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

by H. Y. Hanna

  For a mad moment, I thought he might ask me to come back and see the view at sunset one evening—and I wondered wildly what my answer would be. Then, as the silence stretched between us, I chided myself for my fanciful thoughts. I was here on business, I reminded myself.

  Following that thought, I cleared my throat again and said, “So… you wanted to check my alibi?”

  He nodded, his manner changing instantly back to the professional detective. He took me quickly through a series of questions establishing my whereabouts for Saturday morning.

  “But you know, this is stupid,” I said as we finished. “I mean, Washington was a heavy man and the murderer had to be pretty strong to force that scone down his throat, and hold it down long enough for him to choke. That narrows the search down to big, strong men, doesn’t it?”

  “Not necessarily,” said Devlin. “The forensic pathologist did the post-mortem this morning and I got the report an hour ago. It seems that there is evidence Washington had a stroke sometime in the past which left him with some nerve damage and impaired brain stem function. In particular, it looks like he may have suffered from a condition called dysphagia. It means he had difficulty swallowing and that he was more likely to choke.”

  “Oh… you know, I remember now… He made a fuss about his sandwiches, insisting that they had to be soft.”

  Devlin nodded. “Yeah, someone with dysphagia would probably prefer softer foods which are easier to swallow.”

  “So… you’re saying that anyone could have been the murderer?”

  “Well, I doubt a child could have done it, but yes, it’s very possible that someone smaller and weaker could have been the murderer. They wouldn’t even have had to hold him down very long for him to choke and asphyxiate.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “In fact, even a determined woman could have done it…”

  “You mean, like Justine Washington?”

  He stiffened slightly and his expression became guarded. “What do you know about Justine Washington?”

  “I know that the spouse is usually one of the first suspects when there’s a murder.”

  Devlin inclined his head. “Yes,” he said. “But she has an alibi.”

  Something in his tone told me that he had met Justine. He must have been the one to question her last night. I felt a prickle of something that was uncomfortably like… jealousy? I pushed the thought away. Don’t be stupid. What was there to be jealous of? Devlin wasn’t anything to me anymore. I didn’t care who he associated with. If he found Justine Washington attractive, that was his business.

  “I questioned her last night, right after speaking to Mike Bailey,” Devlin continued. “She had no idea that Washington was back in Oxford and she had an alibi for Saturday morning. She was in a yoga class, at the dance studio in Meadowford-on-Smythe.”

  “I suppose you’ll double check that.”

  Devlin raised an eyebrow, and I flushed.

  “My sergeant is doing that tomorrow, when the studio opens,” he said. “Just like he will be checking your, Cassie’s, and Fletcher’s alibis. And before you get on your high horse again, for what it’s worth, I don’t seriously consider you a suspect.”

  I noticed he didn’t include Cassie or Fletcher in that comment.

  Devlin leaned forwards. “Now… you said you had some other information for me?”

  I told him about Washington’s odd comments on Friday at the tearoom, his aggressive reaction to my handling of the folder, and my suspicion of his past involvement with the University. I half expected Devlin to react with Cassie’s scepticism, but to my surprise, he nodded and his eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

  “Yes, I’d suspected a connection with the University.”

  “So you found the folder?”

  He frowned. “No, there was no folder on him like you describe. We found his wallet and various cards—credit cards, driver’s licence—confirming his name, Brad Washington, and his status as an American citizen.”

  “The killer must have taken the folder!” I said excitedly. “Which means that there must have been something incriminating in it, something that could point to the identity of the murderer.”

  “We know Washington arrived in the country via Heathrow last Thursday—the day before he came to your tearoom.”

  “What about the rest of the tour group? Don’t they know anything about him?”

  “He wasn’t with the tour group. Maybe he gave you that impression on purpose, but he was actually travelling by himself. He just happened to be staying at the same hotel and he happened to come into your tearoom at the same time as the group.”

  I thought back. Devlin was right. Washington had never specifically said that he was part of that group—it was my own assumption, because they had been American too.

  “If you know his name, surely you can find out his background?”

  Devlin nodded. “We’re doing that now. I’ve put in a request through Interpol and they’re doing a complete background check, but these things can take a bit of time. The preliminary search seems to indicate that Washington was a businessman—he was head of some kind of pharmaceutical company in the States.”

  “And do you think he was really just here on holiday?”

  “I think he wanted people to think so. But I think you’re right and he was here on some other business—something connected with Oxford University.” He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “The question is finding out what.”

  “Haven’t you found out what he was doing when he went into Oxford on Friday afternoon?”

  “No. We managed to trace him as far as the city—my sergeant spoke to the bus driver who drove him in—but we don’t know yet where he went after that.”

  “I think I do,” I said.

  Quickly, I told him about my visit to Gloucester College and finding Washington amongst the matriculation photos. Then I told him about my dinner at High Table and Geoffrey Hughes’s odd reaction to the news of the murder, as well as finding him in the Matriculation photo next to Washington.

  “The letter that was in the folder—I got a glimpse of the signature and I’m sure now that the name was ‘Hughes’. They were at Oxford together as graduate students. I think Washington came back to see Hughes.”

  “That’s some pretty good detective work, Gemma,” said Devlin. “I’m impressed.”

  I smiled, feeling absurdly pleased at his praise.

  “Right now, I would say that Mike Bailey is our top suspect. He hasn’t got an alibi for Saturday morning, he’s got a history of violent behaviour, and he was seen assaulting the victim the night before. But I’ll check on Hughes tomorrow and find out what he was doing on Saturday morning.”

  “I just can’t believe Mike did it,” I said, unconsciously echoing Mabel Cooke. “It seems out of character. I mean, I can see him beating up Washington the night after the pub, but to wait until the next morning and sneak up on the American while he’s sitting in my courtyard—and to use a scone… It just doesn’t fit!”

  “People can surprise you sometimes,” said Devlin. “In this job, I’ve learnt not to make any assumptions about human nature.”

  There seemed to be nothing more to say and I stood up, conscious of not wanting to appear like I was trying to prolong our meeting. “Um… I’d better get going.”

  He walked me out and watched as I mounted my bicycle. I flashed back suddenly to all those times when Devlin and I had ridden down the cobbled streets of Oxford together, side by side on our bikes. It was hard to stop the constant flood of memories whenever I was around him. But I have to remember that it’s all in the past now, I told myself fiercely.

  I bade him a cool goodbye and cycled away, conscious of his gaze on me the entire time but refusing to let myself look back.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I had been concerned that the murder might have affected business but I needn’t have worried. If anything, the next morning was the busiest Monday we had ever had, probably because—in addition to the tourists—
many of the locals had heard the news and come to the tearoom out of vulgar curiosity.

  And they weren’t the only ones. The press were already out in force, surrounding the tearoom like vultures. One reporter even had the cheek to pretend to be a customer and take a table inside, all in an attempt to get an interview with me or Cassie.

  “No comment,” I said in response to his questions, as I stood next to the table with an order pad.

  “But you must have something to say,” he said persuasively. He was a young man in his early twenties, with a lean, hungry look on his face. And I don’t mean for food. “We’re just interested in your reactions, that’s all. No need for facts about the investigation or anything. You were the one who found the body, weren’t you? What was it like? Was it a terrible shock?” He leaned forwards and lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper. “Was there a lot of blood?”

  I stepped back and regarded him with distaste. “As I said, no comment. Now, unless you’re going to order something from the menu, I’m going to have to ask you to leave—”

  “Aw, don’t be like that—I just wanted a few words!”

  “You want a few words, young man? I’ll give you a few words.” Mabel stood up from the next table where she and the other Old Biddies had obviously been listening.

  The reporter turned to her eagerly. “Yes? Were you a witness as well?”

  “Oh yes, and I even met the victim the day before.” Mabel nodded emphatically.

  “Really? What was he like?” The reporter’s tongue was practically hanging out.

  “Flatulent.”

  “Er… fla…flatulent?” He looked bewildered.

  Mabel nodded. “Yes, I didn’t actually hear him break wind, you understand, but I could tell just by the tone of his skin. Not enough fibre in his diet. I’m sure of it. Now, all he really needed was to take a spoon of bran every morning—just like Mr Cooke does. My doctor recommended this marvellous stuff for my Henry. Particularly if you’re constipated or if your haemorrhoids are acting up. No need for laxatives to hurry things along.” She looked at the reporter intently. “Do you go regularly, young man?”

  “I… er…” He leaned away from her. “Actually, you know, I’ve just remembered that I’ve got an appointment…” He began to rise from his seat.

  “Wait…” said Mabel. “I haven’t finished my story. You haven’t heard the part about my day at the colonoscopy department—”

  “That’s… that’s okay,” gasped the reporter as he scrambled to collect his things. “I’ve got more than enough here. Thank you!”

  And he bolted out of the tearoom. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Maybe I should have hired Mabel and her friends as a special team of geriatric bouncers to guard the tearoom!

  However, the Old Biddies weren’t able to protect me from all the malicious media interest and, as the morning wore on, I was a bit disturbed to look through the windows and see several people being interviewed outside. They were mostly residents from the local area who may have been in the tearoom once or twice—and obviously felt that that qualified them to comment on the murder investigation. They were pointing eagerly at the tearoom as they talked and, from the rapt expression on the reporters’ faces, I had a bad feeling that the stories being told were based more on sensationalism than truth. The fact was, people liked their fifteen minutes of fame and if they got it by repeating juicy gossip—no matter how far-fetched—they didn’t care. It made me uneasy, though, wondering what was being said about me and my tearoom…

  Devlin appeared just before lunch and the reporters and camera crew swarmed around him as he walked up to the front door. He fended them off with practised ease and strolled in, his tall figure instantly dominating the room. I tried to ignore the little jolt my heart gave when I saw him. I noticed that many of the female customers watched him with interest as he walked across to me at the counter.

  “I thought you’d like to know: we’ve checked your alibis—yours and Cassie’s—and you’re clear.”

  I wondered why Devlin had come in person—he could simply have rung—but I was too pleased to care. Then I remembered something. “What about Fletcher?”

  He frowned. “We haven’t managed to get hold of Ethel Webb yet—she’s still in Bath, it seems. We’ve left messages for her. Until she can verify his alibi, Fletcher is still under suspicion. No one else saw him in the village that morning so no one can verify that he left the house at the time he said he did.”

  “But… that’s ridiculous!” I cried angrily. “You can’t seriously suspect Fletcher! He wouldn’t hurt a lamb—”

  Devlin compressed his lips. “Gemma… we’ve been through this before. I can’t afford to treat anybody differently. And he did behave out of character on the morning of the murder.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake—he was late because he overslept! Hundreds of people all over the country do that every day!”

  “We still have to verify his alibi,” said Devlin, unmoved.

  I heaved a sigh. “Fine. But you’re just wasting time on this when you should be chasing other leads.”

  “Real detective work is about checking every detail—not just rushing off after ‘exciting’ leads,” Devlin said mildly. Then he glanced around the room and changed the subject. “I see that business hasn’t been affected…”

  “Not yet, anyway.” I shot a worried look at the press camped outside the windows. “Yes, so far, it’s actually helped business, I think. I never realised people had so much appetite for ghoulish entertainment! Locals who had never bothered to pop in before were suddenly here this morning, asking me for a table near where the murder had happened. They all seemed to be really disappointed when I told them that it was out in the courtyard.”

  Devlin grinned. “Shame the body couldn’t have been found in here. Then you could have had a chalk outline on the floor and arranged tables around it so that people could have their afternoon tea with a side of murder scene.”

  I shook my head at him. “How can you make jokes about something like this?”

  Devlin shrugged. “In my line of work, you have to make jokes sometimes. It’s a coping mechanism, in a way. Otherwise you could never deal with all the darkness and pain that we see. Doctors do it too—it’s called gallows humour.”

  I suppose he was right. And I had to admit, it was hard to feel much remorse for someone as unpleasant as Washington. Still, he must have been missed by someone? I thought of Justine Washington, with her sensual glamour and cool poise. I wondered if she missed her husband and grieved for his death. I knew that they were separated and she wasn’t even living in the same country as him, but surely you must feel something for someone you had once been married to? Though they did seem to be truly estranged. After all, it seemed very odd for Washington to come all the way to England and not even bother to look up his wife…

  I started to say something but a crooked finger tapped Devlin on the shoulder. He turned around to find himself facing Mabel Cooke, her arms folded, surrounded by the other three Old Biddies.

  “Young man, I have some information for you,” Mabel said.

  “Yes, Mrs Cooke?”

  “The victim’s wife—Justine Washington—I met her on Sunday at a book club meeting.”

  “Yes?”

  Mabel jutted her chin out. “She told us that she didn’t know the American was in Oxford—that she only found out when the police went to question her after the murder.”

  “That’s right.”

  Mabel jabbed him in the chest with her finger. “Well, she’s lying, Inspector. I know for a fact that she met him on Friday night at a bar in Oxford.”

  Devlin looked at her sharply. “How do you know this?”

  Mabel sniffed. “I’ve got my sources.”

  I had to hide a smile as I saw the look of frustration on Devlin’s face.

  “Mrs Cooke, I’m afraid if you can’t provide me with good reason of why you think Justine Washington had met the victim, I can’t just take yo
ur word—”

  “You tell that gormless sergeant of yours to go and ask the staff at Freud’s,” said Mabel. “Show them a photo of the American and his wife. I’m sure you’ll get confirmation that they were there, late on Friday night.”

  Devlin stared at her for a moment, then he gave a curt nod, muttered a goodbye to me, and left the tearoom.

  I looked at Mabel. “Is it true? Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  So Justine had been lying. What else was she lying about? Her alibi? I thought back to Sunday morning and that cool woman I’d met. Could I envisage her committing murder? Oh yes. Justine was the kind of woman who wouldn’t let anything stand in her way. She would kill someone in cold blood—and not even soil her designer dress while at it.

  But what about Geoffrey Hughes? I still couldn’t shake off my gut feeling that the mystery of the murder was somehow connected to Oxford University. Hughes had behaved very oddly at High Table on Saturday night—I was convinced that he knew more than he was telling about Washington and the murder.

  Whatever Devlin might say about Mike Bailey, I didn’t think this murder was just due to a hot-headed argument which ended with an assault gone bad.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  My parents were out that evening and I enjoyed a solitary early dinner without my mother’s incessant commentary on my life. I had decided to go for a jacket potato: there’s nothing like the simple, home-cooked aroma of a potato baking in the oven, and when it came out, the skin browned to a perfect crunch, I cut it open and covered the steaming, fluffy interior with a rich topping of butter, baked beans, and cheddar cheese grated on top. It was delicious.

  Afterwards, I helped myself to a couple of Jaffa Cakes—something I’d missed terribly during my eight years in Australia—from the pantry, then retreated upstairs to my bedroom. While not as exciting as solving a murder, I had a few more mundane problems which posed a much more immediate threat to my well-being than a killer on the loose. Like the weeks’ worth of dirty laundry which was sitting in a pile in the corner of my room. Normally, I would have just tossed the whole lot into the washing machine but my mother had an almost religious devotion to care labels and it would have been tantamount to sacrilege in her house. So I sighed and resigned myself to an evening of sorting out whites from colours, woollens from delicates.