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

by H. Y. Hanna

  “You could be right,” I said dryly. “But she usually needs someone to make a home and start a family with.”

  My mother pounced on me. “I’m so glad you say that, darling, because I’ve been thinking the very same thing! You’ll never meet anyone stuck out there in Meadowford-on-Smythe all day. Why, most of the men in the village are old enough to be your grandfather! So I was thinking, perhaps I can help you become acquainted with some of the young men in Oxford.”

  I gave her a wary look. “Mother, I don’t need you to set up blind dates for me.”

  “Who said anything about blind dates?” She gave a shudder. “What a horrible, common word. No, no, you see… I was chatting with Helen Green the other day and she mentioned that Lincoln is back in Oxford now. He’s got a consultant position at the John Radcliffe, in their ICU Department. And I thought: what a wonderful coincidence! You’re both back again after a long time away—perhaps it would be a good idea for you to get together and swap notes—”

  “Mother!” I said, forgetting the rule about restrained, ladylike volume. “I do not need you to set up a date for me with Lincoln Green!”

  “Oh, but it’s not a date, really. It’s just sort of… socialising. He’s ever so nice—and Helen tells me that he’s one of the top Intensive Care specialists in the U.K., you know. He’s bought a townhouse here in North Oxford—a beautiful Victorian maisonette.” She looked around distractedly. “Helen gave me his number and if I can just get into my iPad, I could find it for you… I don’t know why, darling, but my password isn’t working…”

  “Did you capitalise the first letter? You know that the first letter is always a capital in your Apple ID password.”

  “Oh… is it, dear? Well, you’ll have to show me after dinner.”

  That would be the sixth time I’d showed her this week. I sighed. I don’t know what had possessed me to suggest that my mother should get an iPad.

  My mother was continuing, “Helen sent me a recent photo of Lincoln and my, he’s grown up into such a handsome young man! It seems like only yesterday that he was that adorable little boy going off to Eton and now he’s a dashing young doctor.” She sighed dreamily.

  I rolled my eyes. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe her. I was sure Lincoln Green was a lovely chap. In fact, I’d sort of known him since childhood. Helen Green was my mother’s closest friend and Lincoln and his younger sister, Vanessa, had been frequent visitors to our house when we were growing up. I remembered a tall, serious-looking boy with impeccable manners. I was sure he had grown up into a very nice young man but I had no particular desire to renew the acquaintance. Nevertheless, from the look my mother was giving me, I could see that I was not going to avoid this acquaintance easily. I wondered if it might be easier just to have the date with him and get it over with.

  My mother was saying something which brought me back to the present. Something about a book club and her turn to host the meeting this coming Sunday.

  “I’m sure you’d like to join the club, now that you’re back,” she said.

  I groaned. “Mother, I’m not really into book clubs. I like to read what I fancy, when I fancy—the minute I get told I must read something, it totally puts me off the book.”

  “Well, I think you should get involved with some local community activities,” said my mother severely. “It is the best way to make connections and meet the right sort of people. We’re very exclusive in our book club and only admit a certain class of member.”

  I shuddered. The last thing I wanted to do was sit around for a couple of hours making small talk with my mother’s snooty middle-class friends.

  “Well, I don’t want to sit around with a bunch of strangers, arguing over whether the author meant the blue curtains to signify depression or hope—when it probably didn’t have any special meaning at all and he just liked the colour.”

  “Oh, but they’re not all strangers. You do know some of them—like Dorothy Clarke and Eliza Whitfield… oh, and Mabel Cooke has just joined too.”

  There was no way I was going to join this book club now!

  “Sunday mornings I’m busy,” I said quickly. “I’ve got the tearoom, remember? Saturdays and Sundays are our busiest days.”

  My mother frowned. “Really, Gemma… This ludicrous business with the tearoom…”

  I sighed and tuned her out as I focused on finishing the rest of my dinner. For dessert, we had a spotted dick—that wonderful British classic made with delicious sponge cake filled with juicy currants, steamed to perfection, and served with a dollop of custard. In spite of my irritation with my mother, I had to admit that her culinary skills were exemplary. Shame that the domestic gene seemed to have skipped a generation. Considering how bad I was at baking anything, it was probably a joke that I wanted to run a tearoom. Still, I enjoyed eating the items, which I considered half the qualification for the job.

  I put the last spoonful in my mouth and licked my lips appreciatively, wondering if I should ask my mother for the recipe. Perhaps Fletcher had one of his own already. I would have to check with him tomorrow…

  The next morning, I discovered a flat tyre on my bike and had to swap my usual routine of cycling to the tearoom for a bus ride into Meadowford-on-Smythe. As I alighted from the bus, I took a deep breath of the fresh morning air, a smile coming to my face. Much as I hated early starts, I had to admit that there was something nice about being awake at this time, when the streets were still empty, the air was quiet except for the chirping of birds, and everywhere was that hushed feeling of waiting for the day to begin.

  I crossed the village high street and walked the few hundred yards down to the Little Stables Tearoom, feeling the same rush of pride as I did every morning when I saw the sign hanging above the front door. I was looking forward to another busy day. And it seemed that customers were arriving already. As I approached the entrance of the tearoom courtyard, I saw someone sitting at one of the outdoor tables, facing away from me. Blimey, they’re early. The tearoom didn’t officially open until nine o’clock—nearly another thirty minutes—but I decided I didn’t mind starting a bit earlier to keep a customer happy.

  “Be with you in a minute!” I called.

  I glanced at the figure again as I walked past and my heart sank as I recognised those heavy-set shoulders and square-shaped head with the large, prominent ears. It was the American from yesterday. I had been hoping that he would have changed his mind about coming back here for breakfast. Still, a customer was a customer.

  I hurried into the tearoom and bustled about, putting on my apron, pulling back the curtains, re-arranging some tables and chairs. Fletcher wasn’t in yet, which was a bit odd. Normally, he would be here already to get an early start on the day’s baking, Never mind, I could offer the American some coffee while he was waiting. Grabbing a menu, I let myself out the back door and into the courtyard.

  “You can come and sit inside the tearoom now, if you like, sir. It’s a bit chilly out here.…”

  I trailed off as I walked around his chair and turned to face him.

  The American was leaning back, his eyes staring and his face a strange mottled colour. There was something wedged in his mouth—a scone, I realised—and his face was contorted painfully around it, with crumbs littering the front of his shirt.

  My first thought was: “Oh my God, he’s choking!” and I sprang forward to help him, even as my brain finally made sense of what I was seeing. My fingers brushed the clammy skin of his neck and I jerked back.

  He wasn’t choking.

  He was dead.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I don’t remember much of what happened afterwards. It was as if I was moving in a blur. Somehow I had stumbled back into the tearoom and picked up the phone to dial 999, then I sank down at one of the tables and sat quietly, staring at my hands. They were shaking.

  I tried not to think of the man sitting out there in my courtyard. He had still been slightly warm when I touched him. I shuddered. It seemed like an
eternity before the police arrived, though it was probably no more than ten minutes. I heard cars pulling up outside, the brief wail of sirens, but when I got up to open the door it was Cassie who rushed in, her eyes wide with surprise.

  “Gemma! What on earth is going on? Why are the police here?”

  Before I could answer, two police constables bustled into the room. I led them wordlessly out into the courtyard and stood there numbly, watching as they looked at the body and talked in low tones. One of them hurried off—presumably to radio for reinforcements—but the other one stayed on the scene, carefully examining the table at which the American had been sitting but not touching anything. The knapsack I remembered from yesterday was on the chair next to him and a familiar paper bag half filled with scones was on the table.

  “Is this how you found him?”

  I nodded.

  “Touch anything?”

  I shook my head. Then I remembered. “Well, I did touch him briefly… You know, to make sure that he was…” I broke off, swallowing back a sudden wave of nausea.

  He nodded understandingly. “You can go back in to wait inside if you like, ma’am. We’ve contacted Oxfordshire CID and the detectives should be here any moment.”

  I nodded but, instead of going in through the back door, I walked out of the courtyard and onto the street, going the long way so that I would re-enter the tearoom from the front. I wanted a bit of time to recover my composure and a little longer in the fresh air. As I approached the front door, I bumped into a tall figure hurrying up. It was Fletcher, looking harried and flustered.

  “Oh, Gemma! I am sorry! I missed my alarm and I overslept! And then I was looking for Muesli and I—”

  “It’s all right, Fletcher,” I said. In fact, I was thinking that it was a blessing he had overslept. If he had come early and been the one to find the body…

  “Listen, Fletcher…” I said cautiously. “The police are here—”

  “The police? Why?”

  “Um… Well, you remember the American tourist who was here yesterday?”

  His face darkened. I could see that he still hadn’t forgiven the man for kicking Muesli.

  “He’s… He’s had a bit of an accident and… well, he’s dead. The police are with him now.”

  Fletcher stared at me. “Dead?” he said. “Why?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. It looks like he might have choked on a scone—or rather, someone tried to force a scone down his throat and he choked… Anyway, don’t worry—the police are here now and I’m sure they’ll catch who did it.”

  I propelled him towards the kitchen and we found Cassie sitting at the big wooden table inside. She had been sketching something on her drawing pad but she looked up as we came in.

  “Gemma, why are the police he—?” she broke off as her eyes narrowed on Fletcher. “Hey Fletcher—is something wrong?”

  “It’s Muesli,” he said miserably. “She’s gone!”

  I looked around, suddenly realising that he didn’t have the cat carrier with him. In all the excitement with the police, I hadn’t even noticed.

  “What do you mean ‘gone’?”

  “She’s gone. Run away.” Fletcher’s lips quivered.

  “What happened? Did something go wrong when you were putting her in the carrier this morning?”

  He shook his head. “She ran off last night. Didn’t come when I called. I went out and I called and called… but she never came back. I couldn’t sleep. I tried to search again this morning but I couldn’t find her.”

  I reached out to pat his hand. “Don’t worry, Fletcher. I’m sure Muesli will come back. She’s probably just decided to have an adventure in the woods behind your house. Cats often go off for days, don’t they?”

  He shook his head again. “Not Muesli. She always comes back. For bedtime. I give her a treat, see? It’s shaped like a fish. I put it in her bed. Every night.”

  I looked helplessly at Cassie, then gave him another reassuring pat. “Well… maybe she’s just being a bit naughty. I’m sure when you get home today, you’ll find her waiting on the front doorstep for you.”

  My confidence seemed to reassure him. Putting on his apron, he went over to the giant industrial fridge and began taking out the ingredients for making a Victoria sponge cake. Cassie dragged me back out to the dining room.

  “Gemma, what on earth is going on? The constable told me not to go outside.”

  Quickly I told her what had happened—how I’d found the American when I arrived. Cassie stared at me disbelievingly.

  “Dead? Do you think he choked on the scone?”

  “I… I don’t know what to think… He had the whole thing in his mouth. That’s a weird way for somebody to eat a scone. I mean, you’d normally take a bite, not cram the whole thing in your mouth, wouldn’t you? No, it looked as if someone had forced it down his throat and held it there until he…” I shuddered.

  “Bloody hell.” Cassie looked stunned.

  The sound of a car pulling up outside distracted us. I drifted over to the window to see who had arrived. There were two cars, actually—one produced a middle-aged man in white overalls, whom I guessed to be the forensic pathologist. The other was an unmarked car but something told me that this was Oxfordshire CID. A sandy-haired young man climbed out of the driver’s seat. I guessed him to be the junior officer—maybe the detective sergeant. No one who had been in that job for a while could look so cocky and smug. Then another man got out of the front passenger seat and I caught my breath.

  “No…” I whispered.

  There was no way he could have heard me through the glass, but he looked up, straight at me. My heart gave a kick in my chest as I met that steely blue gaze. Time seemed to shift. Suddenly I was back at Oxford again… eight years ago… a wide-eyed Fresher… falling in love for the first time in my life.

  He held my gaze for moment longer, then he turned and followed his sergeant and the pathologist around the corner into the courtyard. I struggled to take a breath. It felt as if there was suddenly a lot less air in the room.

  What was he doing here? Surely he couldn’t be a CID detective?

  I paced the room, questions whirling in my head. Cassie looked at me curiously, but for once I didn’t feel that I could confide in my best friend. In any case, she got her answer soon enough when the front door opened fifteen minutes later and a tall man stepped into the room. The years fell away as he approached me. I remembered the very first time he had walked across the college quadrangle towards me. His hair had been long then, swept back in a dark, leonine mane, which hung down to his shoulders. It was cut short now, although that lock of hair still hung down rakishly over one eye. The chiselled cheekbones were the same too, as well as the hard, sensual mouth, but most of all, there was no mistaking that intense blue gaze.

  He introduced himself and took out his warrant. Even as my eyes read the words: “Detective Inspector Devlin O’Connor, Oxfordshire CID”, my brain still refused to process it. For one thing, he didn’t look like a detective. Okay, so I don’t know much about the usual detective inspector’s working wardrobe but I had a feeling that it didn’t include classic grey suits from Saville Row, Italian silk ties, and stylish leather brogues. He looked more like a model for GQ Magazine than a member of Oxfordshire’s Criminal Investigation Department.

  “Miss Gemma Rose?” he said.

  You know my name, I wanted to shout at him. Instead I nodded and said, “Yes. I’m Gemma Rose.”

  “I understand that this is your establishment? And that you found the body?”

  I nodded again.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  His manner was cold and distant, with no hint of the passion that had once flared between us. It was like a slap across the face and it helped me pull myself together. I raised my chin and gave a cool look to match his.

  “Certainly,” I said in my best BBC voice. My mother would have been proud of me. I waved a hand around the room. “Any ta
ble you like.”

  He gave me a sardonic look, then led me to a corner table whilst his sergeant escorted Cassie back into the kitchen. We sat down and he began firing rapid questions at me:

  When had I arrived at the tearoom? Had everything looked the same as normal? Had I seen anyone loitering in the area? When did I notice the body in the courtyard? Did I know the deceased? When was the last time I had seen him alive? Had I recognised the item in his mouth?

  “Of course I recognised it,” I said impatiently. “It was a scone!”

  “One of yours?” Devlin said.

  “I don’t know. It’s not like they come with a logo on them, is it?” I snapped.

  He raised an eyebrow at my tone but didn’t comment.

  I felt slightly ashamed and added grudgingly, “He did buy a bag of scones to take away when he left yesterday. It looks like the bag that’s on the table with him.”

  “We’ll take one of your scones for analysis and comparison. Now, you say you arrived slightly later than normal—any reason for that?”

  “Because I had to get the bus. I don’t normally—I usually cycle—but I had a flat tyre this morning. Besides, I thought it would be nice to have a break from routine.”

  Devlin didn’t say anything, but again he raised that mocking eyebrow. I bristled. His implication was obvious—that he didn’t think I could break from routine. I remembered all our arguments of old; him accusing me of never being able to be spontaneous or do anything without meticulous planning and total control of the situation. Looking back now, I wondered how we could have ever been together. We were such opposites in every way.

  Devlin’s eyes met mine briefly and I had an uncomfortable feeling that he knew exactly what I was thinking. To cover my discomfort, I launched into a rambling account of the American’s rude behaviour in the tearoom yesterday but, to my irritation, he cut me off, asking me instead to tell him about the incident last night at the Blue Boar again.