by H. Y. Hanna
“Yes, sir.” Marie bowed her head, then with another dark look at me, she turned and slipped out of the room.
I followed her and was just in time to see the door to the back staircase swing shut. The sergeant turned the other way and began walking down the long, L-shaped corridor to the lift at the other end. I threw one last look over my shoulder, then followed him. When we arrived downstairs, I was led into the inner office behind the reception counter. It looked like Derek Sutton had been kicked out of his manager’s office—the police had appropriated it as a temporary Incident Room while they conducted interviews at the hotel. A constable was sitting behind the desk but he stood up hurriedly when he saw us.
I waited restlessly while the sergeant typed up my statement, then signed it and left the office with some relief. As I was crossing the lobby, I saw Marie the maid again. She was standing in a corner of the lounge, deep in conversation with a young man with slicked-back hair and a black leather jacket. Her eyes lit up when she saw me and she pointed quickly towards me. The young man detached himself from her and sauntered over in my direction.
“Miss Gemma Rose?” he said, giving me an ingratiating smile.
“How do you know my name?”
His smile widened. “It’s my business to know things.” He stuck a hand out. “My name’s Brett. Brett Lyle. I’m a reporter with the Cotswolds Post. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about the murder? I understand you were the last person to see the victim alive?”
“I have nothing to say,” I said, trying to brush past him.
“Aww—don’t be like that!” He put a hand out to stop me. “It’s only a few questions.” He leaned forwards and lowered his voice suggestively. “My paper pays well for exclusives—I’d make it worth your while…”
“No thanks. I’m not interested.” I turned away.
“I would have thought that you’d want to set the record straight,” he said slyly.
I stopped and turned back to him. “What do you mean?”
“Well… Tongues are wagging, you know… small village like this… there’s a lot of gossip. Everyone is wondering about your… friendship… with the victim.” He put a slight emphasis on the word “friendship” which somehow made it sound dirty.
I thought suddenly of Inspector Glenn’s insinuations and flushed angrily. “Is this that ridiculous rumour about Jenn and me being lovers?”
His face lit up with glee. “So you admit it!”
“I’m not admitting anything! I just told you—it’s a ridiculous rumour! We only met on the plane—”
“Oh! So it was a whirlwind romance!”
“What? No! Stop twisting what I’m saying!” I cried angrily. “We just happened to sit next to each other on a long flight and we got chatting—that’s all! Why can’t two women be friends these days without all sorts of lewd assumptions being made?”
“I quite agree, I quite agree,” said the young reporter, nodding sympathetically. “That’s why I thought you’d like the chance to tell your story. Set the record straight. So everyone doesn’t think you murdered your lover in a jealous fit—”
“What?” I spluttered “That’s—that’s so ludicrous, it doesn’t even bear answering!”
“So are you saying that you didn’t murder Jenn Murray out of jealousy?” he said quickly.
“Of course I didn’t murder her out of jealousy—I mean—I didn’t murder her at all!” I said, furious at the way he was befuddling me and putting words in my mouth. “I’m not talking to you anymore about this!”
I rushed out of the hotel. Outside, I was relieved to find a taxi pulling up to deposit a guest and I barely gave the poor man time to pay his fare before I elbowed him out of the way and climbed in.
I really must dig out my old bicycle and pump up the tyres, I thought as the taxi pulled away from the hotel. I didn’t have a car and it was a nightmare having to rely on public transport, especially in these out-of-the-way country places. And taking taxis everywhere was getting expensive.
When I got home, I made good my word by taking myself off to the shed at the back of my parents’ garden and searching through the accumulated junk.
Ten minutes later, my mother popped her head in. “Whatever are you doing, darling?” she asked.
“Looking for my bike,” I said, as I stepped over a large bag of fertiliser and lifted a couple of tins of paint out of my way.
“Oh, that old thing. We got rid of it a few years ago,” said my mother.
I stared at her in dismay. “You got rid of my bike?”
“Yes, it was taking up so much room and you know neither your father nor I cycle. There was a charity auction going on at the church fête and they were looking for donations. I didn’t think you’d be back from Sydney anytime soon, so I decided I might as well donate your bicycle.”
“But Mother—that was a top-of-the-range Cannondale road bike!” I said, irritated.
“Yes, and it fetched a very good price at auction. All the proceeds went to Save the Bolivian Sloth,” said my mother proudly.
“Save the what?” I sighed and resisted the urge to grind my teeth.
There was nothing for it but to get myself a new bicycle. I’ll go to Penny Farthing, I decided. It was the best bike shop in Oxford and it was where I had bought my first bicycle. It would also give me a chance to pop into the city centre and have a look around.
One of the biggest downsides of moving to Australia had been how expensive it was to come back to this side of the world. You could never pop back for a weekend—just the flight alone would take a day, not to mention the horrendous jetlag on either side. And my high-powered executive job hadn’t left me with much time for holidays. So what with all that and the ridiculous price of long-distance plane tickets, I hadn’t come back home as often as I would have liked. The last time I had been back in England was about three years ago. I doubted that Oxford itself would have changed much—it was one of those timeless, historic cities—but it would be nice to revisit some of my old haunts and take a trip down Memory Lane. At the very least, it would take my mind off the subject of Jenn’s murder…
CHAPTER EIGHT
I spent a pleasant couple of hours wandering around Oxford and enjoying the sight of my old university town, from the prestigious colleges with their grand quadrangles and medieval cloisters to the iconic university buildings with their Gothic spires and elegant towers, which made up many of the “dreaming spires” that decorated the famous skyline of Oxford.
And the streets were as full of tourists as ever: huge groups of Japanese seniors scurrying after a guide holding an umbrella, bearded European backpackers slouching around in threadbare jeans, gesticulating Brazilians arguing loudly over a map, affable Americans with gleaming white teeth smiling widely into cameras… and in between all this, the residents of Oxford themselves going about their daily business, the students cycling to lectures, the dons strolling to give tutorials.
Life as an Oxford student could be weird and wonderful. I remembered once looking up from a book at the library to see a tourist peering through the windows with a camera, taking a picture of “genuine Oxford students at work”. And we could have made a fortune if we’d charged a pound every time we were stopped for a photograph as we walked towards the Examination Schools in our black gowns, mortar boards, and sub fusc. It was one of the quirky things that came out of the University being set right over the heart of the city, with what Americans would call the “campus” mingling with the buildings of the old Oxford town.
I had my lunch in one of my favourite student places: The Nosebag—a little café in St Michael’s Street, full of character and charm, famous for serving “the best soups in Oxford”, as well as home-made casseroles, quiches, and lasagnes, and a selection of mouth-watering cakes. As I sat down at one of the wooden tables, with a steaming bowl of roasted cauliflower soup in front of me, it felt like I had stepped back in time. How many giggling lunches had Cassie and I had in here—or rauc
ous evenings with big groups of college friends—or those dreamy, romantic brunches with Devlin—
I caught my thoughts sharply, shocked at the stab of pain in my heart. I thought I had forgotten all that. Put it all behind me. I hadn’t consciously thought of him in years. The sharpness of the memory took me by surprise. Maybe it was coming back home to Oxford and all the old, familiar surroundings…
I pushed the memories away and concentrated determinedly on the future instead. Tomorrow I should be getting the bank approval on the loan and signing the final papers! I felt that thrill of anticipation again as I imagined myself picking up the keys to my new tearoom. The thought spurred me on. I finished my lunch quickly, then left The Nosebag and headed down the lane to where the bike shop was located. A few minutes later, I was surveying a row of gleaming bicycles.
“This is the latest range of hybrid bikes,” said the shop assistant, running a proud hand over the handlebars of the bicycle next to me. “They combine the speed and agility of a road bike with the power and robustness of a mountain bike, as well as boasting stylish looks for an urban environment… Or if you’re the more rugged, outdoor sort, there’s the adventure bikes and proper mountain bikes—all-terrain, trail-blazer tyres, travel suspension fork, hydro discs, six-speed Shimano transmission… Or if you’re just wanting something for biking around town, these commuter bikes offer the perfect blend of speed, comfort, and practicality—they’ve got wide-ratio gearing, ergonomic triple-density grips…”
His voice faded into the distance, the technical words bouncing off my ears, as my eyes strayed from the gleaming row of sleek black monsters in front of me to a little blue bicycle in the far corner of the shop.
“What about that one?” I interrupted him.
He stopped in mid-flow and gaped at me. “That one? But that’s… that’s an old bike that a student brought in yesterday. She was leaving Oxford so she sold it back to us. But that’s a second-hand trade-in, a very basic bicycle. It hasn’t got multi-gear transmission or the latest suspension styles—it even relies on old-fashioned coaster brakes. Really, it’s the kind of thing that… ahem… a lady of a certain senior age might ride.”
I walked slowly over to examine the old bicycle. It was a baby blue with cream tires, old-fashioned curved handlebars, a slightly rusty metal bell, and a wire basket at the front. It looked quaint and faded and well past its prime. Certainly not the kind of thing I should have been buying to whizz around town in. And yet… something about this creaky old bicycle called to me.
“You’ll hardly be able to get up any speed in that old thing,” said the shop assistant with a disdainful look.
Well, what was the rush anyway? I thought. I’d been running as fast as I could for eight years in the corporate rat race but I’d jumped off that ship now. My old hectic life was behind me and my new life was going to be different. And surely this little bicycle was much more suitable for the owner of a Cotswolds village tearoom?
“I’ll take this one,” I said suddenly.
The shop assistant stared. “Are you sure? I must remind you that it is second-hand. We service all of our bikes before sale, of course, but an older bike is more likely to develop issues. I can’t guarantee—”
“That’s okay.” I smiled at him. “I’ll take my chances.”
Resigned, he detached the bicycle and wheeled it over to the cash desk for me. “Are you a student at the University?” he asked. “We’re doing a special discount for students at the moment.”
“No,” I said, flattered to think that I still looked young enough to pass. Then I realised that with the number of graduates coming to Oxford, it probably wasn’t a compliment on my youthful looks! “I did used to be a student here—and actually, I bought my first bike from you ages ago. I don’t suppose my old university card would still work?” I asked jokingly.
He grinned. “We’ll see what we can do. We like to keep our old regulars happy.”
A little while later, I walked out of the store, proudly wheeling my new bicycle. As I turned onto the main street leading north out of Oxford, I wondered if it was true that you never forgot how to ride a bike. I hadn’t been on one in eight years—I’d meant to get one when I moved to Sydney, but somehow never got around to it.
Slowly, I mounted the bicycle and put my foot experimentally on the pedals, then I pushed off, wobbling down the street. My confidence grew as the bicycle gathered speed and I didn’t fall off the seat or crash into the curb. It’s true—you don’t forget! I felt a silly grin of elation spread over my face. Then I was seized by an urge to show off my achievement.
I’ll go and see Cassie, I decided. Besides, I wanted to tell her about Jenn’s murder. I glanced at the time. It was late afternoon now and I knew she would be teaching a class at the dance studio in Meadowford-on-Smythe. Cassie came from a family of artists and dancers, and she had learned ballet almost before she could walk—a skill that came in very handy when she needed some part-time gigs to supplement her income.
Pumping the pedals with fresh enthusiasm, I headed eagerly out of Oxford.
CHAPTER NINE
I cycled slowly to Meadowford and arrived slightly out of breath but with my cheeks flushed from the fresh air and exercise. I got to the studio and was pleased to catch Cassie just as she was arriving too.
“I see you’ve been busy,” she observed with a grin as I dismounted.
“More than you think,” I retorted and told her about the police interview that morning.
“Bloody hell!” said Cassie when I’d finished. “So you think this Andrew Manning chap did it?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” I said grimly. “The man was a creep.”
“The detective inspector sounds like a right plonker as well,” Cassie commented. “I can’t believe he actually suggested that you might be a suspect!”
I gave a dismissive wave. “I don’t think he seriously meant it—I think he was just ‘fishing’—besides, that was before I told him about Andrew Manning.”
“Yeah, that was rotten luck for Manning being seen by you,” said Cassie. “I’ll bet he would have lied to the police about his movements last night, otherwise.”
I nodded. “Oh, for sure! But I don’t think he can wriggle out of it now. Besides, there will probably be forensic evidence as well. I wonder when the police will make the formal arrest?” I frowned. “And I suppose there will be an inquest as well. Inspector Glenn didn’t mention it but I assume I’ll have to give evidence…”
“What a way to start your new life back in England, huh?” said Cassie with a grim smile. “Witness in a murder enquiry!”
“Well, it can only get better after this,” I said wryly as I chained my new bike to a post on the street and followed her into the studio.
The woman behind the reception looked up and said, “Oh, Cassie, I’m afraid you’ll have to use Studio 2 for your class today. One of the mirrors in Studio 1 is cracked. Fletcher’s in there now replacing it.”
“Oh, Fletcher’s here? Good, I wanted you to meet him,” said Cassie, grabbing my arm and dragging me after her into the adjoining room.
“Who’s Fletcher?” I said, following her in puzzlement.
“He’s sort of the unofficial handyman in the village—does a few odd jobs here and there, a bit of gardening and maintenance. But the reason I wanted you to meet him is because he’s a fantastic baker. Seriously, his cakes and scones are out of this world.”
Inside the studio room, a large man with slightly stooped shoulders and a receding hairline was crouched by the wall of mirrors at the other end. He looked up as we entered. I gave him a smile but he looked quickly away.
“Fletcher’s very shy,” said Cassie in an undertone. “And he doesn’t say much. He’s a bit… um… different. But don’t worry, you get used to it.”
“Hey, Fletcher,” she said aloud, going across the room to him. “This is my friend, Gemma. Remember I told you about her? She’s been living in Australia.”
The
big man nodded. “With the kangaroos,” he said with childlike simplicity.
“Yeah, with the kangaroos,” Cassie agreed, giving me a wink behind his back. “Well, she’s come back to England now! And guess what? She’s going to open a tearoom in the village.” She stopped and sniffed the air appreciatively. “Mmm, Fletcher, smells like you’ve been baking again! What have you made this time?”
The handyman nodded towards a canvas tool bag nearby. Propped against it was a brown paper bag. “I made some scones for everybody,” he said.
Cassie’s eyes lit up. She pounced on the paper bag and pulled out a scone, which she thrust into my hands. “Here! You have to try one.”
Before I could answer, she was already pulling out a second scone and cramming it into her mouth.
“Mmm… so good…” Cassie said, her mouth full. She looked at Fletcher. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any jam or clotted cream with you?”
Fletcher shook his head, looking slightly distressed. “No, Barb did not ask for any jam or cream,” he said, referring to the receptionist. “She only asked for scones. A dozen scones, she said. So I made thirteen. A baker’s dozen. She did not tell me to bring jam or cream.”
“I was only joking, Fletcher,” said Cassie, chuckling. “I wouldn’t have expected you to have a whole English afternoon tea set-up in your tool bag! These are delicious on their own anyway.”
I took a bite of my own scone, then my eyes widened. Cassie was right—it was absolutely delicious: light and fluffy, with a golden crust on the outside and a rich buttery taste. I swallowed, then took another bite and another and another, and before I knew it, all I had left were a few crumbs in my hands. I had to restrain myself from reaching into the paper bag for another scone.
Cassie grinned at me. “Good, huh?”
I nodded and beamed at the handyman. “You should be a baker, Fletcher. I think these are the best scones I’ve ever tasted.”