A Scone To Die For (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1)

by H. Y. Hanna

  The place was heaving. With the typical English habit of heading straight to the pub after work, this was the busiest time of the evening—and the numbers were swelled by the visiting tourists. Many of them would be staying at the various B&Bs and hotels on the outskirts of the village and probably came here for an authentic English pub experience.

  “Seth said he might meet us here, if he could get away in time…” Cassie scanned the room. “Ah, there he is! And he’s got a couple of seats for us by the window—good on him,” she said with satisfaction.

  “I’ll get the drinks,” I said. “You go and join him first.”

  Cassie nodded and headed across the room. I elbowed my way through the crowd to the front of the bar. Brian, the landlord, was busy at the beer tap, his sleeves rolled up to show his beefy arms as he pulled on a lever and filled a glass with foaming amber liquid.

  He glanced up and gave me a smile. “Gemma! What can I get ya?”

  “Half a cider for Cassie, please, and a shandy for me.”

  “Still a lightweight, eh? I would have thought that living in Australia would’ve cured you of that. On the other hand, Aussie beer…” He made a face. “Maybe I’m not surprised that you’re opting for soft drinks.”

  I laughed. “Hey, the Aussies are pretty proud of their beers.”

  “I stand by my opinion. A beer’s not a beer unless it’s a proper pint of English ale.”

  I smiled, refusing to be drawn into that age-old debate. “Busy here tonight,” I commented, looking around the place.

  He nodded, casting an experienced eye over the crowd. “Aye, a good bunch. A lot of tourists, but.”

  I noticed his eyes were fixed on a particular figure on the other side of the bar and as I followed his gaze, my heart sank as I realised suddenly who it was: the American from that morning. He was standing at the bar with pint of ale in his hand, arguing with another man. From the expression on their faces, it wasn’t a friendly debate. I could see the look of concern in Brian’s eyes. He had been a publican for thirty years and he could recognise trouble brewing.

  “Some of these tourists ought to know when to keep their mouths shut,” he muttered as he pulled the lever and filled Cassie’s half pint, tilting the glass with expert skill so that the foam stopped just short of spilling over the edge. “And some of the locals should learn not to let others wind them up so easily.”

  I looked over at the arguing men again and belatedly recognised the other punter. It was Mike Bailey, one of the local “troublemakers”. He was a belligerent young man in his early twenties, with a tendency to get violent when drunk—which was often. Long acquaintance and respect for his family, who had lived in the area for centuries, had led most of the villagers to ignore Mike’s sullen outbursts and put up with his behaviour. But when his surliness took a physical turn, Brian was quick to kick him off the premises. Cassie had told me that there had been a couple of incidents which had ended in assault charges, but so far, Mike Bailey had managed to stay out of Oxford Prison.

  As I watched, he squared up to the American, jutting his chin out and jabbing a finger in the other man’s chest. A third man was standing between them, smiling weakly and attempting to calm the situation.

  “I’m not sure you can blame Mike this time,” I said to Brian. “I had a run-in with that chap myself earlier today and I have to say, he’s pretty obnoxious.”

  Brian grunted. “Obnoxious or not, he’s a customer. Mike had better watch himself. If they’ve got a problem, they can take it outside. I’m not having a fight in my pub.”

  As we watched, the third man tried again, this time inserting himself bodily between the two arguing men. They seemed to calm down slightly and both stopped to take a drink from their glasses. I breathed a small sigh of relief. I didn’t think I could handle any more drama today.

  Brian set my drinks in front of me, took the money I offered, and handed me a packet of pork scratchings. He gave me a wink. “On the house.”

  I smiled my thanks, then tucked the packet under my arm, picked up the drinks, and, balancing them carefully, made my way over to join Cassie and Seth.

  “I’ve just been telling Seth all about our day and our American Psycho,” said Cassie as I sat down. Her eyes flicked across the room. “And then I look up and he’s there! And as charming as ever, I see.”

  I groaned. “I know; it’s like some kind of curse—I can’t get away from the man! When he said he was going into Oxford earlier, I was hoping that he wouldn’t be coming back any time soon.”

  “Well, the coach probably brought the whole tour group back to the hotel this afternoon,” said Cassie. “Anyway, forget him.” She turned to Seth, sitting next to her. “So how’s life in the ‘dreaming spires’ these days?”

  Seth cleared his throat and pushed his thick-framed glasses up his nose. It was a gesture I could remember from the day I met him when I first arrived as a Fresher in college. He had come up to read Chemistry, whilst I’d opted for the more genteel degree of English Literature. He had a room on my staircase in college and he had found me on that first day in Noughth Week, struggling with my suitcase at the bottom of the four-flight staircase. He had gallantly insisted on carrying my case up for me, in spite of nearly keeling over under the weight of it, and we had been firm friends ever since.

  Seth was sweet and shy, although his earnest sharing of information could occasionally make him come across as pompous. Maybe because of this, he had opted to remain in the insular safety of academia and had gone straight from his undergraduate degree to a DPhil (PhD to the rest of the world), then a Junior Research Fellowship, and finally a Senior Research Fellow. I didn’t think it would be long before he was made Professor. I suspected that Seth harboured a secret crush on Cassie all these years, but was simply too shy to tell her.

  He was blushing slightly now as he recounted a story about his adventures at High Table. All the Oxford colleges had stately halls where a communal dinner was served and the dons and “fellows”—the academic staff—normally sat at High Table, usually at the very top of the room. Politics at High Table could be treacherous, especially for a younger member of the Senior Common Room—as Seth was finding out. With his naturally diffident manner, he was an easy target for the more domineering members of the SCR.

  “You should have just told him where to stuff it,” said Cassie heatedly as he finished his story. “I would have—”

  “THAT’S A LOAD O’ BOLLOCKS!”

  We all jerked our heads around. Mike Bailey was thrusting himself aggressively at the American, his face mottled with anger.

  “Hey, don’t get mad at me just because you don’t like to hear the truth,” said the American loudly. “Your country is a sad relic of the last century, stuck in your stupid traditions and elitist attitudes, with crap food and miserable, stuck-up people. Come to the U.S. and see what real progress is!”

  “I’ve had enough o’ you bloody Americans coming here, throwing your money around an’ thinking you know everything! I’m telling you—”

  “Whoa, gentlemen…” Brian came hurriedly out from behind the bar, his hands raised in a placating manner. “Why don’t we step outside and talk this out—”

  “I don’t need to step outside,” Mike snarled. “I know what I need to do right here!”

  And he lunged forwards and punched the American in the face. Cries of alarm erupted around the room and several people sprang up from their seats. I noticed, though, that the men standing around Mike had expressions of satisfaction on their faces. Guess the American hadn’t been making himself too popular. No one stepped in to help him either as he slowly picked himself up off the floor.

  Rubbing his jaw, he glared at Mike and said, “Is that your best shot, you drunk loser?”

  “Why you—!” Mike went for him, his hands around the American’s throat. This time, some of the other men jumped in to try and separate them.

  “Hey! Enough of that!” cried Brian, shoving his way between them and fo
rcing them apart. The American said something with a sneer—too low for me to catch from the other side of the room—but it caused Mike to make another lunge for him.

  “You bastard! I’ll make you pay for that!” he yelled, as several of his friends tried to restrain him.

  Brian turned to the American. “Sir, you seem to be deliberately provoking him. I must ask you to leave.”

  The American gave a shrug. “Sure, no skin off my nose. Don’t know what the big deal is about this place anyway.” He gave the room a contemptuous look as he adjusted the collar on his shirt. “Bet I’ll find better drinks for cheaper in Oxford.”

  The door slammed shut behind him and there was an audible sigh of relief in the room.

  “Good riddance,” said Cassie in disgust. “What a pillock.”

  Brian was now talking to Mike Bailey and also asking him to leave. The latter was indignant.

  “I can’t believe you’re taking that bloody American’s side in this!”

  “I’m not taking anyone’s side,” said Brian wearily. “But I can’t have different rules for locals and tourists in my pub. You’ve caused trouble so I’m going to have to ask you to leave just like him.”

  Mike swore viciously, then he turned and banged out of the pub. I hoped that the American was already a good distance away otherwise there was likely to be another brawl out on the street. Several of Mike’s friends must have shared the same thoughts because they hastily followed him out. The sudden clearing of the pub made the whole place seem a lot quieter and reminded me of my dinner appointment.

  “Yikes!” I glanced at my watch and sprang to my feet. “I’d better get going. I’m going to be late for dinner!”

  “It’s only your parents. I’m sure they won’t mind if you’re a few minutes late,” said Cassie.

  “Are you kidding?” I gave her a look. “You know what my mother’s like. Punctuality is one of the Ten Commandments in her household.” I bent down and gave them both a peck on the cheek, then added to Cassie, “See you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t forget Daylight Savings ends tonight,” Seth spoke up. “So remember to turn your clocks back, otherwise you’ll be getting up an hour early for nothing.”

  Cassie groaned. “Oh my God, that’s what I did one year—and I got up and had showered and dressed for work before I realised it was still practically the middle of the night!”

  I laughed. “I nearly did something similar in Sydney. Anyway, it’s great to know that I’ll get an extra hour of sleep tonight. See you!”

  I gave them a smile and a cheery wave, and made my way out of the pub.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I made it back to my parents’ house with a minute to spare but by the time I’d hung up my cycle helmet and dashed into the downstairs toilet to wash my hands, I was definitely late when I arrived at the table.

  My parents were already seated—my father, Professor Philip Rose, at his customary place at the head of the table, with a full dinnerware place setting laid out in front of him and a linen napkin at his elbow. My mother, Evelyn Rose, had just served the first course: split pea soup with croutons and a drizzle of sour cream, in elegant porcelain bowls. No chipped crockery in my parents’ house or any stained mugs either. I don’t know how my mother did it but she kept all her china looking as pristine as the day she bought them from the Royal Doulton section in the local department store.

  “Sorry I’m late!” I gasped as I dropped into my seat. “I was—”

  “Darling, volume…” My mother frowned at me.

  I sighed and made an effort to lower my voice. “Sorry, Mother—I was having a drink with Cassie and Seth at the Blue Boar.”

  “Oh, how is Seth? Such a nice boy.”

  “He’s not really a boy anymore, Mother. But yes, he’s fine. He’s having some teething troubles settling into his new college, but otherwise he seems on good form.”

  “Which college has he transferred to?” My father spoke up for the first time. My father was an Oxford professor and the stereotype of the absent-minded academic, spending more time with his nose buried in his books than in the real world. Even though he was now semi-retired, he still kept an active interest in all things to do with the University.

  “Gloucester College,” I informed him.

  He nodded. “Good cricket team.” He lapsed into silence again, concentrating on his soup.

  “Yes, well, I was thinking, dear…” my mother continued smoothly. “Perhaps you could ask Seth to help you.”

  I looked at her in puzzlement. “Help me with what?”

  “Why, find a job, of course!”

  I gave her an exasperated look. “Mother, I have a job. I run a tearoom.”

  She made a clucking sound with her tongue. “Yes, that’s nice, dear—but surely that’s not what you intend to do long term? I mean, you didn’t go to Oxford just to become a… a tea lady!”

  I sighed. We’d already had this conversation a thousand times. While I shall always be grateful that I attended one of the best universities in the world, it did come with a lot of baggage—the main one being a nagging sense of failure if you didn’t win a Nobel Prize, become a multi-billionaire top CEO, or run for Prime Minister once you’d left Oxford. Somehow you were always dogged by the constant question of: “What have you achieved that’s worthy of your brilliant education? You’ve been to Oxford! Why aren’t you living up to your potential?”

  I’d lived with that guilt for years—it was what had driven me to climb the corporate ladder, even though my heart wasn’t in it, and to remain in a career which had left me feeling empty and miserable—just so I could hold my head up and have an impressive title to whip out when people asked me what I had done since graduating from Oxford.

  But three months ago—when I turned twenty-nine and realised that the big 3-0 was rushing towards me—I had one of those “Oh my God, what have I done with my life?” moments. Maybe it was an early mid-life crisis. Suddenly I was sick of doing what was expected of me; I wanted to rebel, to do something crazy, to be that person that family and friends whispered about—with horror and disapproval and yet also admiration and envy—for having the guts to just do what the hell they wanted to and not care what other people think.

  The next day, I’d walked into my office in Sydney and handed in my resignation. A week later, I heard about the tearoom in Meadowford-on-Smythe while on an internet chat with Cassie: the owners were selling out and moving to the Costa del Sol, and the beautiful 15th-century institution was under threat. I didn’t know the first thing about running a food business—and I couldn’t bake to save my life—but I fancied a challenge… and I missed England.

  So I made probably the first impulsive decision in my life: I sold my swanky penthouse apartment in Sydney, bought the Little Stables Tearoom, packed my things, and came home. Of course, once I’d tasted a couple of weeks of British weather and maternal smothering, the romance did begin to fade a bit… but still, I didn’t regret it.

  I pulled myself out of my thoughts and back to the conversation at the dining table. “Why can’t I just run a tearoom if it makes me happy?”

  My mother looked at me as if I had grown two heads, then she continued as if I hadn’t spoken.

  “Dorothy Clarke told me that her daughter works for the University in their Alumni Office. She was having her highlights done at the hair salon when I was there last month and she told me all about Suzanne’s job. It sounds very glamorous and Suzanne gets to travel sometimes on University business. Wouldn’t you like a job like that, dear?”

  “No,” I said firmly. “I had a job like that in Sydney, Mother. Don’t you remember? And I hated it.”

  My mother tutted. “You didn’t hate it. How could you have done it for eight years if you hated it?”

  “Trust me, Mother. I’m much happier now. I’m proud of my little tearoom and I want to make a success of it. I don’t need another job.”

  My mother was silent as we finished the rest of our soup and I tho
ught that she might have finally accepted my position on the subject. It was too much for hope for. As we began our main course (roast lamb with spiced parsnips, carrots, and crispy roast potatoes, accompanied by home-made mint sauce—ah, I’d missed a good traditional British roast) she launched a new attack from a different angle.

  “Has Cassie got a boyfriend yet?”

  I shook my head.

  “Why is she never with a nice young man?”

  I shrugged. “Cassie is just… a free spirit, I guess. Besides, you know her first love is her paintbrush.”

  “Well, it’s about time she thought about settling down, you know…” She gave me a meaningful look. “I mean, Cassie isn’t as young as she used to be and everyone knows that once a woman passes thirty, everything starts to go downhill.”

  I had a sneaking suspicion that she was not talking about my best friend, but I could be as obtuse as my mother when I chose to be.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about Cassie—I think everything is still very uphill with her,” I said cheerfully

  My mother pursed her lips. “Yes, but it is so strange, dear. Such a pretty girl too. I would have thought that the men would be flocking around her.”

  “They do flock around her,” I said. “The problem is that she’s not very interested in what they have to offer.”

  My mother gave a gasp and put a hand up to her throat. “Do you mean Cassie is a lesbos?”

  “Lesbian, Mother. The word is lesbian. Lesbos is an island in Greece. And no, Cassie is not lesbian. Not that there’s anything wrong with that anyway.” I glowered at her.

  “No, of course not, dear. I’m sure lesbians are lovely people.”

  Argh. Argh. Argh. I wanted to face plant on the table, but resisted.

  “Anyway, I was thinking…” my mother continued airily. “Perhaps you’re right, after all. Career isn’t everything. There are other things a woman can do that are very worthwhile—perhaps even more worthwhile. Such as making a home and starting a family…”