between a row of newly-furbished Cotswolds cottages and a development of mock Tudor housing, built for the wealthy London commuter brigade, were a couple of tiny workers’ cottages.
They were slightly rundown and lacked many of the modern amenities, but they were snug and solid. They were owned by a kindly local landowner who had decided to let these cottages out at a vastly reduced rate to pensioners in straitened circumstances. He could easily have made several times what he was getting if he had rented them out to the London set—or even sold them—but thank goodness, there were still people like him in the world.
Dora looked surprised to see me when she opened the door and I saw her hesitate, glancing involuntarily over her own shoulder. I could guess what was going through her mind. She was probably embarrassed to have me come in and see the bare poverty of her house, but it was too rude to keep me standing out here on the doorstep, especially in this weather. She invited me in reluctantly and showed me into the tiny living room.
I sat down on the faded sofa and tried not to shiver. There was no heating in the house and I wondered how Dora managed at night. I’d often heard news reports in the past of the elderly and the impoverished who died of hypothermia in the winter because they were afraid to use the heating and rack up bills they couldn’t pay, but you know how things on the news never seem real to you until you meet it in your personal life?
“Would you like some tea and biscuits?” said Dora formally.
“Oh no, that’s okay I don’t—” I started to say, not wanting to deprive her of her meagre supplies. Then I saw the look in her eye and the way she drew herself up. I realised that as a guest in her house, the best gift I could give her was the sense of pride in being a hostess.
I smiled at her. “That would be lovely, Dora. Just a cup of tea, thanks.”
She went into the kitchen and I heard her clattering around, to return in due course with two mugs of tea and a small plate of biscuits—although these were so thick and chunky that calling them by the American term, “cookies”, was probably more fitting. I helped myself to one, biting into it gingerly, then again with more enthusiasm. They were wonderfully buttery, crumbly, and crispy, tasting of oats and honey, and perfect for dunking in tea.
“My goodness, Dora, these are delicious! What are they?”
Her chest swelled with pride. “I made them myself. They’re hobnobs, although I changed the recipe slightly. I used honey instead of golden syrup.”
“They are wonderful,” I said, taking a sip of tea and chewing slowly. “And they go so nicely with the tea.”
“I can let you have the recipe if you like,” said Dora, her eyes glowing with pleasure.
I could see that for a woman as proud as her, the ability to be in a position to give something for once meant a lot to her.
“Thanks, that would be great…” I paused, then pounced on the opportunity she had given me. “Actually, that’s sort of why I’ve come to see you today.”
She looked at me enquiringly.
I leaned forwards. “Dora, would you consider coming to work for me as the chef at the tearoom?”
She looked surprised. “But surely… You must have people who are trained baking chefs—”
“I’ve interviewed a few people, but so far I haven’t found anyone suitable. Besides, this would be a great arrangement because it would also give you something to—” Too late I realised my mistake. I cursed myself.
She stiffened. “If you’re offering me this out of charity, I thank you for the offer but that isn’t necessary.”
“No, no, this isn’t charity in the least!” I said. “To be honest, you’d be the one doing us a favour. We desperately need a chef and you’re obviously a fantastic baker. I’ve been trying to find someone suitable but I’ve just been pulling my hair out! And poor Cassie is trying her best, but you saw how she’s managing so far.”
A smile twitched the corners of Dora’s lips. “Yes, Cassie doesn’t quite seem to have the knack.”
Oh God. Understatement of the year.
“Neither do I,” I said honestly. “We’re both better using our time outside looking after the customers. And when you came in the other day and saved us for that gallery party, I suddenly thought—how wonderful it would be to have you helping us full time.” I took a deep breath and put on my best corporate manner. “But I would want to pay you for your expertise. Exactly as if you were a professional chef. This is not me offering you a job out of pity—this is me offering you a working arrangement, based on my assessment of your skills.”
There was a long pause.
I added in a pleading voice as I saw her waver. “Please, Dora. We really need you. As Cassie said, you’d be the one providing charity for us at this stage if you came to help!”
Dora was silent for a moment, then she said, “If I do come, I want it to be on a trial basis. One month with no pay. And if you’re happy with my performance after t
hat, then we can work out a permanent arrangement.”
“It can’t just be a free trial,” I protested. “A probationary period is normally on full pay.”
“I won’t take money until I feel I’m suitable for the role.”
“Half,” I said firmly. “I will pay you at least half the normal hourly rate.” This is ridiculous, I thought. I must be the only person in the world who’s negotiating with an employee to pay them more! “And the trial period will be two weeks, no more,” I added.
Dora gave me a wry look. “You drive a hard bargain, young lady.”
And you’re a stubborn old hen, I thought, with a mixture of exasperation and affection.
“Very well,” said Dora at last. “I accept.”
“Great!” I felt the smile spreading across my face. “When can you start? Tomorrow? Can you make more scones immediately? Because we’ve completely run out and we’re really panicking. And muffins too. Oh, and Chelsea buns. We’ve got everything ready for you already. If you can come in first thing, I can show you where everything is and then maybe Cassie can help you bake the first batch so that we’ve got fresh buns and scones before the customers arrive...” My words were tumbling over each other in my eagerness.
Dora’s stern face broke into a laugh. “Yes, I can start tomorrow. What time would you like me to be there?”
“We don’t open until ten-thirty but usually get there by seven to start the baking…”
She nodded. “Seven it is.”
I had to fight the urge to throw my arms around her and give her a hug. Instead, I contented myself with giving her a warm smile.
“Thank you so much, Dora; you don’t realise how much your help means to us.” I glanced at my watch. “Oh, I’d better dash. I need to stop off at the Domus Trust office before going home. I hope they won’t have shut.”
She accompanied me to her front door. As we walked past the small hall table, I noticed a few framed photos grouped on its surface. In amongst pictures of a much younger-looking Dora holding a baby, Dora standing with an elderly couple, Dora sitting at a grey, pebbly seaside…there was one of her in a pinafore apron, standing in what looked like an Oxford college quadrangle. She was next to another woman of similar age and dress, and they were both smiling cautiously into the camera.
I stopped and looked closer. “Was this from your scout days?”
Dora glanced at the faded photo. “Yes. One of my students took that and gave it to me. That’s my friend, Agnes, who was another scout.”
“That’s the Great Quad at Wadsworth, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I used to look after the staircases off the main quad and a few of the rooms in the Yardley Quad. In the earlier days, the new student dormitory building hadn’t been built on the other side of the college, so many more of them used to stay in rooms on this side. That’s all changed now, of course.” She sighed, looking wistful for a moment as she stared down at the photograph in my hands. “I haven’t been back to Wadsworth since I was made redundant last year. It seems strange to think that I spent most of my working life there—every day, for years and years—and now, I never see it at all. Wadsworth was almost like my home; I knew every nook and cranny, every spire and gargoyle.” She laughed a bit sheepishly. “I think I probably knew it better and felt more part of it than many of the students there.”
“I’m sure you did,” I agreed. I put the frame carefully back amongst the others, then pulled the collar of my duffel coat up around my neck and gave her a parting smile. “Well, thanks again for the tea, Dora… and thank you for agreeing to come and help us at the tearoom.”
“No, thank you,” said Dora suddenly. “I know you said you’re not doing it out of charity and I believe you. But I also know that you’ve taken an interest in me out of the kindness of your heart. You’re a nice girl, Gemma Rose. And I… I’m glad I met you.”
I stared at Dora in surprise, then gave in to that urge and threw my arms around her in an impromptu hug.
“Here! Now! Get away with you…” Dora said gruffly, disentangling herself.
But I could see from her flushed cheeks and bright eyes that she was touched and pleased, and her smile warmed my heart as I stepped out into the cold twilight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It was almost completely dark by the time I cycled back to North Oxford, where the Domus Trust office was located. I pulled my bike off the road, propped it against the front railing of the elegant brick Georgian building and hurried up the front steps, hoping that it hadn’t closed. I was in luck. A young woman looked up as I entered the warmth of the reception but my spirits fell a minute later when she told me that the Food Donations Coordinator had already left for the day.
“If you leave your name, I can give him a message and get him to ring you tomorrow,” she offered.
“Thanks, that sounds like a good idea.” I gave her my details, then as I turned to go, I noticed a large artist’s sketch of a housing development. I went towards it for a closer look. “Is this the new project? The one that might be built on college-donated land?”
“Yes, if we can only get the approval through,” she said despondently. She sighed. “There was quite a lot of resistance and attempts to block the project, particularly from Wadsworth.”
“Yes, I’d heard that,” I said. “But surely now with Professor Barrow dead…” I paused, embarrassed, and cleared my throat. “I mean, I thought he was the main person objecting to the proposal?”
“He was—but it seems that he had great influence with other members of the college committee, particularly the Master of Wadsworth College, and he had somehow managed to persuade them to his way of thinking…” She trailed off.
“I’m sorry,” I said, thinking suddenly of Owen and Ruby, and feeling a wrench in my heart. “I hope something can be done… I know the homeless community in Oxford are really depending on this.”
“Oh, you can’t imagine! Everyone is in really low spirits at the moment, especially the ones who’ve had a hands-on involvement with the project. Jim was furious—he’s one of the homeless who has very involved.”
“Yeah, I’ve met Jim,” I said without much enthusiasm.
She gave me a wry look. “He’s not exactly a barrel of laughs, is he? But I have to admit, he’s been really helpful, especially in working with our planners to design the development.” She waved a hand at the artist’s sketch.
I glanced up at the poster again. “I suppose he was hoping to get his own place at last.”
“Well, funnily enough, Jim didn’t apply for one of the units,” said the receptionist.
“He didn’t?”
She shrugged. “We all expected him to be the first in line to request a unit—and he would have got first dibs too, given all the hard work he’s done. But ironically, he wouldn’t be one of those who would benefit directly from the project.” She shrugged. “People are weird. I think sometimes they care more about the ‘cause’ and the principles and everything, than the actual material benefits.”
I thought of Seth, secure in his comfortable Oxford college life, getting all worked up for something he had no direct benefit from, and for people he didn’t really know and would probably never spend much time with. “Yeah, you’re right. People are weird sometimes,” I agreed.
“Still, with the way things are going, it’s not going to matter either way…” she said and gave another sigh.
Back outside the Domus Trust offices, I was about to get astride my bike again when I noticed the building on the street corner opposite. In large letters etched above the front entrance were the words: “DEPARTMENT OF ETHNOARCHAEOLOGY”.
This must be Professor Barrow’s department… and Leila Gaber’s too, I thought.
On a sudden impulse, I went into the building. It was full of students, post graduate research fellows, and academic dons, busily walking and talking in pairs, most of them leaving the building, on their way back to their homes or colleges. I wandered casually over to the depar
tment directory and glanced through the list of names. Then I turned towards the main staircase leading up from the lobby—but I had barely gone up a few steps when I paused.
What was I doing? Even if I could find out where Leila Gaber’s office was, how was I going to get any information about her? I didn’t know any of her colleagues and they weren’t likely to just strike up conversation with me and tell me all the sordid details of the gossip about her. I didn’t even have a legitimate reason for wandering around the department…
Then my eye caught sight of a few signs at the top of the stairs: “TOILETS”, “LECTURE THEATRE”, and then “CANTEEN” with a little arrow next to it.
I brightened. I might not be able to talk about the intricacies of ethnographic data in archaeological records, but there was one thing I could talk about with ease: tea and cakes.
I hurried up the rest of the steps and made my way to the canteen. It was almost closing and I was grateful that I’d got there just in time. A single woman was wiping one of the counters whilst humming to a song on a radio in the kitchen behind her. She was plump and motherly, with a pleasant, good-humoured face, and looked the epitome of the traditional British “tea lady”, employed to make and serve tea in a workplace. I thought she also looked the type to enjoy a good gossip. Crossing my fingers behind my back and hoping that I was right, I approached her.
“Hello… Is the canteen closed?”
She looked up. “Ah, well… I can do one more,” she said with a smile. “What can I get you, love?”
“Oh, that looks delicious,” I said, pointing to a sad-looking plate of congealed apple crumble. I wouldn’t have been seen dead serving that in my tearoom, but I said enthusiastically, “You can’t beat a good old-fashioned British pudding, can you?”
“No, dearie, you certainly can’t an’ that’s what I tell my Norman. He’s always rabbitin’ on, wantin’ to move to places like Spain. Costa de Sol, he says! ‘Coast of the Sun’, it’s called. We could get a villa by the beach an’ everythin’.” She made a face at me. “Coast of the Sun, my foot! They don’t know how to serve proper tea in these foreigner places! And I’m not goin’ anywhere I can’t get a decent cuppa.”