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

by H. Y. Hanna

  “No.” Both he and the barmaid shook their heads. “Can’t help you there, sorry.”

  She left us and he began gathering some bottles together, while I stood at a loss. I was disappointed. I had to admit, I’d been hoping that the landlord would have some story of a violent fight between Clyde and some long-time enemy, or that he’d overhead a mysterious stranger making veiled threats at the head porter…

  I smiled wryly to myself. Maybe Devlin was right—real life wasn’t like mystery novels. Still, I wasn’t ready to give up. The landlord had picked up a box and was descending a flight of rickety wooden stairs down into the basement below. I hurried after him and found myself in a snug little cellar.

  “Do you know if Clyde Peters was in any kind of money trouble?”

  “Him? Naw… he was a sly old fox. Always knew how to make a spare bob or two on the side. He did like a bit of a flutter, mind you.”

  “Betting? Horses?”

  “Dogs. Greyhound track down in Cowley.”

  “And what about… um… ladyfriends? He was single, right?”

  He started to answer but we were interrupted by Jenny the barmaid popping her head into the gap at the top of the stairs. “There’s a gentleman here to see you,” she called down. “Says he’s a detective inspector from the CID.”

  My heart lurched. Oh hell! That must be Devlin. He’d come back to Oxford sooner than I expected. How was I going to explain my presence here to him?

  I wondered frantically if there was any way I could run up the cellar stairs and slip out of the pub before Devlin saw me, but my hopes were dashed when I heard a step on the cellar stairs. A moment later, his lithe figure joined us in the small, cramped space. He was so tall that he had to stoop slightly and his cool blue eyes registered surprise when he saw me, though he masked it very well.

  “Ah, Inspector—I was just talking to your partner here,” said the landlord.

  I held my breath, looking at Devlin, expecting him to expose me. Instead, to my surprise, he merely gave the landlord a nod and said:

  “I apologise for my delay, sir. I was held up in Reading. But I’m glad that my partner—” he put a slight stress on the word and I flushed, “—was able to speak to you first.”

  “Well, we have pretty much told her everything we know,” said the landlord. “I hope you’re not going to make us repeat everything again. I’ve got a lot of things to get done before the lunch rush starts.”

  “No, we won’t trouble you any more for now, sir,” said Devlin, putting a proprietary hand under my elbow and hustling me up the cellar stairs. “I’ll let you know if we need to ask any more questions.”

  We came out of the pub and stood in the weak winter sunshine together. It was promising to be a slightly warmer day today, with the sky a pale blue instead of the usual ominous grey. There was the first hint of spring in the air.

  “Thanks for not exposing me in there,” I said meekly.

  Devlin gave me an annoyed look. “I could have you arrested for impersonating the police, Gemma.”

  I winced. “I know, I know… I’m sorry… I just… I just couldn’t bear the thought of sitting around waiting… and I wanted to know what he had to say about Clyde Peters!”

  Devlin looked as if he wanted to say something else, then held onto his temper with an effort. He ran a hand through his dark hair, causing an unruly lock to fall over his eyes, the way it used to when he was a student. My fingers itched to reach up and brush it away.

  He took a deep breath, then let it out in a sigh. “So what did the landlord say?”

  Quickly, I repeated what I had learned.

  “Hmm… I wonder if this ‘friend’ that Peters was having a drink with was Richard Barrow,” mused Devlin. “He would have visited Wadsworth years before—we know he came to Barrow for help before—perhaps he and Peters got friendly then. In fact, maybe he didn’t give me the slip this morning; maybe Richard wasn’t in Reading at all! He was here in Oxford last night, and is still here today.”

  “You know, I’ve been thinking…” I said excitedly. “Maybe it isn’t one man. Maybe it’s two men working together,”. “Maybe Richard Barrow got the head porter involved in a plan to murder his brother, in return for a sum of money. And now Peters is running scared…”

  “Yes, but—”

  We were interrupted by the sound of a phone beeping. Devlin pulled out his mobile, glancing at the screen.

  “It’s my sergeant,” he said, frowning. He listened and I saw his face change. “Right. I’m on my way.”

  “What? What’s happened?” I said, as he lowered the phone.

  Devlin looked at me, his expression grim. “Clyde Peters’s body has just been found in Jericho. Looks like he’d been hit on the back of the head and pushed into the canal.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The next morning, the whole tearoom was abuzz with the news of the second murder. The fuss from Barrow’s death had barely settled down and here was a fresh killing already. The gossips were in overdrive, with Mabel Cooke leading the pack. She and the other Old Biddies had commandeered one of the tearoom’s largest tables, with what looked like half the village gathered around them.

  “I always knew that porter would come to a bad end,” said Mabel smugly as she poured herself another cup of tea. “I knew it. I have an instinct for these things.”

  “Did he say anything when you were out at dinner together, Glenda?” asked one of the other villagers. “Like…” She dropped her voice to a theatrical whisper. “Did he mention being in fear of his life?”

  Glenda screwed up her face, trying hard to remember something that could fit this dramatic scenario. She was enjoying all the attention she was getting—by virtue of her one brief dinner with Clyde Peters, she had become something of a local celebrity in Meadowford-on-Smythe—but even she couldn’t stretch the truth to fit in with their histrionic imaginings.

  She said regretfully, “No, he didn’t. He seemed in very good spirits, actually.”

  “Well, what about gangs?” said another village resident, her mouth half full of buttered teacakes. “They say there are all sorts of organised crime groups from Eastern Europe these days. Those crooks from Albania—wasn’t there an article about them in the papers?”

  “I think it was one of the students at the college,” said another villager darkly. “All these foreign students arriving at Oxford and you have no idea where they come from—maybe Clyde Peters saw them doing something they shouldn’t and they killed him to stop him telling the college authorities!”

  I smiled to myself as I passed their table, bearing a tray of tea and scones for the group of American tourists by the window. Hollywood directors should just come to Meadowford and mine the villagers’ imaginations, if they need ideas for their next movies! I returned to the counter to find Cassie there and the smile faded from my own face as I saw the strained expression on hers. Her mind was obviously elsewhere as she stood staring into space, whilst a cup of hot chocolate cooled on the counter in front of her.

  “You’d better take that over to the table before it turns into iced chocolate,” I said.

  She gave a start. “Oh. Sorry, Gemma…” She looked down in dismay at the mug on the counter. “I’ll make a fresh cup.”

  She turned away but I stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm. “Cassie, are you all right?”

  She gave me a troubled look. “I saw Seth this morning—I popped in to see him before coming in to work—and I caught him just as he was leaving his college rooms. He was heading to the police station.”

  “The police station?”

  She nodded miserably. “They’ve called him in for questioning again, in connection with Clyde Peters’s murder. I guess they want to check his alibi.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m sure Seth had nothing to do with the porter’s death.”

  Cassie didn’t say anything for a moment, then she said in a rush, “Gemma, I’m worried about Seth.”

/>   “Well, we all are…” I trailed off and looked at her. “Do you mean something specific?”

  Cassie hesitated. “He had a black eye this morning.”

  I frowned. “How did he get that?”

  “That’s just it! He wouldn’t tell me! I mean, he said he tripped and banged his head against the side of the door and gave himself a black eye—”

  “Well, I suppose that could have happened,” I said doubtfully.

  “Oh, Gemma, that’s rubbish and you know it! Who gets a black eye from bumping into a door? It was obvious that he was lying! But he wouldn’t tell me the real reason! And when I asked him where he went last night—you know, when he rushed me out of his room—he wouldn’t tell me either.”

  “Cassie, what are you saying?”

  She looked uncomfortable. “It’s just that… Seth never used to be so secretive! He’s hiding something, Gemma, I know it. And I thought—” She broke off.

  “What?”

  “Well…” She looked down, fidgeting with her apron. “I thought… Gemma, what if he’s lying about other things too?”

  “What do you mean?” I took a sharp intake of breath. “You can’t possibly think… No, Cassie! You’re not thinking that Seth might be involved in Professor Barrow’s murder after all?”

  She squirmed. “I don’t know what to think! No… okay, I… I don’t think he’s involved—I mean, I can’t imagine Seth hurting someone in a fight, never mind murdering someone! But it’s just… I don’t know… He’s just been acting so odd lately!” She glanced around, then lowered her voice. “And you always think you know someone—but do you really know them? Do you really know what they’re capable of?”

  I reached out and caught her hand. “Cassie, we’ve known Seth since we were all eighteen together. He’s like a brother. Whatever else he may be capable of, I’m sure he’s not involved in a murder.”

  She nodded but didn’t look convinced. And I had to admit, her words made me uneasy. I remembered my own doubts about Seth—I had purposefully pushed them out of my mind but now they came rushing back to haunt me. The memory of that dinner date with Devlin came back to me and what he had said about what people will do in the name of a cause. And that receptionist at the Domus Trust yesterday… she had said much the same thing… Since this case had begun, I had seen a whole new side to Seth and realised that I didn’t know him as well as I thought.

  Cassie and I didn’t have much chance to chat again for the rest of the morning—the rest of the day, in fact. Saturday was one of our busiest days and we were flat out trying to cope with the groups of tourists that kept arriving, not to mention the locals who kept coming to join the Old Biddies’ unofficial gossip centre. In fact, I reflected wryly that Clyde Peters’s murder had probably brought me more local business than any advertising or marketing campaign might have done.

  I had been a bit worried about Dora’s ability to cope, given how new she was, but she had amazed me with her calm organisation and brisk efficiency. And a steady stream of scones, cakes, muffins, tarts, buns, and dainty finger sandwiches flowed out effortlessly from our kitchen. The tearoom was continually filled with the wonderful smell of baking, from the rich buttery fragrance of fresh pastry and the gorgeous smell of fresh bread to the delicate fragrance of cheesecakes and the spicy sweetness of cinnamon and chocolate. Every time the front door was opened, a mouth-watering gust of warm air wafted out onto the street and drew more hungry tourists to our door.

  Still, despite the hectic day, I found my thoughts constantly drifting back to the mystery and especially what Cassie had said. I still couldn’t believe that Seth could have anything to do with the murder but… I found myself wondering where he had been on Thursday night when he had gotten that mysterious black eye. And I couldn’t help remembering the barmaid’s words—that the “stranger” sitting with Clyde Peters the night he had been murdered was someone who had a connection with one of the Oxford colleges…

  No. I’m letting Cassie’s anxiety get to me. Resolutely, I pushed Seth from my mind and thought of the other possible suspects. Richard Barrow. The professor’s younger brother was the strongest contender for the porter’s killer. He had connections with Wadsworth too, he knew the porter, and he had no alibi for the night the porter was killed. Well, none that he had told anyone, at any rate, since Richard was still missing. He seemed to be in hiding—exactly what you’d expect from a man who had possibly committed two murders.

  And what about Leila Gaber? Somehow, I was sure that she would have an alibi for Thursday night. Someone like Leila would always make sure that she had all the bases covered. But even if she did, I didn’t know if her alibi would be worth much. With her manipulative charm, she probably had any number of people happy to lie for her. Besides, what would be her motive? Why would she want Clyde Peters dead? Perhaps… perhaps he knew that she had lied to the police? That she hadn’t been in the library the whole time last Friday night, like she had said? And perhaps he had tried to blackmail her about it?

  I thought back to what the pub landlord had said about Clyde Peters: “Always knew how to make a spare bob or two on the side…”—yes, I could easily see him in the role of a blackmailer. And just as easily, I could see that Leila Gaber wasn’t the kind of woman to put up with extortion of any kind.

  I got back home and my thoughts kept me occupied for the rest of the evening, which passed with nothing more eventful than Muesli deciding she was going to produce the biggest hairball in history and puke it all over my parents’ cream carpet.

  There was no word from Devlin; I knew this new murder must have put even more pressure on him to crack the case. I remembered the way he had looked the last time I saw him—the deep lines of fatigue around his nose and mouth—and I felt a wave of compassion for him. So although I was burning to know how the investigation was proceeding and if he had found any new leads, I restrained myself from calling him.

  The next morning was Sunday and I remembered belatedly that my mother was returning from Indonesia that afternoon. I’d offered to go to the airport to pick them up, but had been indignantly rebuffed and told that they were going to finish their journey the way they had started. However, my mother had instructed me to pick them up from the bus station. So that afternoon, I found myself leaving the tearoom in the capable hands of Dora, Cassie, and the Old Biddies, and heading down to Gloucester Green. Just as I was crossing the piazza, I heard a voice calling my name.

  “Gemma!”

  I turned and found myself facing Lincoln Green.

  “Hi, Lincoln,” I said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  “Picking up my mother and yours. I didn’t realise you were coming too. My Mum sent me a message saying there was no one to meet them and insisted that I come.”

  Hmm. The mothers had known very well that I was coming to pick them up. I had a feeling that there was a bit of maternal matchmaking going on here. I suppressed a sigh.

  “Actually, I’ve just had a text message from my Mum,” Lincoln continued. “She said their flight had been delayed and they’d just missed the coach so they would have to wait half an hour for the next one. So they’re going to be back later than they thought.”

  I wondered if that was true. I wouldn’t put it past my mother and Helen Green to manufacture some excuse, to force me and Lincoln to spend extra time together. They’d probably purposefully missed the coach and were now sitting languidly in some airport café, drinking tea and discussing what to name our firstborn child.

  “Did everything turn out okay with Muesli in the end?” said Lincoln.

  “What? Oh, oh yes… Yes, thank you, she was fine. The fire brigade arrived and started drilling holes everywhere and then the little minx just popped out of another vent.” I rolled my eyes, then gave him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry it ruined the end of our evening.”

  “I’ll say. She had the most dreadful timing,” said Lincoln dryly.

  I flushed as I realised what he was referring
to. The memory of that interrupted “almost-kiss” hung between us. The embarrassed silence seemed to stretch interminably, then Lincoln said, “Er… fancy a coffee?”

  I didn’t really, but it would help to break the awkward atmosphere. Besides, there was nothing else I could do—there wasn’t enough time to go back to the tearoom, which would be closing soon anyway, so I would have to kill an hour here in Gloucester Green somehow.

  “Yeah, why not?” I smiled at Lincoln and started to lead the way across the square.

  As we were passing the cinema, I was pleased to see a familiar sight: a tall lanky man with fingerless gloves and a lanyard around his neck, holding a sheaf of magazines, with a smiling Staffie dog at his feet. I hurried over to greet them.

  “Hi Ruby!” I bent down to pat the dog who was wagging her tail so hard, her bum was wriggling. She nosed my hands eagerly and I laughed.

  “Sorry, girl, I don’t have any chicken nuggets for you today. But I promise I’ll bring some the next time I pass by.”

  “She’ll never leave you alone again if you do that,” said Owen, chuckling.

  We each bought a copy of the Big Issue from him and he pocketed the change gratefully. Then he grinned at me and said, “Did you catch up with Jim in the end?”

  “Oh, yeah… thanks. Yes, I found him down by the canal, although I have to say he wasn’t very… um… chatty. He’s not really the friendliest chap, is he?”

  Owen guffawed. “’E’s a miserable old git. Dunno ’ow ’e used to work in a porter’s lodge, dealin’ with visitors all day…”

  I froze. “Jim used to work in an Oxford college? Which one?”

  Owen shrugged. “Not sure. Reckon it was one of the reasons ’e came back ’ere, though, after ’e got off the drugs and got ’is act together. Me, I couldn’t have done it—not with all the bad memories—but ’e seems to be managin’ okay.”

  I stared at Owen. “What bad memories?”

  “On account of the accident that killed ’is girlfriend,” he said.