by H. Y. Hanna
“The bastard.”
Caitlyn looked up, shocked. James looked furious. Her heart leapt. Maybe he did care…?
James clenched his fists. “If he hadn’t disappeared, I would have thrashed him myself.”
“Have… have the police found him yet?”
“No. There’s no sign of him. His things were gone from the Manor too.” James shook his head. “The whole thing just doesn’t make sense! I can’t believe that Antoine was the murderer. Why would he kill Pierre Rochat? For some jewels? His family is one of the wealthiest in France—he wouldn’t need to kill to obtain jewels! He regularly patronises several luxury jewellery stores. In any case, they were all just tossed on the ground—even the pink diamond. If he killed Rochat for the jewels, why didn’t he take them, then?” He looked keenly at Caitlyn. “Did he say anything to you?”
“N-no, not really,” Caitlyn said, shifting uncomfortably. “I mean, like I told Inspector Walsh, he came up to me just as I discovered the jewels hidden in the dog toy, and he confessed to killing Rochat for them.”
“But then he just walked off with you and left them lying there on the grass?”
Caitlyn swallowed. James was no fool and she should have known that he wouldn’t easily accept the explanation that she had given to the police. She shrugged helplessly.
“I… I don’t know.” Then hurriedly, to get his mind off Antoine, she asked, “Has Gertrude Smith talked?”
“Yes, she finally broke down this morning,” said James. “I just got off the phone with Inspector Walsh, actually. She admitted that her gang, the Blue Magpies, stole the jewels from the boutique in Mayfair and that she had arranged to meet Pierre Rochat in Tillyhenge to discuss their sale. Apparently, he had a buyer lined up for the pink diamond already. Or at least, part of the pink diamond. It’s common practice for jewel thieves to cut up a bigger stone, to make it less recognisable and easier to dispose of.”
“Wow. I’ll bet the owner is glad that didn’t happen!”
“Yes, he’s very grateful to get his collection back—well, all of the pieces except for an antique brooch.” James frowned. “In fact, this seems to be the brooch that you were asking Inspector Walsh about—you know, the one with the embedded bloodstone. The police couldn’t find it amongst the pieces they retrieved outside Gertrude’s cottage. Did you see it when you opened the dog toy?”
Caitlyn hesitated. She knew where the brooch was—or at least, the key part of the brooch. It was safely concealed now in the Widow Mags’s bedroom and nobody else knew of its hiding place except her, Bertha, and Viktor.
“Um… I wasn’t really looking properly,” she said at last. She hated having to lie to James but there seemed to be no other way.
James sighed. “I know it may sound silly but I feel partly responsible as this all happened on my estate. I spoke to the owner earlier today and he is very upset about the loss.”
“But the brooch isn’t very valuable, is it? Not like the pink diamond?”
“It’s not worth much but it does have a lot of sentimental value. He found it in a chest belonging to his grandmother. They’d lost most of her things in a fire and only just recently discovered this chest in the attic—he was delighted to have found something of hers. The police have said that they are going to keep searching, but somehow I have a feeling that it will remain a mystery.” James gave her a wry look. “The place seems to be brimming with mysteries lately. Inspector Walsh told me that when the police searched the Folly, they found no evidence of a bell in the belfry chamber. It was empty, just like when I saw it as a boy. And yet… I could have sworn that there was a large black bell hanging in the centre when I rushed in to save you! You saw it, didn’t you?”
Again, Caitlyn was torn over how to answer. She wished she could explain the truth to James: tell him that when the key had been withdrawn from the lock, the enchantment over the Folly had been broken and the huge black bell had vanished, leaving nothing but an empty belfry behind. But once again, she didn’t think he would believe her. He might even think that she was crazy. She remembered what Pomona had told her about James’s girlfriend at university; if Caitlyn started talking about spells and enchantments, would he recoil from her too?
No, she couldn’t risk it. If it was possible that James Fitzroy might care for her, she didn’t want to lose that—his respect and affection—by telling him the truth about magic and witchcraft. Maybe one day… maybe one day she could try to make him understand… but in the meantime, it was a secret she had to keep to herself.
“I… um… I wasn’t paying much attention, to tell you the truth. I was just trying to get away from Antoine. Anyway,” she said, giving him a bright smile, “I think we both want to forget every moment of what happened in the tower yesterday.”
James looked at her silently, his eyes very dark. “Not every moment,” he finally said.
Caitlyn stared up at him, her heart pounding. Could he have meant what she thought?
James cleared his throat, then took a step closer. “Caitlyn… you know that I… well, I’m not very good at expressing how I feel...” He gave a self-deprecating laugh, then cleared his throat again. “I may not shower you with compliments… like some other men do… but I hope you know how much you mean to me. When I saw you at the top of the Folly and I thought you were going to fall…” He swallowed convulsively. “I couldn’t bear to lose—”
The front door of the Manor opened and Giles Mosley stepped out.
“Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt but your sister is on the phone.”
James cursed under his breath. “Can you tell her I’ll call her back?”
“She says it’s urgent, sir.”
James sighed, then he nodded at the butler. “Thank you, Mosley—I’ll be right there.”
The butler disappeared into the house and James turned back to Caitlyn.
“Caitlyn… Look, don’t go away, okay? I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He gave her brief smile, then hurried inside.
Caitlyn realised that she was standing with a silly grin on her face and hastily wiped it off. She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Was this it? Would she find out at last what James really felt for her? She thought of the expression in his soft grey eyes when he’d looked at her just now, and a mixture of hope and nervous anticipation filled her breast.
Then something flitting above her head caught her attention. She looked up and shaded her eyes. Was it a large insect? No, wait… it was the Widow Mags’s runaway spectacles!
Caitlyn jumped up to grab the flying glasses, her fingers just missing them as they darted out of the way. They had obviously learnt new tricks in the wild because they did a few fancy loops in mid-air before zooming in a figure of eight around her head.
“Oh no you don’t!” cried Caitlyn, lunging again to grab them. This time, she managed to catch hold of one side of the frame and she hung on as the spectacles struggled to get free.
“You’ve had your fun—now it’s time to go home to the Widow Mags,” she said sternly. She screwed up her face, trying to remember the spell that Evie had used, then pointed a finger at the wriggling spectacles and chanted:
“Gravity obey,
To earth you must stay!”
There was a crackling sound and something sparked from the ends of her fingers. The flying spectacles glowed suddenly like a burning ember, then faded back to their original colour. They went limp in her hands, becoming nothing more than an ordinary pair of reading glasses.
Caitlyn laughed with delight. “Hah! I did it!”
A sound behind her made her whirl around.
Her stomach clenched as she saw James standing at the top of the Manor’s front steps. She didn’t know how long he had been there, but from the expression on his face, it was clear he had seen everything. His eyes met hers and Caitlyn flinched at the shock and horror in them.
“What… what was that?” he asked, his voice strained. He came slowly down the steps and stared at her. There was a
long silence, then he said at last:
“Who are you?”
Don’t miss your next wickedly delicious chocolate fix!
Book 5 in the
BEWITCHED BY CHOCOLATE Mysteries
COMING SOON!
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***
In the meantime, check out my other mystery series – I think you’ll enjoy it too!
OXFORD TEAROOM MYSTERIES
"Scones, a tea shop in England, a kitty & a murder -
yes, please!"
A Scone To Die For
(Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1)
When an American tourist is murdered with a scone in Gemma's quaint Cotswolds' tearoom, she suddenly finds herself apron-deep in a mystery involving sinister secrets from Oxford's past. Helped by four nosy 'Old Biddies' from the village (not to mention a mischievous feline named Muesli), Gemma sets out to solve the case - while also trying to deal with her matchmaking mother and the return of her old college love as handsome CID detective, Devlin O'Connor.
But with the body count rising and her business going bust, can Gemma find the killer before things turn to custard?
READ NOW: AMAZON | AMAZON UK
Here is an excerpt:
CHAPTER ONE
I never thought I’d end the week facing an American with a sharp knife.
It started normally enough, with the usual influx of tourists and visitors to our tiny Cotswolds’ village of Meadowford-on-Smythe. Filled with winding cobbled lanes and pretty thatched cottages, Meadowford was like a picture-perfect postcard of rural England. But quaint and gorgeous as the village was, it would probably never have got much notice if it hadn’t sat on the outskirts of the most famous university city in the world.
Over nine million tourists came to visit Oxford each year, and after they’d posed for photos in the college quadrangles and wandered reverently through the cloisters of the oldest university in the English-speaking world, they drifted out into the surrounding Cotswolds countryside. Here, they would coo over the quaint antique shops and village markets, and look forward to rounding everything off with some authentic English “afternoon tea”.
That’s where I came in. Or rather, my new business: the Little Stables Tearoom. Offering the best in traditional English refreshments, from warm buttery scones with jam and clotted cream, to home-made sticky toffee pudding and hot cross buns, all served with fragrant Earl Grey or English Breakfast tea—proper leaf tea—in delicate bone china… my little tearoom was a must-stop on any visitor’s itinerary.
Well, okay, right now, my little tearoom was more of a “must go next time”—but we all have to start somewhere, right?
And so far, things were looking pretty promising. I’d opened three weeks ago, just at the beginning of October and the start of the Michaelmas Term (a fancy name for the first term in the school year; hey, this is Oxford—at least it wasn’t in Latin) and I’d been lucky to catch the end-of-the-summer tourist trade, as well as the flood of new students arriving with their families. My tearoom had even got a write-up in the local student magazine as one of the “Top Places to Take Your Parents” and looked set on its way to becoming a success.
And I desperately needed it to succeed. I’d given up a top executive job in Sydney—much to the horror of family and friends—on a crazy whim to come back home and follow this dream. I’d sunk every last penny of my savings into this place and I needed it to work. Besides, if my venture didn’t become profitable soon, I’d never be able to afford a place of my own, and seriously, after being home for six weeks, I realised that moving back to live with your parents when you’re twenty-nine is a fate worse than death.
But standing at the counter surveying my tearoom that Saturday morning, I was feeling happy and hopeful. It was still an hour till lunchtime but already the place was almost full. There was a warm cosy atmosphere, permeated by the cheerful hum of conversation, the dainty clink of china, and that gorgeous smell of fresh baking. People were poring over their menus, happily stuffing their faces, or pointing and looking around the room in admiration.
The tearoom was housed in a 15th-century Tudor building, with the distinctive dark half-timber framing and walls painted white. With its thatched roof and cross gables, it looked just like the quintessential English cottages featured on chocolate box tins. Inside, the period charm continued with flagstone floors and thick, exposed wood beams, matched by mullioned windows facing the street and an inglenook fireplace.
It hadn’t looked like this when I took it over. The last owner had let things go badly, due to a combination of money troubles and personal lethargy (otherwise known as laziness), and it had taken a lot of effort and dedication—not to mention all my savings—to restore this place to its former glory. But looking around now, I felt as great a sense of achievement as I had done the day I graduated with a First from that world-famous university nearby.
I scanned the tables, noting that we were starting to get some “regulars” and feeling a rush of pleasure at the thought. Getting someone to try you once—especially when they were tired and hungry and just wanted somewhere to sit down—was one thing; getting them to add you to their weekly routine was a different honour altogether. Especially when that honour was handed out by the residents of Meadowford-on-Smythe who viewed all newcomers with deep suspicion.
Not that I was really a “newcomer”—I’d lived here as a little girl and, even after my family had moved to North Oxford in my teens, we’d always popped back to visit on school holidays and long weekends. But I’d been gone long enough to be considered an “outsider” now and I knew that I would have to work hard to earn back my place in the village.
Still, it looked like I was taking my first steps. Sitting at the heavy oak table by the window were four little old ladies with their heads together, like a group of finicky hens deciding which unfortunate worm to peck first. Fluffy white hair, woolly cardigans, and spectacles perched on the ends of their noses… they looked like the stereotype of sweet, old grannies. But don’t be fooled. These four could have given MI5 a run for their money. They made it their business to know everybody’s business (that was just the basic service—interfering in other people’s business was extra). It was rumoured that even the Mayor of Oxford was in their power.
But the fact that they were sitting in my tearoom was a good sign, I told myself hopefully. It meant that there was a chance I was being accepted and approved of. Then my heart sank as I saw one of them frown and point to an item on the menu. The other three leaned closer and there were ominous nods all around.
Uh-oh. I grabbed an order pad and hurried over to their table.
“Good morning, ladies.” I pinned a bright smile to my face. “What can I get you today?”
They turned their heads in unison and looked up at me, four pairs of bright beady eyes and pursed lips.
“You’re looking a bit peaky, Gemma,” said Mabel Cooke in her booming voice. “Are you sure you’re getting enough fibre, dear? There’s a wonderful new type of bran you can take in the mornings, you know, to help you get ‘regular’. Dr Foster recommended it to me. Just a spoon on your cereal and you’ll be in the loo, regular as clockwork. Works marvellously to clear you out.” She leaned closer and added in a stage whisper, which was loud enough for the entire room to hear, “So much cheaper than that colon irritation thing they do, dear.”
I saw the couple at the next table turn wide eyes on me and felt myself flushing. “Er… thank you, Mrs Cooke. Now, can I take—”
“I saw your mother in Oxford yesterday,” Glenda Bailey spoke up from across the table. As usual, she was wearing bright pink lipstick, which clashed badly with the rouge on her cheeks, but somehow the overall effect was charming. Glenda was eighty going on eighteen, with a coquettish manner that went perfectly with her gir
lish looks. “Has she had her hair done recently?”
To be honest, I had no idea. I had only been back six weeks and I thought my mother looked pretty much the same. But I suppose her hair was in a different style to the last time I’d returned to England.
“Er… yes, I think so.”
Glenda clucked her tongue and fluttered her eyelashes in distress. “Oh, it was shocking. So flat and shapeless. I suppose she went to one of those fancy new hairdressers in Oxford?”
“I… I think she did.”
There were gasps from around the table.
“She should have come to Bridget here in the village,” said Mabel disapprovingly. “Nobody can do a wash and blow dry like our Bridget. She even gave me a blue rinse for free the last time I was there.” She patted her head with satisfaction, then turned back to me with a scowl. “Really, Gemma! Young hairdressers nowadays know nothing about lift and volume. I don’t know why your mother is going to these fancy new hair salons.”
Maybe because not everyone wants to walk around wearing a cotton wool helmet on their heads, I thought, but I bit back the retort.
“It’s because they have no concept of ‘staying power’,” Florence Doyle spoke up. Her simple, placid face was unusually earnest. “They’ve never been through the war and have no idea of rationing. They don’t know how to make things last as long as possible. People wash their hair so frequently these days.” She gave a shudder.
“Well, a wash and set once a week was good enough for my mother and it’s good enough for me,” said Mabel with an emphatic nod. She eyed me suspiciously. “How often do you wash your hair, Gemma?”
“I… um… only when I need to,” I stammered, thinking guiltily of my daily shower and shampoo. With a determined effort, I changed the subject. “What would you like to order for morning tea?”