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

by H. Y. Hanna

  “We’re trialling a new system—we’re digitising our archives so that we can now email members a link to access digital copies of articles held in the library database. Saves you having to come physically to the library. All you have to do is subscribe to the library archive service.”

  I considered. To be honest, I felt a bit bad—after she had obviously gone to so much trouble—to tell her that I didn’t need the information anymore. It seemed easier just to accept the links.

  “That sounds great,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. We’re very excited about this new service and it would be wonderful if you could answer a survey afterwards on how user-friendly the system is. It would be very helpful to us.”

  “Sure, of course.”

  “The link to the survey will be in the email, along with links to the files. You’ll need your library card and membership number to set up the subscription.”

  A minute later, my phone beeped with the email. I opened it absentmindedly and went through the motions of subscribing to the archive system, then clicked on the links she had sent me. The first was a copy of a page in an internal University publication. There was a short, succinct paragraph mentioning the cheating scheme and saying that disciplinary measures were being brought on the students involved, with no extra details. Well, I didn’t imagine that Gloucester College would want to dwell much on such an incident.

  The second piece was from one of the tabloid papers and had much more detail, though I wondered how much of it was gossip and speculation. Having been the victim of such an article myself now, I was much more cynical about anything published. It was filled with the usual disclaimers such papers use: “It is rumoured that…”, “A source claims…”, “Apparently…”—but very little actual fact. They did mention the names of the students involved, however. I recognised Washington and Hughes from the list immediately: “M. Smith, B. Washington, G.C. Hughes, S. Greer, N.F. Wilson, T. O’Keefe, M. Williams, and D.E. Owens”.

  I was surprised to see the large number of names—it had obviously been a syndicate of some kind—but it seemed a very brazen attempt to fool the college officials. According to the article, only two students had been found guilty and were “sent down”—the Oxford University euphemism for “expelled”. The rest had been cautioned but essentially let off due to lack of evidence.

  My gaze sharpened on the first name on the list: “M. Smith”. I remembered that Justine’s maiden name was Smith. Could there have been a connection? Smith was an awfully common surname though—common enough that two people having that same surname wouldn’t mean much. Or was it too much of a coincidence?

  It was another depressingly quiet day. I kept telling myself not to panic—to give it time. Today was Thursday and maybe things would get back to normal again by next week. After all, everything blew over after a while, and next week the tabloids would be filled with some new scandal and everyone would have forgotten about the murder in my tearoom. Next week, the tourists would be back in hordes, I told myself.

  But deep inside, I knew that if this case wasn’t solved soon, my little tearoom would be joining Washington and Hughes as casualties.

  I was almost glad when Cassie suggested that we shut early again. I let her and Fletcher go first, hanging on for another half an hour in vain hope. But when four o’clock rolled around without a single customer in sight, I sighed and walked over to the front door and flipped the “OPEN” sign over to “CLOSED”. Then I switched off all the lights and gathered my things, trying to shake off the feeling of depression that weighed on my shoulders.

  As I was locking the front door, my phone rang. I answered it absentmindedly, tucking the phone between my right ear and shoulder as I continued to wrestle with the stiff old lock.

  “Hello?”

  “Gemma? This is Justine.”

  I stopped what I was doing and slowly moved the phone to my hand.

  “Justine… How nice to hear from you,” I said.

  “I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time?”

  “No, not at all… I’m just shutting up the tearoom, actually.”

  “You’re in Meadowford?”

  “Yes, but I’m just about to head back to North Oxford, if you—”

  “No, actually, I’m near Meadowford myself.” She hesitated, then said, “I was wondering if I might speak to you, Gemma—privately.”

  “Oh… er… of course, go ahead.”

  “No, not over the phone. I’d prefer to meet in person. Are you free at the moment?”

  “Um… I… I suppose I am,” I said, caught off guard.

  “Great. How about if we meet at the old village smithy in half an hour? I’ve got my car and I can give you a lift back to your parents’ place afterwards if you like.”

  “Oh, um… sure.”

  “Great. I’ll see you then.”

  I ended the call and stared at my phone. Why did Justine want to meet me alone? Had she found out that I was asking questions about her yesterday at the dance studio? I thought back to the article from the library archives and that student name on the list: “M. Smith”.

  I had to speak to Devlin. He had finally given me his direct number before we parted last night, to save me having to beg the Oxfordshire police operator for access again. I rang it now. It went straight to voice mail. I left a terse message asking him to call me back. After a moment’s deliberation, I tried Cassie. Her phone went to a messaging service too. Frustrated, I ended the call. Then, on an impulse, I put a call through to Lincoln Green.

  A brisk woman’s voice answered. “Dr Green’s phone.”

  “Can I speak to Lincoln—I mean, Dr Green, please?”

  “Dr Green is in a consult right now. Is it something urgent?”

  I hesitated. What could I say? Yes, sort of—I think this woman might be a murderer and she wants me to go and meet her alone and I was hoping Dr Green might accompany me…? It sounded totally stupid, even to my own ears. Besides, if Lincoln was consulting, he could hardly abandon his patients and come to meet me—and the hospital was at least half an hour’s drive away, anyway.

  “No, it’s all right. I’ll… I’ll try him again later.”

  I hung up and chewed my lip. What should I do now? I still didn’t like the idea of going to meet Justine alone—without “back up”, as it were. Should I send Justine a text, telling her that I couldn’t meet her after all…?

  I frowned. Something in me balked at that. It seemed a bit pathetic. And what if Justine was able to tell me something valuable about the case? It wasn’t like I was going to meet a known terrorist or criminal gang leader, for heaven’s sake.

  Besides, what was the worst that could happen? The old village smithy was a bit far from the centre of the village but it wasn’t completely isolated. It was a local historic site, kept for the tourists really, and there were a couple of stone benches outside the building, which were popular with locals and visitors as a place to have their lunch whilst enjoying the view of the surrounding Cotswolds countryside. If anything happened, surely I could scream for help and somebody from the village would hear me?

  I looked back down at the half-composed text, then deliberately deleted it. I would go meet Justine and see what she had to say.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I started walking down the village high street, heading towards the old smithy. The days were getting shorter now and darkness was already closing in, despite it being barely past four in the afternoon. The temperature was falling rapidly too—winter was really in the air—and there were few people out braving the chill weather. A couple of old ladies walked past me on the other side of the street, warmly wrapped up in coats and scarves. They made me think of the Old Biddies. Perhaps I could ask them to accompany me? I cringed slightly at the thought. No. Whatever Justine said to me would be broadcast across the whole of Oxfordshire if they came along. Besides which, I didn’t think she would talk to me if they were there.

  A man came
towards me on my side of the street—a thickset young man with a short crew cut and a pugnacious expression. I realised belatedly that it was Mike Bailey.

  “What are you staring at?” he snarled as he came near.

  “N-nothing,” I stammered quickly, giving him a wide berth.

  He grunted, then continued down the street. I hurried on, throwing a couple of glances backwards a few times to make sure he wasn’t coming back after me or anything. Shame I’m not friendly with Mike, I thought wryly. A big, belligerent man would have been the perfect escort for my meeting with Justine.

  Then I thought of Fletcher. OK, so he was anything but belligerent, but he was big—and his house was on the way. I could ask him. If Justine had some nefarious plan for me, she would think twice if I was accompanied by a man—of course, Fletcher was more the type to run away than fight, but she didn’t have to know that.

  Quickly, I made my way across the village to the little row of terraced houses. Fletcher’s was at the very end and I was pleased to see smoke coming from his chimney. I knocked and he opened the door after a moment, holding a tea towel in one hand.

  “Hello, Gemma.” He looked surprised to see me.

  “Fletcher—are you busy? Can you do me a favour and come with me to see someone?”

  “Who?” he said curiously.

  “It’s a… a lady I know. Don’t worry, you don’t have to speak to her or anything. In fact, you could just wait for me nearby while I have a quick chat with her. Would you mind?”

  He nodded. “Okay. But I just boiled the kettle. To make a cup of tea.”

  I could hear the sounds of an old-fashioned kettle whistling in the background.

  “Oh… well, can you have that tea when we get back? I’ll have one with you.”

  He nodded amiably and opened the door wider to allow me in. “I will take the kettle off the stove,” he said, leading the way through the front hall.

  I paused as I walked into his cosy, neat living room. “Actually, Fletcher—can I use your loo before we leave?”

  He pointed to a doorway on the other side of the living room, leading to a rear hallway. “It’s the second door.”

  I found the toilet—practically no bigger than a broom cupboard—and noted appreciatively that Fletcher’s compulsive neatness had extended here too. In fact, I marvelled at how he had managed to fit all the usual toilet knick-knacks so tidily in such a small space, including a cat litter tray in the corner. I was about to undo my jeans when I noticed that the toilet roll was empty. Annoyed, I searched around for a replacement. It seemed that even Fletcher was a typical bachelor. Why couldn’t men remember to replace the toilet paper?

  There was a cupboard underneath the sink and I crouched down to open it. Then my eyes caught sight of something on the floor. It was wedged between the waste bin and the side of the cupboard—obviously someone had meant to throw it in the bin and had missed, and it had fallen unnoticed into that corner. It looked like a small, flat, cardboard box—the kind that you get from the pharmacy, containing a packet of pills. I picked it up. It was empty but there was a prescription label stuck on the side of the box. I stared at it in puzzlement.

  G. Hughes (14/08/1973) – Chlorphenamine

  One 4mg tab by mouth every 4 ~ 6 hours with food.

  A prescription medication of some kind… for… Professor Hughes? I remembered suddenly about Hughes’s pet allergy and his need for special anti-histamines. But why was this here?

  My phone beeped suddenly, startling me. I pulled it out of my pocket. It was a message from my mother:

  Sorry to bother you, darling, but what’s my Apple ID password again? I can’t seem to get into my iPad. I was sure it was gemmarose but I’ve tried that 3 times now and it won’t work. Is it gemmarose29 maybe?

  Aaargh! How many times did I have to tell her that the Apple ID password required a capital first letter? Honestly, I hoped I didn’t become this forgetful when I got older because—

  I froze.

  My mind whirled as something that had been bothering me fell into place. Being forgetful… forgetful old ladies… Ethel Webb… being late for yoga class… saying she had been late for things all week because she had forgotten to change the clocks… the clocks had changed last weekend…

  And Ethel had been the one to confirm Fletcher’s alibi.

  She said she had seen him leaving his house at 8:45 a.m., after the murder had been committed and I had met him arriving at the tearoom myself, just before 9 a.m. He had been breathless and flustered, I remembered, as if he had been running and he said he had overslept.

  But if Ethel had forgotten to change her clocks, then she hadn’t actually seen Fletcher leave his house at 8:45 a.m. Her clock would have been telling the wrong time because she had forgotten to move it an hour back.

  So, in fact, she had actually seen Fletcher leave his house at 7:45 a.m.—one hour earlier.

  So where had Fletcher been for that one hour? Why had he let everyone believe that he had overslept and only left his house very late that morning? What had he been doing that had made him so agitated?

  I felt slightly sick. My mind recoiled violently from the idea that was forming inside my head. No, no, it couldn’t be. There was no connection between Fletcher and the American… or was there? I thought back to last Friday—when Fletcher had first come out of the kitchen and seen Washington. He had been shocked. I could still remember the look of horror on his face as he stared at Washington. At the time, I’d assumed it was because the American had kicked Muesli. But what if it wasn’t because of that? What if it was because Fletcher had recognised Washington? They were about the same age. Could it be…?

  On a sudden hunch, I flipped to the photo gallery on my phone and brought up the picture of the Matriculation photo again. I zoomed in and stared at the faces of the students sitting next to Washington. There was Hughes on his right… then my eyes widened as I suddenly recognised the tall, lanky student on Washington’s left. He was a lot thinner and had a lot more hair then. He was also squinting at the camera, screwing his face up slightly, which was probably why I hadn’t recognised him immediately. But now that I was looking, I could see it without doubt.

  It was Fletcher.

  Fletcher had been a student at Oxford University—in fact, he had matriculated the same year that Washington and Hughes had joined Gloucester College. Why hadn’t he ever told me?

  I flipped to the next image in my gallery—the one of the back of the Matriculation photo with all the student names. I moved along the row until I came to the name next to Washington’s: “N.F. Wilson”.

  Oh my God. I scrabbled to open my email account on my phone and brought up that article from the Oxford City Library archives again. I stared at the list of student names: “M. Smith, B. Washington, G.C. Hughes, S. Greer, N.F. Wilson, T. O’Keefe, M. Williams, and D.E. Owens”.

  This time, one name from the list jumped out at me: “N.F. Wilson”.

  Fletcher Wilson.

  I didn’t know if Fletcher went by his middle name but it wouldn’t have surprised me. After all, lots of people used their middle names if they didn’t like their given first names. You didn’t have much say, did you, in what your parents chose for you. I was lucky that I actually liked my name but I suppose if my parents were ’60s hippies and had given me the first name of Rainbow or Leaf, I’d be…

  I was rambling, I knew. My mind was just trying to prevaricate, to wriggle away, to evade and deny—anything rather than face the sudden, horrible truth that was staring at me:

  Fletcher was the murderer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  A sudden knocking sounded at the door. “Gemma? Are you okay?”

  I jumped at the sound of Fletcher’s voice. The phone slipped from my hands and fell with a resounding plop! into the toilet bowel.

  “Aaarrggh!” I stared in dismay.

  “Gemma?”

  “Uh… yeah, I’m fine, Fletcher. I’ll be out in a minute,” I called as I knelt d
own next to the toilet bowel and reached my arm in. I grimaced as my fingers dipped into the cold water, then they found the edges of the phone and I fished it out. I grabbed a towel from the rail and rubbed it dry, then pressed the power button, praying silently.

  The screen remained black. It was dead.

  “Damn!” I whispered.

  Slowly, I stood up again and took a deep breath. Maybe I was wrong, I thought desperately. It could all be coincidence, right? So Fletcher had lied about his alibi for last Saturday morning—so what? Devlin himself had said that “people lie for all sorts of reasons—but not always to do with murder”. And yes, okay, so Fletcher had hidden the fact that he used to be at Oxford. That didn’t make him a criminal. Maybe he didn’t want to talk about it, maybe he was embarrassed…

  …especially if he had been expelled from the University as part of a cheating scandal, I thought suddenly. The library article hadn’t confirmed it but I was willing to bet that Fletcher was one of the two students who had been sent down following that fiasco.

  Now, years later, Washington re-appeared out of the blue and Fate had caused the two of them to meet again in my tearoom. Maybe Fletcher had realised that it was all Washington’s fault… maybe the American had taunted Fletcher about it… or they had argued… something had caused him to totally flip and lose it. And he had killed the American on Saturday morning.

  And Hughes…? Hughes had been involved in the cheating scandal too. Perhaps Fletcher had invited the Pharmacology professor out to Meadowford-on-Smythe… that envelope the police had found, postmarked from Meadowford on Monday! Yes, and I remembered now the phone call that Fletcher had taken when we had come back in to his house after searching for Muesli. That had been Tuesday night and had probably been Hughes answering Fletcher’s letter and arranging to come to Meadowford that evening.

  So Hughes had come… and the cat hairs everywhere had triggered his allergy again—perhaps he had taken some anti-histamines when he used the toilet—and then… Fletcher had killed him too. And dragged the body into the woods outside his house. Then called the police on Wednesday morning and pretended to have found the body while out searching for Muesli…